The Emerald Isle Read Online Free PDF Page B

but at least the weather would be nice.
    I gave my notice at work and was thrilled beyond words when Miss Richardson, the bookstore manager, promised to rehire me for the Christmas rush. I locked my precious books and academic records in a trunk, then placed an ad to sublet my apartment from mid-August through October. Aunt Kizzie said I could stay with her and Barkley from my return until November so that whoever took my lease could enjoy two and a half full months in my tiny East Village apartment. I didn’t care who rented the place, as long as they paid the rent and abstained from behaviors that might result in my eviction. And with the East Village the way it is, the only behaviors that might prove unacceptable were pyromania and street evangelism.
    Maddie stopped meeting Taylor and me for dinner, then Taylor started coming up with excuses not to meet me at the delicatessen. I accepted his desertion calmly and with complete understanding. Taylor seemed unable to comprehend what most women know instinctively—we do not share well. Especially not our men.
    I suspect Taylor initiated a major brouhaha with his beloved when he told Maddie he had promised to drive Barkley and me to Boston. Of course, I invited Maddie to come along, and she was probably half inclined to accept, if only to keep an eye on us. In the end, however, she declined. So one glorious August Saturday, Taylor and I piled into his Mustang convertible, put the top down, and sailed out of the city with Barkleys ears extended like the wings of a 747.
    Aunt Kizzie was delighted to see us. She loved on “the wee dog” (who weighed at least twice as much as she did), kissed Taylor on the cheek, and hugged me with every ounce of energy in her birdlikeframe. We stayed for dinner, a delicious meal of puffy yeast rolls, fried shrimp, and clam chowder, and we were in the midst of a friendly debate about Massachusetts politics when I made the mistake of bringing up Marcy Anne Wilkerson and her latest book.
    “According to Marcy Anne Wilkerson,” I said, theatrically waving my fork to make a point, “people who have a passion for politics usually suffer from an unquenchable need for power or adoration. But if we find the power of God within us, we will satisfy those needs and leave our strivings for politics—and things political—behind.”
    Taylor popped a shrimp into his mouth while Aunt Kizzie gave me a warning look that put a damper on my high spirits. “The power of God
where?”
She spoke as if she were strangling on a repressed scream of frustration.
    “Within us.” I glanced at Taylor, hoping for reinforcement, but he just tossed another shrimp into his mouth and grinned at me.
    “That’s stuff and nonsense, girl, and you’re a fool for reading it. I’ve heard about that Marcy Anne Wilkerson, that so-called minister, and I’m not buying a word she teaches.”
    Oops. Sorry that I’d tapped one of Aunt Kizzie’s hot buttons, I tried to direct my attention back to my dinner, but she wasn’t letting go of the subject—or of me either.
    “I can’t believe you’d waste good money on one of that woman’s books.”
    “I didn’t waste money on it, Aunt Kizzie.” I stopped buttering my bread long enough to give her a reassuring smile. “The store had a promo copy, so I read it. I’m
supposed
to read books on the bestseller list so I’ll know what’s hot. I’d be useless if I didn’t know what was happening in the book world.”
    “It’s not just the book world—it’s
the
world.” Kizzie nodded, the blue of her eyes like a cold wave that rushed at me. “Honey, the world is at odds with the Truth, and you’ve got to realize that. I don’t mind you reading those kinds of books as long as you know enough to discern truth from a lie. What worries me is that you seem to have swallowed this woman’s prattle hook, line, and sinker.”
    I placed my knife and roll on my plate, then folded my hands and looked directly at her. “Auntie, I