Free Fields Of Gold by Marie Bostwick Page B

of it.”
    â€œHe’s good already,” I breathed. “Look at those beautiful eyes. He’s the one I’ve been waiting for all my life, but I didn’t know it until just now.”
    We all stood for a minute more admiring my son until a tentative knock broke the silence and Papa spoke in a stage whisper from the other side of the door, “Is everything all right? Can’t I come in yet?”
    â€œOf course you can, Seamus. I was just leaving,” said Dr. Townsend, picking up his bag and opening the door to reveal Papa’s anxious face. “Sorry to keep you waiting so long, Seamus. Another hour and I swear you’d have worn a hole in the floor pacing, but, I think you’ll find it was worth the wait.” He shook Papa’s hand. “You have a beautiful grandson.”
    Mama showed Dr. Townsend to the door, and Papa sat next to me on the bed. I handed him the tiny bundle, and Papa held his grandson tight in his arms. His eyes shone bright and wet as he examined the angelic face and hands and arms, murmuring wonderment over the baby’s perfect, tiny form. Beaming with delighted wonder, he crooned, more to the baby than to me, “Oh, he’s lucky, is this one. You can see that just by looking at him. He’s like a magic charm that will rub off good luck to everyone he touches.” Papa looked up at me and nodded profoundly. “You see if I’m not right, Evangeline. I know these things, just like I knew about you the day you were born, how you were meant for something special, and now look what you’ve gone and done. Here he is, my darling girl: our lucky star.”

Chapter 4
    May 1927
    â€œ A re you sure you’ll be all right, Papa?” I asked uncertainly. “I’m not all that set on going. You and Mama could go instead and I could stay with Morgan.” I stood in front of the mirror fiddling with a hat pin, accidentally stabbing myself in the finger while studying Papa’s reflection instead of my own.
    â€œGo on, go on,” he said, waving me off impatiently. “We’ll be fine. Won’t we, Morgan?”
    Morgan nodded, shaking his blond curls over his forehead and pulling his finger out of his mouth to give me a wide grin. “We’ll be fine, Mama. Papaw’s goin’ to show me how to play mumbley-peg, ain’t you, Papaw?” Papa gave Morgan a little nudge with his knee to remind him that this had been a secret.
    â€œPapa!” I scolded. “He’s too young to be throwing mumbley-peg. He’ll cut off his fingers.”
    Papa made an exasperated face. “Bah! He’ll be four in just a few more days.”
    â€œMay nineteenth,” Morgan piped in.
    â€œThat’s right,” Papa affirmed. “So, don’t get your dander up, Mother Hen. Besides, I wasn’t going to let him throw it. I was just going to show him how.” He turned to Morgan with his eyes gleaming and his brogue thickening like it did whenever he was telling a story. “Sure now, me boy, when I was your age, I already had a knife of me own, and me brothers and I, we’d use them to hunt snakes in the old country. Huge, slithering serpents they were, as long as my arm.”
    â€œPapa,” I said reprovingly, “you know there aren’t any snakes in Ireland.”
    â€œNot now there aren’t,” he said solemnly and nodded to the knife held in his hand. I grinned at the joke I’d heard a million times before, then we broke into loud laughter, and Morgan joined in, more from fellowship than understanding.
    Mama came out of the bedroom wearing her good Sunday dress and coat. “Goodness! What a racket. Eva, you ready to go?”
    â€œReady,” I knelt down and planted a kiss on Morgan’s smooth forehead. “Be good, now. And”—I shot a warning glance at Papa—“remember, absolutely no mumbley-peg. No knives. No shotguns. Nothing dangerous. I