chapter thirty-two

I wait patiently in the office courtyard, watching the elevators as they open and close, rehearsing what I’ll say. There is a moment when I wonder if I have the courage, but then I remind myself that I need to find closure if I expect my life to move forward. An hour and ten minutes later, he walks into the lobby. He’s staring at his phone and doesn’t notice that I’m there. It’s my chance to speak up—or walk away silent forever.

“Eric?”

He jolts to a stop at the sound of my voice, turns toward me, and stares. I watch his eyes drop, his head lower, his countenance crumble. He looks uneasy, even frightened. I hold my ground, not moving forward but not stepping back. I wait.

“Katie?”

“I saw you come into this building a few days ago. I live close by—I didn’t want to keep avoiding the place.”

When he speaks, he looks past me, as if there were someone standing in the distance. “Um . . . I’m . . . you know, of all the ironies, the company transferred me back here.” He tries to laugh, but it sounds forced, unnatural. “I thought about looking you up, but I wasn’t sure what the point would be.”

I expected to be angry. I expected to feel pain. Strangely, I feel only pity. He keeps glancing down nervously, and it strikes me as odd that he seems so vulnerable. Has he always been so insecure? His foot twitches nervously as he waits for stinging words that don’t come.

Instead, I watch, wait, and listen. After a minute, when it seems as if the silence will smother him, he speaks.

“Katie, it’s just that . . . I’m sorry . . . I mean, I don’t know what to say to you.”

“I’m not here for an apology, Eric.” I don’t know if it’s my words or my manner that surprise him the most. “How’s your life been?” I ask.

He stutters, stammers, takes a breath. “It’s been . . . okay, I guess.”

Minutes ago I’d been the terrified one. Now that the moment is here, I find my words flowing with confidence. “Are you married? Dating?” I ask.

“No . . . I mean, I go out once in a while. I guess you’re married, though. That’s great. I’m happy for you.”

His assumption catches me off guard. “No, Eric. I’m not married.”

He looks bewildered, but he still refuses to look me in the eyes. “I just presumed . . . well . . . you look good, Katie—a lot thinner than I’d remembered.”

“Eric, there’s something I need to ask you.”

He takes another heavy breath, trying to anticipate what’s coming. “Katie, listen, I don’t have an answer. I don’t know why I did it. I’ve been over it again and again. It wasn’t planned. It just happened.”

I can’t help but smile. “Eric, that’s not my question.”

“Oh . . . I’m sorry. What, then?”

“I’m wondering about you, Eric.”

“What do you mean?” He shifts his weight as I pick my words.

“If life could be rewound to that moment when you were in L.A. and I was driving down from San Francisco, and the woman you were with appeared again, from wherever she came from in the first place . . . would you do it again?”

My question seems to surprise, even stun him—as if he’s never looked inward, never probed his own character. Moments pass before he speaks.

“I made a stupid choice. I never meant to hurt you like I did.” He pauses, fidgets some more. “But I don’t know that I could promise you, Katie, that I wouldn’t make the same mistake all over again. How could I know something like that?”

It is a subtle realization, a pivot of understanding that, though slight, is also profound. In looking back, I find it interesting that such moments never come in the middle of the raging storm, but afterwards, in the gentle breeze of reflection and rebuilding.

When Eric proposed to me, I viewed him as a partner on a pedestal, someone to lift me up. I leaned so heavily on his strength that, when he cheated, when his pedestal crashed over and knocked me breathless to the ground, I was afraid my leaning may have pushed it over.

What I instantly understand, in an ordinary lobby on an ordinary day in an extraordinary moment, is that I don’t want a hand up. Nor do I want a push from behind. I want someone who will climb mountains with me, side by side.

Despite my faults and weaknesses, despite my own insecurities, I deserve better.

There is little more to say.

“Thank you, Eric, for being honest. Right now that means a lot to me. Good luck.”

I turn to walk away and he whispers his good-bye, visibly relieved that the ordeal is over. I am three steps away when I stop.

“Eric, wait.” He turns, waits. “I’m curious why you thought that I was married?”

After the question is asked, he glances down at my fingers, and I realize that he is looking at my ring.

“It was your faith ring—you’re wearing it with the crown turned out.”

My blank stare is enough. For the first time, his laugh is genuine.

“You, of all people, a history major, and you don’t know about Claddagh faith rings? There’s an irony there somewhere.”

“Can you tell me about them?”

“You don’t need me for that—the story’s out there. You were always an amazing researcher. I’m sure you’ll find it.”

“But . . . how do you know about . . . ?”

“Yeah, me of all people. My grandmother used to wear one. She taught me.”

And with that, he shrugs and walks away.

• • •

Claddagh. I’d heard the name from Janet—it was the town where Anna was born. It doesn’t take me long at my computer before the legend of the Claddagh faith ring smiles back from the screen.

I learn that while several misty fables surround the creation of such a wondrous ring, the most common is of a man named Richard Joyce who lived over four hundred years ago in the fishing village of Claddagh, Ireland, which overlooks Galway Bay. It is told that he sailed from the village to the plantations of the West Indies only days before he was to marry his true love. He was captured by Algerian pirates and sold as a slave to a Moorish goldsmith, who trained him in his craft. In his captivity, Joyce fashioned the now-famous Claddagh ring in memory of his only true love, the one he’d left waiting in Ireland.

In 1689, Richard Joyce was finally released at the bidding of King William III. The Moor offered him his only daughter in marriage and half his wealth if he would remain in Algiers, but Joyce declined and instead returned to the village to find his love unmarried and still waiting. The ring was presented, the couple were married, and they lived the rest of their lives happily together.

As I read the simple fable and the story of the ring, I can’t help but picture Patrick and Anna, each so distant, each so concerned about reuniting again. The legend must have held a special place for each. Patrick’s words are now so plain and evident. “With this crown, I give my loyalty. With these hands, I promise to serve. With this heart, I give you mine.”

I discover that faith rings are still available today from many Irish jewelry shops. It is understood that if one wears the ring on the left hand, with the crown turned outward, it is a sign that the person is blissfully committed. If the ring is worn on the right hand, with the crown turned inward, then everyone knows that the wearer’s heart is free.

Patrick and Anna are taking on depth and shape and life. He didn’t disappear after the bridge was finished. They were reunited; they remained committed. Oh, there are still holes in the story—traits about the man and his wife that I am left to imagine. But if I do have the right Patrick Riley, I will have accomplished what my father couldn’t. I will have found the rightful owner of Patrick’s journal. All I have to do now is dial his grandson’s number.

I hold the phone against my ear, pick up my scribbled notes from Janet, and determinedly punch the keys. It rings once and then twice. On the third ring someone answers and I hear a voice.

“This is Dave Riley. I’m out right now. Please leave a number at the beep . . .”