Conor’s car screeched to a stop outside my aunt’s shop. Both Bridget and Dot were on the sidewalk looking up. Toward the Mountain.
Kathy finally woke. She was smiling and as fresh as a daisy, unaware of her grandmother’s crime. Conor came around and helped me out of the car.
“Mother of God,” Bridget gasped. “Not again.”
“What? No, we’re fine,” I said. “Kathy’s all right.”
They didn’t respond to me. Dot crossed herself, “May God have pity on that poor woman’s soul.”
I turned, and in the distance I could see a woman clad in red fall from the cliffs. She fell almost in slow motion. I heard screaming in my ears and imagined for a moment it came from the woman. But it was only me.
Epilogue
Three years later
Laundry. With four children I was always doing laundry. And while the boys had a lot, it seemed Kathy spent her life trying on new outfits. If she was like this at five, I thought, God help me when she’s a teenager.
Conor was with the boys at soccer practice. He’d found a job teaching art at a local art school. He also built a workroom where he carved ornate mantelpieces he sold for ridiculous prices to the rich people living in the Hamptons. We lived in Sayville, a more middle class neighborhood on Long Island. With my widow millions we could have moved somewhere fancier, but Conor and I wanted to live a simple life with other families whose lives revolved around soccer practice and dancing lessons.
I climbed the steps to Kathy’s room. She was a real beauty, and my heart hurt a little when I saw how much she looked like her grandmother.
I tried not to think about Mary too much. I seldom spoke of her to the children. But I did do one thing. I kept my two oldest away from the Mountain. Not that I believed any of those old stories. But, like a true Mountain woman of the five families, I’d developed a healthy respect for those unseen forces that lurked in the forest. Like Conor, I believe and I don’t believe.
Kathy’s kitten, a stray that followed her home from school last week, lay cradled in her arms.
“No, of course I haven’t told anyone about you,” Kathy said, her normally high, childish voice suddenly mature, seductive even. “Yes, my lord. I understand.”
I dropped the laundry and both Kathy and the kitten turned to face me. Their matching green gazes bored into me.
I closed the door and returned to the kitchen.
About Bernadette Walsh
http://www.lyricalpress.com/store/index.php?main_page=authors&authors_id=190
Bernadette Walsh is a native New Yorker with an appreciation for all things Irish. While the locale of Kilvarren and Devil’s Mountain is deliberately fictional, I was inspired by the desolate hills of West Limerick and of course the Kingdom of Kerry. The women of the Mountain were inspired by all the strong women, Irish and otherwise, I have had the honor to befriend. And the men of the Mountain were inspired by...well, I’m not sayin’.
Bernadette’s Website:
http://web.me.com/bernadette_walsh/
Reader eMail:
[email protected]
About The Devlin Legacy Series
Book 1: Devil’s Mountain
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Book 2: Devil’s Shore
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Document Outline
Cover Copy
Teaser
Devil’s Mountain
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Epilogue
About Bernadette Walsh
About The Devlin Legacy Series
Want more?
Table of Contents
Cover Copy
Teaser
Devil’s Mountain
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Epilogue
About Bernadette Walsh
About The Devlin Legacy Series
Want more?
Devil's Mountain Page 13
