Devil's Mountain by Bernadette Walsh Page B

looked to the gate, expecting to see Orla or maybe one of my brothers. But it was Paul. My love.
    He’d gained a few pounds since Bobby’s wedding and his hair, which had been steel gray since before he was forty, had turned white at the front. But his shoulders were still broad, eyes still kind. Despite everything, he was still my husband.
    My heart ached, seeing him again, but I couldn’t let him know how much he affected me.
    I carefully arranged my expression into a detached smile. “Paul, what a surprise.”
    He smiled, and in a few steps his long legs covered the length of the garden. His strong arms enveloped me in an embrace. “You’re happy to see me? I wasn’t sure I’d be welcome.”
    Blood pounded in my ears. It was all I could do not to run my hand through his thick steel curls, but I chastely kissed his cheek and disentangled myself from his sweet, sweet embrace. I could not encourage him, couldn’t let him guess what was in my heart, what had always been in there.
    “Of course, Paul. It is nice to see you. Is Fiona in the car?”
    A shadow fell over his face and stole his smile. “Ah, no, she’s not. She’s at a training course in Belfast for the week.”
    “And she knows you’re here?”
    “She knows I’m in Kerry. I have client meetings in Killarney. I, uh, I hadn’t planned on coming, to tell you the truth, but my car seemed to drive itself here.”
    Despite myself, I touched his cheek. “You’re very welcome. Why don’t you go inside and clean up. I’ll make us more tea.”
    His shoulders relaxed and his smile was warm. Grateful. He linked my arm as we walked into the house together. As we’d done a hundred times before.
    As I filled the kettle, I looked out my kitchen window and saw a cat jump up onto the garden gate. I flinched. Not now, please God, not now. But it wasn’t Him. It was only Seamus’s cat.
    Without warning, I was flooded with memories of that day, that horrible day when Slanaitheoir , in the form of a common house cat, accosted me in my front garden in Rathfarnham.
    “My love,” He’d purred, “why are you still here?”
    I’d looked around, making sure none of the neighbors could see me, and whispered,
    “Because this is my home. I’m not leaving it.”
    “Will you leave it when it’s empty?” The cat wrapped His body around my ankles.
    “When there’s no one left but you?”
    I’d kicked Him away from me, not knowing then as I do now the respect due Slanaitheoir in any form He chooses or the consequences of not showing Him such deference.
    “He’s not leaving me. That girl--that girl from his office is your doing. His love for me is strong. Stronger than anything you can break.”
    “Perhaps.”
    I’d heard the roar of a car, unusual in our quiet estate. The thump, the thump of Paul’s body as the car made contact, as it hit him down the road from our house, shook me to the core.
    That horrible sound still haunted me in my dreams.
    The cat disappeared and I ran to Paul. My heart stopped when I saw him, crumpled and bloody on the side of the road. But he was fine, aside from a slight concussion and a few cuts and scrapes. After we returned from the hospital I disregarded my conversation with the cat and chalked it up to nerves. Too much coffee. The menopause.
    But when later that week Orla slipped and broke her arm and days afterward my Bobby, my beautiful Bobby, was jumped and beaten within an inch of his life, watch and wallet stolen, then I knew. These weren’t coincidences.
    Wearing my best dress and new makeup, I’d marched into the pub where Slanaitheoir had said they would be. I’d acted shocked, and to tell the truth, although I had known all along what was going on, I was shocked to see my beloved’s arms around fat plain Fiona, his sweet soft lips on her filthy mouth. It wasn’t hard to let the tears flow from my eyes when I told them I was leaving, that scut Fiona, she was welcome to him. To the love of my life.
    But he’d come