Matters of the Heart

“If he was dishonest, he was a great lesson for you,” the swamiji answered her after a long pause for thought. “We are always better than before when those we love inflict wounds on us. They make us stronger, and when you forgive him, you will no longer feel the scars.” She was aware still that she did feel them, along with the regrets. And part of her still loved him. Her memories of the early days were the hardest to give up. She was more willing to forget the pain. “You must thank him for the pain, deeply, sincerely. He gave you a great gift,” the swamiji told her. Hope found it hard to see it that way, but hoped that eventually she would.

She thought of Paul a great deal too. She missed him, and being able to call him. He was always in her thoughts, somewhere, in the past behind her, along with their daughter, who was a gentle memory now. She had been for a long time.

Hope walked in the foothills. She meditated twice a day now. She prayed with the monks and the other guests at the ashram. And by the end of February she felt more serene than she ever had in her life. She had no contact with the outside world, and missed it not at all.

She was startled when she heard from Robert Bartlett in March. He apologized for calling her at the ashram. They had brought her to the main office for his call. He needed a decision from her. It was about the house in Ireland. They’d had an offer, for the same amount she’d paid for it, which meant that all her improvements would be a loss. But they were willing to buy the furniture for a fair price, which was a loss as well. He said it was a young couple who had fallen in love with it, and were moving from the States. He was an architect and she was an artist, they had three young children, and the house was perfect for them. Hope wished them well and didn’t care about the losses. She wanted to get rid of it, and it was good to know it would be in the right hands. He said that Finn had left right after Christmas, and said he was moving to France. Someone was lending him a château there, in Périgord.

“Did he give you any trouble?” she asked cautiously. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know. She had spent so much time pushing him from her mind that she was hesitant to think about him now, for fear that he would poison her again. She had worked so hard to heal the wounds, and didn’t want thoughts of him opening them again. Everything about him was toxic for her.

“No, he was all right. Kind of pompous and difficult, but he got out. It doesn’t matter. How are you, Hope?” He was happy to talk to her. He had thought of her often and the day he had put her on the plane to India. She looked so small and fragile, and so brave. He admired her enormously. Getting out the way she had, taking nothing with her, and running for her life through the night took tremendous courage. He knew it all too well.

“I’m fine.” She sounded happy, and free. “It’s so beautiful here. I never want to go back. I wish I could stay forever.”

“It must be beautiful,” he said wistfully.

“It is.” She smiled as she looked out the window at the hills around them, and wished he could see them through the phone. It was a long, long way from Dublin, which she hoped never to see again. It had too many ugly memories for her. She was glad he had been able to sell the house. He had said the new owners were keeping Winfred and Katherine, and Hope was glad to hear it. She had written them both letters of thanks and farewell from the ashram, with apologies for not saying goodbye to them. She was still paying them until the house was sold. “When are you leaving Dublin?” she asked him. It was nice talking to him. He had been part of such a strange time, and had saved her life with his wise counsel. He had been the swamiji of that hour in Dublin. Thinking that made her smile.

“In two weeks. I’m taking my girls to Jamaica for their spring vacation, and then I have to go back and settle in. It’ll be strange working in New York again. I’m going to miss Dublin. I’m sure you don’t have decent memories of it, but it’s been nice for me working here for all these years. It sort of feels like home.”

“I almost feel that way here.”

“When are you coming back?” he asked her.

“I don’t know yet. I’ve been turning down assignments. I think Mark’s getting mad at me, but I’m in no hurry to rush home. Maybe this summer. Monsoon season starts in July. It’s not so great here then. I could go to the Cape.” She had told him about her house there.

“We go to Martha’s Vineyard in the summer. Maybe we could sail over to see you.”