Read Online Where You Belong by Barbara Taylor Bradford - Free Book Online Page B

down my spine, and I sat up straighter and listened, enraptured.
    The Minstrel Boy to the war is gone,

In the ranks of death you’ll find him.

His father’s sword he has girded on,

And his wild harp slung behind him . . .
    Hearing the young choirboy singing so beautifully literally undid me. My mouth began to tremble uncontrollably, and as my face crumpled, I covered it with my hand. I shrank into the corner of the pew and discovered, a split second later, that I wasn’t able to quell the tears. They rolled down my cheeks unchecked, slipping out from under my dark glasses and dropping down onto my hand, which was clutching the lapel of my jacket.
    Jake put his arm around me, drew me closer, wanting to comfort me. Leaning against him gratefully, I swallowed hard, compressed my lips, and finally managed to get my swimming senses under control. The ballad came to an end at last, and that lilting soprano was finally silent. I hoped there would not be too much of this kind of thing, because I knew it would be unbearable for me.
    But of course there was more. First Tony’s brother Niall eulogized him; he was followed by Tony’s oldest friend in the business, Eddie Marsden, the photo editor at Tony’s agency, who spoke at length. And finally, it was Rory who was standing there in the pulpit, looking for all the world like a young Tony, strong and courageous in his grief. He had inherited his father’s handsome Black Irish looks, his mannerisms, and his voice was so similar, it was like listening to Tony himself speaking.
    Rory’s words came truly from the heart, were eloquent and moving. He reminded us of Tony’s great charm and his talent as a photographer, of his modesty and his lack of conceit, of his abhorrence of violence, his humanity, and his condemnation of the wars he covered. Rory talked of his father’s Irish roots, his love of Ireland and of family. He spoke so lovingly about his father, I felt the tears rising in my throat once more.
    Rory went on. “He was too young a man to die . . . and yet he died doing what he loved the most, recording history in the making. And perhaps there’s no better way to die than doing that, doing what you love the most. . . .”
    But he could have lived a long life, I thought as young Rory’s voice continued to wash over me. If he hadn’t taken such terrible risks, none of us would be here today grieving over him. The instant these thoughts formed, I hated myself for thinking them. But it was the truth.
    IV
    Rory spotted us as we came slowly up the central aisle. He was waiting to speak to friends of his father’s as they left the church, his eyes lit up as soon as they settled on Jake. Moira was positioned next to him, and on his other side stood a slender red-haired woman who even from this distance appeared to be quite beautiful. I knew at once it was Fiona, Tony’s former wife. I began to shake inside.
    Jake had no way of knowing I had been seized by this internal shaking; nevertheless, he took hold of my elbow to steady me as though he did know.
    Fiona was smiling warmly at him, obviously glad to see him, and it was apparent they were old friends. Moving toward her, Jake let go of me only when we came to a standstill in front of her. He wrapped his arms around Fiona and gave her a big bear hug, then hugged Moira and Rory.
    Bringing me forward into the group, he introduced me. “Fiona, this is Val—Val Denning.”
    â€œHello, Val,” she said warmly in a soft voice, and she gave me a small half-smile and thrust out her hand.
    I took hold of it and said “Fiona,” and inclined my head, trying not to stare at her. She had a lovely face, with high cheekbones, a dimpled chin, and smooth brow. Her skin was that pale milky white that Irish redheads seem to be blessed with, but it was liberally peppered with freckles across the bridge of her nose and her cheekbones. Her hair, cut short and curly, was