Toward That Which is Beautiful

door. She opened the door, and Tom Lynch stood framed by a swirling mass of white, a red muffler wrapped around his neck his only concession to the blizzard.
“Hello.” He stood awkwardly in the doorway, hunched against the cold.
“Come in. What an awful night.” Kate stepped back as he entered the small parlor, brushing off snow from his hair and jacket. Kate smelled the cold on him. She hesitated, wondering if they should sit in the formal parlor.
“I thought I smelled wood smoke from the chimney. You wouldn’t keep a traveler away from your hearth on a night like this, now, would ye?” Not quite meeting her eyes, he laid on the brogue thickly. Kate laughed, and led him into the living room, where Tom headed straight for the fireplace. He stood rubbing his hands while she went to hang up her apron. “Am I interrupting anything? Were you busy?”
“No, I was just going to fold some things for the clinic. Josepha and Jeanne Marie are at a meeting and Magdalena went to bed early.” He still didn’t meet her eyes, and his unexpected shyness brought out the hostess in her. “Look, you sit there in the big chair by the fire, and I’ll make some tea.” She went swiftly to the kitchen and turned on the gas under the kettle. Her hands shook as she spooned tea into the pot. He’s never done this before, just dropped by.
When she came back into the room, he was looking at the record album. For the first time he looked directly at her, his eyes dark and serious. “The music is lovely. I didn’t realize how much I missed it. Jack plays his Elvis records, but that’s about the extent of our culture over there.”
Kate laughed, thinking of the pastor listening to Elvis Presley in the mountains of Peru. “Sit down, Father. I’ll get the tea.”
“For God’s sake, Kate, my name’s Tom.”
“Okay then, sit down, Tom, and I’ll serve you your tea.”
“Much better.” He looked up at her and pulled a small silver flask out of his pocket. “A gift from my father. He used to take this to the Galway racecourse on a nippy afternoon. How about a drop of Irish whiskey in our tea?”
“Oh, you go ahead. But none for me, thanks.” She was aware she sounded like someone’s prudish aunt. But come to think of it, none of her aunts would ever have passed up a splash of whiskey.
“Come on, Kate, it’s not good for a man to drink alone, and I don’t feel like going to the bar in town tonight.”
Kate wondered if he did go into town to drink, watching him as he poured a generous dollop into each cup of tea.
“Nice,” he said as he looked at her over his cup. “Very nice.” The fire crackled and music filled the silence between them.
Kate was kneeling on the Inca rug in front of the coffee table, folding each small diaper carefully. Uncomfortable with their silence, Kate searched for something to say. “Did you say Galway? My mother’s people came from there. The name was O’Flaherty.”
Tom threw back his head and laughed. “I might have known.” He watched her puzzled face and laughed again. “There’s a legend in Galway that at one time there was a huge sign at the city gates that read ‘Beware the scourge of the O’Flaherty’s.’ They were a fierce clan that swept down on the city from time to time to wreak mayhem. So, you’re an O’Flaherty. Tell me some more about yourself.”
Kate relaxed a little and told him about St. Louis and her family and growing up in America. She kept glancing up to see if he were bored, but every time his blue eyes were fixed upon her. Once he got up to poke the fading fire, and she admired the athletic grace of his body and the ease with which he wielded the heavy iron poker.
“And you? Did you grow up on a farm in Ireland?” She had finished folding by now, and had settled into the chair opposite his in front of the fireplace. Without thinking, she tucked her legs underneath her, and stared into the fire to hide from Tom the pleasure she knew must be on her face.
“Oh, no. I’m a city boy, or at least a town boy. We lived in Salthill, a few miles outside of Galway. There’s a boardwalk there on the beach. It’s a place where tourists come in the summer to catch the rare Irish sun.”
“I’ve never lived near the sea,” Kate said. “In fact, my first glimpse of the sea was in Lima. The sisters took me to the beach at Herradura one day, and it felt so strange to stand in the sand and feel it shift from under my feet as the waves went back out. I didn’t like it at first.”
“Ah well, you have to push out beyond those breaking waves and into the deep waters. Then the sea holds you and plays with you.” He held her glance for a long moment before looking into the fire. “I miss it sometimes, the sounds of it crashing along the rocks. It’s so quiet up here.”
“Is your family still there?” Kate was determined to prevent another silence.
“My parents are. They live in a bungalow they inherited from my mother’s father. My sister Mary Grace got married a few years ago, and her husband dragged her off to Dublin where he teaches. They have a little son now, named after me. I’ve never seen him.” He looked up suddenly. “You know, you remind me a little of my sister. You have that same kind of feistiness. We almost killed each other a few times growing up.” His smile lit up his dark face. Kate felt let down by the thought that she reminded Tom of his sister.
He went on. “I was always outside as a kid, fishing, playing football—that’s soccer to you Americans. But then I discovered books. My mother’s