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Maire stared around the living room of the little house, the house she and Gerritt called home, the quiet filling her head. Dust motes danced in the light of the window, swirling upward in the motion of her movements and the rapid release of her breath. Shuffling across the worn floorboards, she trailed her fingers across the arm of a chair and touched the smooth glass of a lamp.
She’d asked for a few hours here to bide her time, to think about Gerritt, and no one had protested. The padded cushion of the chair discharged a wuft of air as she sat. Folding her hands in her lap, she leaned back and pictured him as he was before he’d been arrested, gazing down at her with that look in his eye, the one that said he loved her.
He loved her, yet he’d never told her so.
She laid her head on the seat back, her gaze forming on the far wall. Yet not forming there at all because she was back in the courtroom, back telling what had happened to her. Fruitless to replay it. She couldn’t pick out any more information than she already had. Yet, it wouldn’t stop. She couldn’t forget the look on Gerritt’s face as he sat there and sobbed, sobbed because he’d finally heard the story.
With a sigh, she rose from the chair and wandered through the room and into the hallway. She stepped into the bedroom and her vision suspended on the rumpled sheets and the indentation where their bodies had been. Sight of him rose up before her, fresh and real, his long legs stretched out, her frame pressed to his, her hair trickling down his chest.
She lay on the bed, coiling into the shape she saw in her head, but the mattress was cold. He wasn’t there. She looked across the mound of sheets, and her gaze seized on a black, rectangular shape. Gerritt’s notebook. The thing he toted with him everywhere and scrawled in constantly.
Maire slid across the bed, emerging on the opposite side, and lifted it from the bedside table. He never shared it with her, and she never thought to ask him for it. Why? What was inside? What pieces of this man to whom she’d given her heart would she find beneath its cover? He wouldn’t mind. He would understand her desperation to have one glimpse into his soul.
She scattered the pages across the bed. Notes. Disorganized and disorderly to her, but perhaps sensible to him. Much of it about her father or Gerritt’s mother, Amber. Stories for the book. She read much of it smiling. He was very good at spinning at tale, Gerritt Finnegan. She extracted one page from the rest. This was about her own mother.
When had they talked? It was clear they had because Gerritt’s words perfectly framed her. He wrote as she would speak, stating how she viewed the situation.
Maire flipped the page over and read to the end, then set the page aside.
At that moment, a sheet, folded into quarters, stood out from the rest. Curious, she spread out the page and scanned its contents. Her heart rose into her throat. It didn’t go with the rest, wasn’t about the book, wasn’t a story or a tale. This was a diary – Gerritt’s thoughts and feelings ... about her.
The Lord’s day, he’d written, and I think not of creation or any gratitude for life and praise for the Creator, but of sexuality, and eroticism, and lechery. I think of my wife, a beautiful creature, a dove. Even now, I am so close to her. I lick my lips and taste her there. I flex my fingers and her skin kisses my palms. She is everything to me. Breathing, waking, and going to sleep. She is the sky and the birds and the warm earth. And her eyes are the green of the trees in the springtime. I long for her and for the things we cannot have, for the things I wish to give her. Peace. Safety. Children. To see our child suckle at her breast, to see joy on her face at the tug of it, is all I desire. But to experience her now, today, is my pain. When did I fall in love with her? I do not know. Yet I have. I love Maire Finnegan beyond the words of my pen, beyond the beat of my heart, with all my being.
I cannot tell her. She longs to hear it, but I save it for that moment, for that instant we unite, so I can show her how just how much.
Maire’s vision blurred with tears, and she hugged the crumpled paper to her breast. He loved her, and he had said so.
“God,” she wailed, “Bring him back to me. Give me Gerritt Finnegan.”
A knock on the door cut through her cries. She gathered the papers and slipped them back into the notebook, placing his love note at the front. He would see she read it, but that didn’t matter. He needed to know.
The knock repeated, and she called out. “Coming.”
Her brother, Michael, stood at the door. “Sis?” He gazed into her teary eyes.
She smiled and wiped at her cheeks. “I’m fine. Just being sentimental ... I thought you were coming in an hour or so,” she said.
“I was, but ...” He paused.
“But?” she prompted.
“But they’ve reached a decision.”
Her heart skipped a beat and she smashed a hand to her chest. She stumbled and Michael wrapped an arm around her back. She laid her cheek to his chest.
“Wh-what is it?” Chills tingled in her hands.
They had lost. Charges would be brought, and they would have to go to trial. She would need to testify all over again, recount that horrid night before people and the press. She held her breath.
Michael turned her face upward. “He’s free. He’s coming home.”
Bewildered, she stared at him, her mind not believing his words. “Free?” The word squeaked through her lips.
He nodded. “After Gerritt testified, they brought in a fellow who worked on the ship. He heard the whole exchange, what Gerritt said, what ... the other man said. It substantiated every word, so they’ve dropped the charges.”
Dropped. He was free. He could come home. To her. To their life together.
“Sis?” Michael asked. “You ... all right?”
“I ... can’t believe it. When ... is he coming?”
He smiled at her. “Before nightfall. I’ll bring him to you.”
Maire pulled him in the door and shut it firmly in her family’s face. Gerritt laughed, shaking his head, the motion causing that lock of his hair to fall over his eyes. “After all they’ve done,” he said.
She pressed herself against him. “They’ll get over it.” Her voice spoke muffled through his shirt. “Tonight you’re all mine.”
He embraced her harder. “Is this real? Am I actually home?”
She glanced up at him. “It’s real. Promise me you’ll never leave me again.”
He cupped her face in his palms. “Never. You’re stuck with me.” He brought her lips to his, and she sagged against him, barely breathing in the rapture of the moment.
“Gerritt,” she whispered into his mouth.
“Yes, love?”
She parted her lips in invitation, and he snatched another taste.
“Gerritt, I want you.”
His kisses increased, his hands roaming over her, and he backed her through the living room and into the hallway.
She surrendered to his passion, desire pulsing on her skin. Now. Today. They’d be together. The sounds of their fervor permeated the house, the melody of love long denied, of things unspoken between them and unfulfilled. Carried away on the strength of it, she sailed upward, her body his to consume, his to have.
He made short work of her clothing and his own and lowered her to the bed. He laid his weight on her chest. The bed turned to wood. Wood digging into her bottom, water swishing underneath. The grunts of another man took his place, and her mind slipped.
No. I can’t do this. Make it stop. With a scream, she kicked at him, her foot making contact with his calf. “Off me,” she shrieked. “Get off me. I won’t give it to you. I won’t.”
“Maire. Maire, it’s me, Gerritt. I’ll not hurt you. I promise.”
Gerritt. The man she loved. She opened her eyes wide, the room returning in her view, and saw him there above her, tightening her to his flesh.
She sobbed. When would it end? When would the nightmare stop coming between them? This was what she wanted, to be with Gerritt. Yet still the thoughts returned.
“I’m sorry,” she cried, her tears dripping onto his skin. “I’m sorry. Oh God, I’m sorry.”
He stroked her face, his fingertips trailing down her neck to a place on her breastbone. “It’s all right. We’ll try again. When you’re ready, only when you’re ready.”
“I’ll never be ready,” she said. “Never.” It was hopeless to think she could ever make this work, could ever move past that one awful night, could ever fulfill Gerritt’s love for her.
“Shh. Of course you will,” he soothed. “Lay here with me, beside me. That’s all I need.”
“But you said ... you said you wanted children, our children. You said all that about what you thought of me, my eyes being green like the spring trees, and ...”
He stilled. “When did I say that?”
Her face heated. She wanted him to know she read it, but not like this.
“Maire.” His voice was husky. “When did I say that?”
Her words trembled. “I-in the paper in your notebook.”
He rose onto his elbow. “You read my notebook.”
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have, but you were gone and I ... I wanted you here and ...”
He stared at her. “I’m not angry, Maire, just surprised.”
“But it was beautiful .. wh-what you wrote. Did you mean all that?”
He smiled. “Every word.”
She placed her palm flat to his chest. “When did you write it?”
“Long ago. After we got back from our honeymoon.”
She sucked in her breath. “That long?”
“Yes.”
“But we weren’t speaking, and you left all the time.” She silenced. That was why. With his feelings for her, being near her all the time became too much. “I ... didn’t know,” she whispered, “didn’t know you struggled.”
He ran a hand down her cheek. “Now, you do.”
The crowd which came to town for the legal proceeding changed in the days leading up to Christmas Eve, from gawkers and onlookers, to one full of women. Gerritt ribbed Maire’s brother, Michael, endlessly. “I did warn you,” he said.
But Michael being Michael, he was more inclined to preen under it than shy away. The negative press left and new press came, some from as far away as New York and Chicago, to tell the feel-good story of the recovery and hope of Christmas in the O’Fallen household.
Thomas Gray returned to town with a selection of various newspapers tucked under his arm. Far and wide the press had written of the horrible thing that happened to Maire and extoled the virtues of the gentleman who married her. Many of the details were missing, but generally what was reported was truth.
Gerritt was more thankful when his name was omitted entirely.
The Christmas Eve service had been planned out, to start with a reading of the story from the chapters in Luke, a general singing of Christmas carols by the congregation, and to end with a song by Michael. What Michael would sing was a mystery though, as he wasn’t telling anyone.
The church was decorated beautifully, green pine boughs bound with red ribbons tied on the ends of the pews. The Ladies group put up a tree, covering it with handcrafted ornaments made by the local school children.
Gerritt’s eyes, however, were only for Maire. She’d dressed elegantly, wearing a new gown he hadn’t seen before, and put seed pearls in her hair. The cream fabric set off her complexion and highlighted her best feature, her green eyes. Yet over and over as he gazed at her, he ran through his head her reaction to his caresses and what could be done to keep her from going to that place of horror.
What did he need to change that would show her he wasn’t the man who had hurt her?
The service began, and he refocused his wayward thoughts, singing the songs, listening to the Christmas story and concentrating on the meaning of the holiday. He should be grateful. They were together, and he was free. He shouldn’t be so selfish and carnal to think of personal pleasure on a night like this.
Michael stepped up to sing. The song he chose was an old one, Carúl Loch Garman, The Wexford Carol dating back to the 12th century. He sang it acapella, his voice as pure and light as the frosty December air. Every ear in the place tuned to it, more than one single female weeping in their enthusiasm for him.
“Ó, tagaig' uile is adhraigí
An leanbh cneasta sa chró 'na luí
Is cuimhnígí ar ghrá an Rí
A thug dár saoradh anocht an Naí.
'S a Mhuire Mháthair i bParrthas Dé,
Ar chlann bhocht Éabha guigh 'nois go caomh,
Is doras an chró ná dún go deo
Go n-adhram' feasta Mac Mhuire Ógh.”
“I mBeithil thoir i lár na hoích'
Ba chlos an deascéala d'aoirí,
Go follas don saol ón spéir go binn
Bhí aingle 'canadh ó rinn go rinn.
‘Ghluaisig' go beo,’ dúirt Aingeal Dé,
‘Go Beithil sall is gheobhaidh sibh É
'Na luí go séimh i mainséar féir,
Siúd É an Meisias a ghráigh an saol.’"
His voice fell away at the end, and quiet reigned, a holy presence lying over all who were there. No one moved, for fear of disturbing it. Until Maire stood to her feet. Slipping past him, she walked to the front and took her brother’s hand.
“Sing with me,” she said.
“O holy night! The stars are brightly shining,
It is the night of our dear Saviour's birth.
Long lay the world in sin and error pining,
'Til He appear'd and the soul felt its worth.
A thrill of hope the weary world rejoices,
For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn.”
“Fall on your knees! O hear the angel voices!
O night divine, O night when Christ was born;
O night divine, O night, O night Divine.”
Divine did not begin to describe the sound of their voices or its effect on the people. Gerritt sat there with the rest, his senses overflowing, and observed every tic, every muscle flick, every stretch and turn she made. She was glorious. She was ambrosial. She was his wife.
His eyes spread wide. His wife. He, Gerritt Finnegan. That’s it.
The song ended, and the congregation burst into applause. Michael embraced his sister. However, Gerritt could not contain himself, his last thought repeating itself in his head. His wife. His. His. She needed to know that. She needed to be told. She needed to not forget.
She returned to the pew, and he took her hand. Leaning over, he whispered into her ear. “Let’s go home.”
She looked at him, her brows drawn together.
Home. Because he was going to make love to his wife.
“Gerritt, what are we doing? Why did we have to come home? The others will want to know where we went.” Maire moved into the bedroom, Gerritt steering her by the shoulders. She gulped at the look in his eyes, shaded, absorbed on her.
He seated himself on the mattress and turned her around. “I want you to say what I ask of you,” he said. He picked at the fastening of her dress, the slight compression of his hands traveling a warm path down her spine. Cool air rushed in the gap. Placing his hands on her hips, he peeled the dress away and then began with the petticoats, tossing each into a heap in the corner. Deftly, he removed her corset.
“Maire,” he said, revolving her to face him. “Tell me my name.”
She wrinkled her brow. His name? Why did he want to know that?
“Do it,” he said.
“Gerritt Finnegan,” she replied.
“And who am I to you?”
“My husband.”
His fingers curled over the top of her drawers. “I want you to remember that. Don’t let it out of your thinking.” His gentle tug slid the thin cloth over her hips and down her thighs. “Who undresses you, Maire?” he asked.
She gasped as his mouth firmed itself on her flesh, palpitating, caressing. “G-Gerritt Finnegan,” she mumbled.
He followed the trail of her drawers down to her ankles, tasting, touching, and she shivered with delight. How could she have denied herself this?
He raised his face even with her naval and asked once more. “Who am I to you, Maire?”
“My husband,” she replied.
“And who are you to me?” He stood to his feet and flipped her shift over her head.
“Your wife.”
One hand behind her head, he brought her lips to his. But unlike the brushed kisses of the past, the soft contact made in deference to her, this was demanding. It poured into her and pulled from her at once, hot and moist, insistent, and with the pressure, her mind skidded toward the darkness.
“Maire, who kisses you like that?” he asked.
His words pulled her back.
“Gerritt Finnegan, my husband.”
He pressed her to the bed. The movement of his mouth across her shoulders, the caress of his fingers on her breasts, transported her on a column of desire to a peak where she danced on the edge. She was light as a feather, sailing into the clouds.
Her breaths quickened, and her fingers dug into the sheets.
Gerritt stopped and stood to his feet. “Look at me, Maire.” One by one he undid the buttons on his shirt. “Who am I?”
“Gerritt Finnegan,” she breathed, gazing upward at him.
Gerritt Finnegan, a beautiful man. Gerritt Finnegan, her husband.
He folded her fingers in his own and placed them at his waist, hooking them over his waistband. “Take them off,” he said, “and tell me who you love.”
Her hands trembled as she fumbled with the clasp.
“I love Gerritt Finnegan,” she said. Gerritt Finnegan, who stood before her now, stunning, magnificent, lovely. Male.
He flattened her to the mattress, placing his full weight on her belly, and her thoughts fled backwards to the dock, the water rushing underneath. She grunted and shoved him back.
Must remove this. Must remove him.
“Maire, tell me again. Who am I to you? Who is this?”
His voice snapped her back into the room, back into the sky with all the earth falling away beneath her. “G-gerritt F-f-finnegan, my hus ... band.”
He was blissful, rapturous, more than she’d ever wanted.
He rose up over her, a hand laid flat to her chest. “Tell me, Maire, how do you feel, right now?”
“Ec ... ecstasy ...” she breathed.
“And who brought you there?”
“G-gerritt ... Finn ... egan ... my hus ... husband.” She panted the words, unable to form them properly on her lips.
He poised himself, and it was as if her blood raced through his, his pulse taking perfect time with her own. This was Gerritt. This was her husband. He made her feel this way, and she loved him. She wanted him. She wanted this.
“Maire, look at me.”
Her eyelids leaden, she dragged them open, and the sight of him surged over her in a tingling wave.
“I want you to keep your eyes open and watch my face,” he said. “See who does this to you, Maire. It’s me, Gerritt, and you love me.”
“I love you,” she whispered.
He pinned her hands to either side of her and folded their fingers together. “I’m your husband, the man who held you all those nights, your husband who takes you past ecstasy.”
In one movement, he joined with her, and she arched her back with a cry, her mind and body pulsing, love-stricken, to the sound of his words.
“I love you, Maire,” Gerritt said. “I love you. I love you. I love you.”
The kiss lingered, sensuous, luxurious, and Maire slipped an arm about Gerritt’s neck to hold him there, their limbs tangled together. He pulled back, a teasing light shining in his eyes.
“You, Mr. Finnegan, have become very conceited,” she said.
A corner of his mouth curled upwards. “Oh?”
“Mmhmm. Gerritt Finnegan this. Gerritt Finnegan that. You liked hearing your name.” She dragged a fingernail down his breastbone.
“Seems like you enjoyed saying it.”
She laughed.
He fell back onto the pillow, and she nestled her head on his shoulder. “I never thought it could be this euphoric.”
“Euphoric? Then I must be good.”
She craned her neck backward. “I’m not sure ...”
Grasping her by the waist, he flipped her atop him. Her hair spilled over his face. He captured her mouth, and the nirvana of the previous night showered over her again.
A knock came at the door, and she glanced over her shoulder.
“Ignore it,” Gerritt said, tugging her face back to his.
However, the knock repeated itself, this time more insistent. She pushed up onto her hands, suspending herself over him. “We should see who it is. After all, it’s Christmas Day.”
He raised an eyebrow and glanced at her state of undress. “That would be a sight.”
Dissolving into giggles, she fell off at his side.
“Maire?” called a voice.
She inhaled. “Shh. It’s Michael.”
Gerritt’s mouth twisted into a wry grin. “Maybe I will get the door.” He snatched his pants from the floor. Shirtless, he rounded the bed.
She wrinkled her brow. “You’re going undressed like that?”
He halted and gazed down at her, one hand resting on the door frame. Without remark, he left the door cracked and made his way from the room. She spun around on the mattress, her head at the foot. What was he up to?
The thump and clack of the door was followed by complete silence. She stifled a snicker with the palm of her hand.
“I ... uhm ... was sent to ... to ask you and M-maire to come up to the house. The others ... Christmas gifts, you know. Is she here?” her brother asked.
“Yes,” Gerritt replied evenly.
The silence extended.
“So ... are you going to tell her? I mean, Papa said ...”
Gerritt’s reply took her aback. Burying her face in the mattress, she muffled her laughter. Making green-eyed babies, indeed. Well, they’d be the talk now, but then, when hadn’t they been? Who knew anyway, maybe he was right.
He reappeared in their bedroom, minutes later, and she fell headlong into his gaze, her heart filling until it would burst. “Say it to me again,” she said, rolling over.
“Say what again?” he asked. He climbed across her and fitted himself there. He’d been made just for her, the length of his legs, stretch of his torso, exactly placed.
“Those three words I waited to hear. Say them again.”
Gerritt smiled crooked. “If I do, I’ll have to prove myself once more.”
Fire raced up her limbs. Without any torment, no memory of the past, just all the love they could share binding them together for good.
“So do it,” she said.