Matters of Faith Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Epigraph

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Now

  And the Screen Door

  Readers Guide

  More Praise for Catching Genius

  “With precise and evocative prose, Kristy Kiernan weaves a story of family and history that is as nuanced and finely wrought as it is compelling. Catching Genius draws you in with its genuine characters, and it holds you there with its truthful exploration of the enduring bonds of love and family . . . This affecting novel shines a new light on the concept of genius—what it is and what it isn’t. And speaking of genius, Kristy Kiernan looks like a debut novelist who will be around for a long time to come.” —Elizabeth Letts, author of Family Planning and Quality of Care

  “Kristy Kiernan bursts from the gate with this skillful rendering of a family’s reckoning with its painful past. Kiernan peels away the layers in a lilting and luminous voice, exposing strata after strata of family secrets made murkier by the passage of time. Kiernan proves she’s a writer to watch—find a comfortable spot, turn off the phone, and lose yourself in this gorgeous debut.”

  —Sara Gruen, New York Times bestselling author of Water for Elephants, Riding Lessons, and Flying Changes

  “A warm, moving novel about the power of familial bonds.”

  —Booklist

  “Kristy Kiernan’s fluent storytelling and fully-drawn, credible characters make for an affecting novel. With effortless grace, her lyrical prose drops the reader into scenes rich with details and powerful emotions.” —Tasha Alexander, author of And Only to Deceive and A Poisoned Season

  “Catching Genius is the real thing: a rich, compelling, and deeply nuanced story delivered in language that’s as luminous as it is authoritative. To judge by this affecting first novel, I’d say Kiernan’s the real thing, too.” —Jon Clinch, author of Finn

  “Catching Genius is the total package; a beautiful story beautifully told. Kristy Kiernan pulls you into a deep and fully realized world; exactly the place a reader wants to be taken.”

  —Lorna Landvik, New York Times bestselling author of Angry Housewives Eating Bon Bons and Oh My Stars

  “In her beautifully written debut novel, Catching Genius, Kristy Kiernan portrays the complexity of familial relationships with a depth, candor, and insight that can only be called exceptional.”

  —Sandra Kring, author of The Book of Bright Ideas and Carry Me Home

  “Kristy Kiernan deftly captures the complicated relationship between sisters and succeeds in showing the ways families can make us crazy and angry and lost, but ultimately, how families can and do save us. With her fine eye for detail and obvious love of the beach, math, and music, Kiernan draws the reader into a family and lets us revel in a summer that reconciles the pain of their past and provides a glimpse of their hopeful future.” —Judy Merrill Larsen, author of All the Numbers

  “What is there not to like about this novel? A beach setting. Love and heartbreak. Regret and redemption. And a plot with surprising twists and turns that will leave your hankie damp and your heart feeling good.” —Ad Hudler, author of Househusband and All This Belongs to Me

  “Catching Genius is simply mesmerizing, not only because it expertly captures the unbreakable bond between sisters. The novel also explores the many facets of very real characters, breathing life into the seamlessly plotted story line. This author’s first novel is a must-read for women’s fiction fans of all ages.” —BookPage

  “Kiernan is a compellingly talented writer and one to watch . . . hauntingly beautiful.” —Florida Today

  “Kiernan writes about family, forgiveness, and the allure of the Gulf Coast with authority and assurance, producing a smoothly plotted story peppered with revelations that lead to a rousing, heartfelt finish.” —Mostly Fiction

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

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  (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

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  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  This book is an original publication of The Berkley Publishing Group.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  Copyright © 2008 by Kristy Kiernan.

  eISBN : 978-0-425-22179-2

  1. Faith—Fiction. 2. Spiritual healing—Fiction. 3. Domestic fiction. I. Title.

  PS3611.I4455M38 2008

  813’.6—dc22

  2007050600

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  For my husband, Richard W. Kiernan,

  who lets me chase my dreams and rejoices when I catch one

  Acknowledgments

  My deepest gratitude to the following professionals, who are so efficient and talented, and who allow me to do my job without daily psychiatric intervention:

  Anne Hawkins, my agent

  Jackie Cantor, my editor

  Tom Robinson and Michele Langley, my publicists

  Tasha Tyska, my sanity wrangler

  Thank you to the Naples Divas, who teach me something new every month, and who don’t throw things at me when I haven’t read the book: Sue Bankosky, Stephanie Coburn, Karyn Conrath, Betty Keigler, Terry Knight, Pat Kumicich, Tanya Oosterhous, Ellen Schmidt, Sharon Smaldone, Barbara Taefi, and Joyce Thornton.

  As always, thank you to my family and friends for all of their support, especially to my husband, Richard, for his unflagging belief, and our own personal troll, Niko, for her companionship.

  A person will worship something, have no doubt about that.

  —Ralph Waldo Emerson

  One

  THE turning points in my life have always arrived disguised as daily life. I never get the opportunity or have the sixth sense to stop and examine them, to time-stamp them on my soul, whisper to myself that this, this thing, this simple boat ride in the Everglades, this phone ringing, this drive home twenty minutes late, was the thing that might do me in.

  They never appear important enough to stop the things I’m already doing—like sparring with my husband over the developing noth
ingness of our marriage, like mixing the right amount of black into the red of a fire sky painting, like sitting down at my computer and reading an e-mail from my son.

  “He’s coming home for spring break,” I called down to Cal through the open window, scanning Marshall’s message for more information. “And he’s bringing someone with him.”

  “I can’t hear you,” Cal yelled back, the hollow, river rush of water beating against the house for a moment. I read the rest of the e-mail, committing the pertinent facts to memory as a flutter in my stomach began to make itself known, before I headed downstairs and out the kitchen door. The edge of the screen caught the back of my heel before I could get out of its way.

  Cal, shirtless and browned, his shorts riding low enough to expose a strip of white skin, squinted at me as he hosed off two bright blue coolers. “What’s up?”

  “Marshall’s coming home for spring break,” I repeated, surveying the sparkle of fish scales caught in the crisp grass at the sides of the driveway like diamonds in straw. “And he’s bringing company.”

  “The Dalai Lama?” Cal asked, flipping a cooler over and sending a rush of tepid water over my bare feet.

  “A girl,” I said, and was rewarded for my timing with a squirt of water up my calves. Cal turned to me in surprise, a smile flashing quick and white across his face. I grinned back, raising my eyebrows, a joke, half-formed, about to spill out, before I remembered that we weren’t joking much these days.

  “Really? A girl?”

  “Ada,” I said, the unfamiliar name hard on my tongue, a good complement wrapped in the downy softness of Marshall. “She’s pre-law.”

  “What else is she?” Cal asked, turning back to his coolers.

  “He didn’t say.”

  “That’s new. And you didn’t ask?”

  I didn’t answer the criticism, not nearly as subtle as his words suggested. The method our son took to find himself was a never-ending fracture, but it was a method I was open-minded enough to indulge, and one Cal barely abided. The possibilities of Ada’s religious affiliation skated through my mind as I watched him move on to the next cooler, sluicing the remains of his second fishing tour of the day across the drive.

  “What should I do about sleeping arrangements?” I asked.

  “Put her in your office and let them sneak around.”

  “Nice. I’ll ask Marshall. Good trip today?”

  He shrugged and flipped the second cooler over before turning the hose on himself, talking behind the water cascading down through his hair and across his face. “Couple of idiots from Minnesota. Talked about ice fishing the whole time. They want to go out tomorrow, but they wouldn’t put on any sunscreen, so I’m pretty sure I’ve got the day off.”

  His words dimmed out, as Cal’s stories about paper-white Yankees were destined to after twenty years of marriage. I imagine he barely heard my talk about warping Upson board or paint loss on a Highwayman painting these days.

  I envisioned a girl named Ada. She would be sturdy, blonde, and no taller than I. Trying to fit Marshall beside this Ada in my imagination was harder work. He’d never brought a girl home before.

  Boys, there’d always been boys. Interesting boys he sought out when he was tired of being Jewish, or Buddhist, or Methodist. Earnest-looking boys who wore various amulets and indicators of their faith, who Marshall engaged in fascinating theological discussions over dinner. Fascinating to me anyway. Cal, his fire-and-brimstone minister father never far from his mind, would leave the table, taking his plate to the living room, where he’d turn up the television loud enough that those of us left in the dining room would fall silent, intent on our food.

  I was proud of Marshall. He was curious, about this world and the possibility of the next. Curiosity was an admirable trait, one my own parents cultivated in me. Meghan, our daughter, was as curious as Marshall and I were about the world. And she was due home any second.

  “Did you pick up the EpiPens?” I asked.

  “On the counter.”

  And we were done. Marshall, check. Fishing trip, check. Meghan’s EpiPens, check. I turned to go back inside, the screen door catching my heel again. I’d asked Cal a hundred times to slow it down. If I didn’t have to endure the pained sighs and protests that he had been just about to do it—the implication that I was an ever-impatient, never-satisfied wife—I would look up how to do it myself. It was just a screen door. How hard could it be? Maybe he would do it before Marshall came home.

  But right now the screen door didn’t bother me. Marshall was coming home, and he was bringing a girlfriend. It would be good to have someone new in the house.

  For all of us.

  SWITCHING out Meghan’s EpiPens that night, I told her about Marshall and Ada. She grinned as she handed me the old injector from her backpack and fit her new one in.

  “I know,” she said, with a coy look up through her lashes, something that had been happening a lot lately. Meghan had begun to flirt like a silent screen siren. With everyone. Me, her father, the UPS man. I was hoping it was a phase that would pass, though I’d hoped that with her fixation on Winona Ryder too.

  “How do you know?” I asked.

  She shrugged. “She e-mailed me.”

  I sat back on my heels in surprise. “She e-mailed you? You mean Ada?”

  “Uh-huh. She’s a vegetarian.”

  “Wait a minute. When did she e-mail you?” Meghan was twelve. I vetted all of her e-mail from anyone other than Marshall.

  “A little while ago. She used Marshall’s account.”

  “Oh. Well, what else did she say?” I asked, a little disgruntled at Marshall for allowing Meghan the first, albeit electronic, glimpse of his girlfriend.

  Meghan shook her head and pulled brightly colored folders out of her backpack, arranging them carefully on her desk, preparing to start her homework. With Marshall I’d had to stay on top of homework or I’d find him studying some religious text or another; with Meghan I rarely even needed to remind her.

  “Nothing. She sounds really nice. She said she’d stay in my room if you said she could. Can she?”

  “I have the pull-out sofa in my office for guests, Meghan,” I said, looking at her bunk beds doubtfully, finding it hard to imagine a college girl wanting to play sleepover with a twelve-year-old. Besides, what if Cal were right and she ventured out to visit Marshall? “I think we’ll wait and talk to Marshall about this, okay?”

  Meghan chewed her bottom lip and stared up at her Edward Scissorhands poster, but said nothing. I sighed. She was such a good child. And she followed directions. Always. Following directions might save her life one day. That had been drilled into them, her. And they’d had to drill it into everyone around them. They’d spent years educating themselves and Meghan’s schools.

  They now had a peanut-free zone for lunch in Meghan’s middle school. Thanks to new laws, Meghan was able to carry an EpiPen, that ever-present, life-saving cylinder, with her everywhere in school, with a backup in the nurse’s office.

  Unfortunately, with education came a certain amount of isolation in our small town, and so far Meghan was the only child to come through the local school system with a life-threatening food allergy. The lunch area was in a small room separate from the regular lunchroom, and she ate alone. It all set her apart, and not in a way that made her the most popular girl in school.

  It was no wonder she was looking forward to Ada’s visit. I looked up at the Edward Scissorhands poster above Meghan’s desk, with Winona partially obscured by the blades at the ends of Depp’s delicate wrists, and wondered if she saw herself in Ryder’s character, held safely behind sharp objects. I nudged her shoulder.

  “You think she’d like the peony sheets or the Little Mermaid?”

  “Mom!” she gasped. “Not the Little Mermaid—” She broke off when she saw the grin on my face. She threw her thin arms around me, and I’d have gladly attached blades to my own hands at that moment to keep her safe.

  I e-mailed Marshall r
epeatedly over the next three weeks. Asking questions about Ada under the guise of making sure we were prepared for her visit. I asked about the food she liked (she’s a vegetarian mom, very whole foods, i’ve stopped eating red meat and feel so much better, you should really think about restricting meghan’s exposure to additives and stuff . . .), and her sleeping habits, (i don’t know mom), and skirted around the issue of her religion with vague questions about her family (they’re really close . . . some interesting ideas . . . their church sent her to school on a full scholarship).

  I researched vegetarianism and whole foods and stocked up on tofu and grains, and in the week leading up to their arrival I stopped work altogether, closing the door to my studio with three paintings in various stages of restoration, and worked on cleaning the house.

  Meghan’s allergies had turned me into a late-in-life clean freak, and our home was spotless most of the time. After the first horrifying anaphylactic episode when she was two—a friend’s daughter babysat and made Meghan homemade Play-Doh out of peanut butter—we’d gotten her tested for other allergies, and the results changed our lives. A whole host of airborne irritants threatened Meghan’s airways: dust mites, an endless variety of flower pollens, dander, mold. And food allergies, peanuts and shellfish, threatened her systemically. Thank God she was fine with fish, or our entire livelihood would have been threatened.

  Now our home was tiled throughout with only a few scattered throw rugs, no more drapes, no more overstuffed sofas. Marshall’s two cats had been pressed upon neighbors, and I learned how to steam clean everything.

  But this was different. This wasn’t cleaning for my daughter’s health; this was cleaning to impress. We didn’t have many house-guests, and I was a bit surprised to find that there was a difference. Meghan and I got haircuts, and she talked me into buying her two new tops, several pairs of shorts, and flip-flops with rhinestones on them, all of them a clear maturity level above what she had been wearing.