The Devlin Witch Book 1

THE DEVLIN WITCH- BOOK ONE

Chapter 1

Caroline

When the doctors told me I'd never have children, I thought I would die. I thought it was the worst thing that could happen to me.

I was wrong.

But, as I sat on the steps of Old St. Patrick's Cathedral that September afternoon willing my newly straightened hair not to frizz, my only concern was the priest was late, still in with the couple whose wedding was to follow ours. Bobby, effortlessly handsome with his new haircut, squeezed my hand.

I looked at the still unfamiliar Cartier watch Bobby had given me that morning as a wedding gift. "I told the restaurant we'd be there by six."

"We've plenty of time," he said in the soft Dublin brogue that had captivated me seven months earlier.

"But..."

Bobby shut me up me by kissing me on the lips. He smiled. "We've plenty of time."

A group of NYU students sauntered past us, the girls in their skimpy tank tops reveling in summer's last gasp. Bobby stretched out on the church's stone steps, legs spread out like a cat soaking up the sun. He twisted the strange ring on his right hand, a family heirloom shaped like twisted branches. Aside from his mindless twirling of the ring, Bobby looked like he hadn't a care in the world. My mind of course raced with the hundreds of details the wedding entailed. To be honest, organizational skills had never been my strong suit, and I couldn't for the life of me remember whether I sent the final check to the florist.

There was no word from the priest as we wilted in the sun, although I was the only one who minded. My mother, wearing her highest heels and brightest lipstick, chatted with Bobby's father and overdressed stepmother. Bobby's sister, Orla, her hair dyed a particularly aggressive blond, wiped her two-year-old son's face as she and her husband laughed with two of my brothers. I think the Irish relatives, both Bobby's family and my mother's, were happy to have an excuse to make a trip to New York and they seemed to enjoy the West Village street scene. Even my father's family seemed less miserable than usual.

But not my father. He stood apart from everyone and leaned against the church's ornate doors. After more than thirty-five years of marriage, any evidence of my mother's Catholicism and her Irishness still made my Methodist, dyed in the wool WASP father cringe. Being the child of what my mother referred to as a "mixed" marriage, my religious observance over the years was admittedly spotty, but there was no way my mother's only daughter was going to get away without a church wedding. The minute we announced our engagement my mother flew into overdrive and planned the entire thing in two months. When my father grumbled about footing the bill for an extravagant Manhattan wedding, in a Catholic church no less, she told him in her still strong County Kerry accent, "Hush, now, there's no pockets in a shroud."

The priest came out. "Come in, please. I'm sorry I was delayed." Bobby scanned the street. A fire engine roared past.

"Do you want us to wait for her?" I said over the piercing siren.

His mouth tightened. The siren faded into the distance. "No, no. Let'sgo in."

I smoothed one of his errant curls. "Maybe her flight was delayed?" He shrugged, his shoulders slightly hunched. "Maybe."
Bobby's sister Orla came up behind him and took his arm. "Come on now, brother. I told you she wouldn't show. Don't let it ruin your day." Bobby said nothing as we walked into the church.

Thirty minutes later, after the priest told us where to stand and what to do, our group spilled out of the church and walked the two blocks to the Italian restaurant I'd booked for the rehearsal dinner. I was laughing at Orla's son, Brendan, when a woman walked toward us.