She still did. Mollie didn’t say the words, but she thought them all the same. Emma had always preferred her husband and daughter’s company. “How am I like her?”
“The resemblance is in your laugh and in your face.”
“She moves like Emma,” Patrick spoke up.
Mabry cocked her head to one side and studied Patrick Tierney’s daughter. “Does she now?”
Embarrassed at the careful scrutiny, Mollie brushed the words aside with her own question. “What about Danny? Who was he like?”
Mabry’s eyebrows lifted. “Danny was an islander, lass. He was like Patrick. It was that way from the beginning. That’s why he was the one to stay and you to go.”
Mollie’s lips tightened rebelliously. How dare they be so certain? How could they possibly have known she was not an islander? “I was six months old. How could anyone know that?”
The old woman tilted her head. “I’m not often wrong, but it’s possible. I’ve often thought—” She hesitated, smiled, and tapped Patrick on the shoulder. “Never mind. Drop me at the Superquinn, Pat. I’ve a bit of shop-ping to do before I stop in at the Cleary house.”
“It’s still a ways off.”
“A walk wards off the stiffness.” She winked at Mollie. “Let me down now, or I’ll die young.”
Mollie bit back a smile. Young had passed Mabry O’Farrell decades ago. “Goodbye,” she said politely. “It was a pleasure seeing you again.”
The old woman rested a ropy-veined hand on Mollie’s knee. “Come and see me, lass. Bring the children if you’ve a mind, or come alone, but come.”
“I will,” Mollie said, and realized that she meant it. The tension that had characterized their first meeting had completely disappeared.
Patrick clucked to his pony and turned the trap around. “We’ll drive down as far as we can and walk the rest of the way to the beach.”
“How do you know they’ll still be there?” Mollie asked.
“Grandda knows everything,” said Marni smugly. “Don’t you, Grandda?”
A smile lifted the corner of Patrick’s mouth. “Not quite everything, lass, but thank you for the confidence.”
The road was empty except for a few art students perched on top of fences or abandoned lorries sketching madly to catch the last of the morning light. Mollie looked out over the loose stone walls to the Atlantic where the untamed sea rolled like a boiling cauldron beating at the wind-carved hills and jutting cliffs. In the valley the last of summer’s honeysuckle and blackberry bushes pushed their way through cracks in the boulders. Footpaths twisted across the limestone burren, disappearing behind the hills.
Patrick pulled up the trap and jumped down. After lifting the girls to the ground, he reached for Mollie and the baby. Then he took Luke from her and began making his way down the rocky path to the sea. Mollie watched the girls pick their way as nimbly as mountain goats down the steep path. Using both hands to cling to the rocks, she scrambled after them.
He stopped at a flat boulder large enough for all of them and put a finger against his lips. “Hush now, and watch for a minute.”
They squatted down to wait. Minutes passed. Luke had drifted off, and the girls were as still as morning mist. Mollie’s calves ached. Carefully she shifted position and nearly missed them. There, on the morning tide, four sea lions frolicked, and one, effectively camouflaged by the churning sea foam, was white.
Caili sucked in her breath, her quick gasp the only sound in the silence except for the lapping waves, the crying gulls, and the joyful bark of the sea lions cavorting on the beach.
“It’s truly a silkie, isn’t it, Grandda?” Caili whispered.
“It is, lass.”
“Can we take a photograph of him?”
Patrick shook his head. “You know that no one has ever photographed a silkie. It can’t be done.”
“Why?”
“Because they’re fairy creatures, Caili. Fairy creatures have no reflection. Your photo would show no image at all.”
Mollie stared at him in disbelief. He was serious. This wasn’t a Santa Claus or tooth fairy story that benignly disappeared as a child aged. Her father, a fifty-something adult, actually believed his silkie tale. She couldn’t imagine her practical mother ever relaying such a story. Believing it would be unthinkable.
Luke stirred against Patrick’s shoulder. Mollie swallowed and looked at her father holding his grandson, her mother’s grandson. Then she looked at the white sea lion among the brown ones. For an instant she willed herself to suspend her beliefs, the sensible Southern California reality she’d acquired over twenty-eight years of living in the midst of a sophistication so planed and polished and brittle that childhood was the merest blip on the road between infancy and adolescence.
Her imagination took flight. She shivered and rubbed her arms for warmth. Caili leaned against her, tilting her chin so that Mollie could see her face. “Silkies are good luck, Aunt Mollie,” she whispered. “Once you see one, nothing bad can ever happen to you.”
“It isn’t fair,” Marni said in low tones. “We’ve all seen one, even Aunt Mollie.”
“What isn’t fair?” Mollie asked.
The child bit her lip. “Da lived here all his life and never saw a silkie, not even once.” She looked at her grandfather. “Why is that, Grandda?”
The life left Patrick Tierney’s face. He looked tired and old. “I don’t know, lass. Some things are meant to be.”
A chill seeped through Mollie’s bones, as if all joy and promise had passed out of the morning. Marni was right. It wasn’t fair at all.
CHAPTER 8
Emma stifled a yawn and glanced out the window at Ireland, a brilliant green dot swimming in blue ocean below the boiling clouds. The seatbelt sign flashed above her as the plane began to descend. The dot was a mound now, looming larger by the second. Various shades of lime, emerald, jade, and forest green separated into distinct patterns. Her breath caught. Soon, very soon, she would be on Irish soil once again.
The soft lilting voice of the Aer Lingus flight attendant interrupted her thoughts. “Please return all seats to their upright positions and remain seated until the seat-belt light has been extinguished. On behalf of the captain and crew, I would like to thank you for choosing to fly Aer Lingus. Slán go ƒoill, and enjoy your stay in Ireland.”
Customs hadn’t changed. For Americans visiting Ireland it was a mere formality. Emma hadn’t bothered to check her suitcase. Bypassing the luggage carousel and the elevator, she walked briskly down the stairs to ground transportation, rented a late-model English Rover with Limerick plates, adjusted to the left side of the road, and was on her way west on the N4 within the hour. Jet lag hadn’t yet set in, and she was able to appreciate the beauty of a rare sunlit November afternoon.
Even the endless number of roundabouts outside Galway City proved no trouble to negotiate, and, sooner than she expected, Emma found herself driving through the sweeping hills and desolate boglands of Connemara. Her heart ached and her breath came quickly when she saw, once again, the shattering beauty of winter light settling over the Twelve Pins.
Ireland was still a country of contrasts, from the bustling streets of Dublin to the warm smoky pubs of Galway and the remote loneliness of Connemara. A terrible beauty, Yeats had called it. The rocky limestone burren, the thickly forested glens of Antrim, the lush green plains of Kildare, the stone fences of the Arans, and surrounding it all was the sea, relentless, pounding, gulls crying, waves lashing, flooding her senses until her blood beat in a symbiotic rhythm with the beauty around her.
The small guesthouse where she’d reserved a room for the night was located on a remote stretch of beach in the prestigious Salthill area outside Galway. Nora Logan was as famous for her hospitality as she was for the delights of her late-afternoon tea tray and her sustaining meals. Emma sank back into the comfort of an elegant and slightly shabby wingback chair, closed her eyes, and lifted the steaming cup of Queen Anne’s tea to her lips. She
sampled her hostess’s lemon scones and moaned with pleasure.
Nora chuckled. “You’ll be wanting more, I think, but not too many more or you won’t eat your evening meal.”
“What time are you serving?” A wave of fatigue washed over her. She didn’t think she could manage a late dinner.
“Whenever you like. You’ll be the only guest this evening. I think it’s best to feed you now and keep you awake for a bit. That way you can go to sleep at a normal hour and get a full night’s rest. Those that travel through the night and arrive in the morning too tired to do anything but sleep are at sixes and sevens with their schedule for days.”
Emma nodded.
“I’ll show you the room and have your meal on the table in the corner by the fire in twenty minutes or so. Will that suit you, Mrs. Reddington?”
“Perfectly.” Emma stood and followed her landlady down the hall and into a room decorated in floral prints and dominated by an elegant four-poster, a desk, and an easy chair that took up most of the room.
Nora opened the armoire and set the suitcase inside. “You’ll be comfortable, I think. The noise from the street won’t bother you, not that there’s much in winter except for the normal traffic and we’ve not much of that. I’ll see to your dinner now. Try not to fall asleep before you’ve eaten.” With that she left the room, closing the door behind her.
The bed looked more than inviting. Emma dared not risk even sitting on it. She walked into the bathroom and filled the claw-footed tub. The water was surprisingly hot for Ireland. After shedding her clothes, she tore open the package of bath salts, sprinkled it in, and stepped into the foam.
Thirty minutes later she walked into the sitting room and sat down before a repast elegant enough for a five-star restaurant in Corona del Mar. Spring lamb chops, pink in the center and crisply brown around the edges, nestled against tiny red potatoes seasoned with rosemary. A fresh green salad, a small sourdough bread loaf with rounded balls of ice-flecked butter, and a glass of excellent French merlot rounded out the meal.
Emma was ravenous. She’d no more than picked at her meal on the plane. Airline food didn’t appeal to her. She ate slowly, enjoying every savory mouthful. When she couldn’t possibly manage any more, she set down her fork, leaned back in the chair, and closed her eyes. Tomorrow she would meet her grandchildren and see Mollie.
The nagging worry, so easy to ignore in the sunny splendor of Southern California, rose again. This time she couldn’t push it away, not here, not when she was so close. Patrick Tierney would be on the island. Patrick with his lean, blue-eyed good looks and his crooked smile and that way he had of telling a story. His stories and those blue eyes had kept her hoping it would get better for far longer than she should have, long enough to conceive and give birth to Mollie. She couldn’t be sorry for that. What was the middle-aged Patrick Tierney like, and why had he never married again? Emma wasn’t so taken with herself that she thought for a minute the reason had anything to do with missing her. More likely his memories were so painful he wouldn’t risk another marriage. She would be very relieved when tomorrow was over.
From Rossaveal, the ferry left at nine in the morning for the hour long ride to Kilronen Harbor. The day was typical for Ireland, brisk and cold, the air stingingly pure. A bitter wind forced the few passengers to huddle in silence against the wall to wait while the ferry refueled. Cupping a mug of coffee between her hands, Emma pulled the hood of her parka over her head and resigned herself to the cold. This was Ireland, and it was November. No one who waited with her had come for the weather.
At last the queue moved slowly up the gangway. A man with a mauve muffler wrapped around his neck and chin took her ticket and pointed her toward the cabin. “You’ll stay dry inside, Miss, but the seas are rough today. If you’re one to be seasick, you’ll want to spend most of your time outside.”
Emma heard the rumbling of the engines. The ferry lurched, started off slowly, and picked up speed. Traveling west, it moved against the current, and the seas heaved and rolled. Soon those with weak stomachs left their seats to stand outside and brave the elements, only to be rewarded with a thorough drenching from the six-foot spumes that swept across the deck.
Inside the heated cabin, Emma looked around. She was one of nearly twenty passengers, a few tourists, but mostly islanders, on their way home after a day or two of holiday in Galway. The natives were easily identified, their sharp-cheeked Celtic bones and odd, light-struck eyes evident in their weathered faces. Unlike the tourists who periodically consulted their watches and stood often to stretch their legs, the locals, hearty souls, born before the cozy glow of gaslight had been replaced by electricity, who lived with seventeen hours of winter darkness, who knew television as recent technology, and who believed that a handshake carried the same weight as a signed contract, sat patiently without moving, waiting for the eventual docking of the boat.
It was Tuesday. Mollie would be teaching, but she’d left directions to the cottage. Emma vaguely remembered it. Thirty years ago the Nolans had lived there. Now they lived in Dublin and leased it out. It wouldn’t be more than a two-mile walk, something she did often in the mild climate of Southern California. Attempting it in the rain with a suitcase was something else entirely.
Gritting her teeth, Emma clipped on the shoulder strap of her bag, hoisted it to her shoulder, and stepped out onto the weathered planks of the pier. She looked around. A gray pelican sat on a guano-stained piling. Gulls circled overhead. Two miles wasn’t far. At a reasonable pace it should take her no more than three-quarters of an hour.
Ahead of her the road twisted and climbed. Behind her she heard the steady clip-clopping of a horse’s hooves. She moved to the side and waited for the trap to pass. It stopped beside her, and an unmistakable voice asked, “I’m sorry I wasn’t on time, but the boat docked early. Would you be needing a lift, Emma?”
She brushed back her tumbled hair and looked up. Rain blurred her vision and ran in rivulets down her cheeks, her neck, and the front of her parka. “Patrick?”
“Aye. Did you not recognize me?”
Emma wiped her eyes. Mascara rubbed off on her hand. “I’m a mess.”
“That you are,” he said agreeably, reaching down to pull her into the trap. He waited until she’d settled back into the seat, then tucked a woolen blanket around her from head to toe. “Now you look like an Aran woman again,” he said, and picked up the reins.
She stared at him. Just like that, no awkwardness, no preliminaries, just a continuing from where they’d left off nearly thirty years ago, as if all the bitterness and despair over Danny had never occurred. Emma was in no mood to be friendly. Patrick had kept her from her son. There was no going back. She wouldn’t forgive him, no matter how pleasant he pretended to be.
“How are you getting on?” he asked when they were on their way again.
Emma hesitated and then decided there was no point in deception. “I’m here for the children,” she said at last. “I’m sure Sean O’Malley resents me, but I’m taking them anyway.”
“That’s to be expected. I wouldn’t lose any sleep over it.”
Stung by his insensitivity, she asked the question she’d promised herself she wouldn’t ask. “Why didn’t you tell me when Kerry died?”
Patrick chirruped to the horse until he rounded a bend. Emma waited, but he didn’t answer. Sighing, she leaned back in the trap and tried not to feel the rain seeping through the thick wool.
“I did.”
The words, bitter and unforgiving, came out. “Not until it was too late to come for the services.”
“Danny would have called you if he’d wanted you here. He never did after you’d gone.”
Rage boiled to life within her and erupted. “Danny didn’t have much of a home with you. You buried yourself in drink and hardly knew he was there.”
Patrick shrugged. “I’ve made mistakes, Emma. But there were good times, too.”
They were silent for a while. Finally he sa
id, “You’ve done a grand job with Mollie. She’s a taking little lass.”
Disarmed, Emma softened. “Thank you. Everyone feels that way about her. Mollie would have been the way she is no matter who had raised her. She’s like bottled sunshine.”
“I thought as much.” He nodded at the smoke swirling from the chimney of Mollie’s yellow cottage. “The rooms should be warm enough.”
Jumping to the ground, he unloaded her suitcase and held out his hand to help her down. “If you need anything, call me.”
“Thank you, Patrick,” she said formally, vowing never to ask him for anything.
Tipping his cap, he climbed back into the trap and drove away.
Emma found the tea canister and a pan of freshly made coffee cake in the oven. After setting the kettle to boil, she unpacked her suitcase in the room with the turned-down bed, changed into dry clothing, and returned to the kitchen. Then she cut herself a generous slice of coffee cake, poured herself a cup of tea, and carried them both into the living room to wait for Mollie. She turned on the television. There had been no television on Inishmore thirty years ago.
* * *
Sean woke in a cold sweat. The ache in his chest was nearly unbearable. He’d lived the dream again, the one where he learned that Kerry was dead. In painful, lurid detail he remembered the knock on his door and saw the terrible grayness of Patrick’s face. Danny’s father had chosen his words carefully, compassionately. Sean couldn’t have done it, but then he was nothing like Patrick Tìerney. Sean wanted to shout his rage and pain to the world. Everything he’d done, all he’d worked for and dreamed of, meant nothing in the face of this loss. Kerry was gone. Danny was inconsolable. He heard Patrick say that someone would need to tell the girls. That someone was Sean. He was closer to them than anyone. They would need him, especially Marni.
He was at home in Galway when Patrick came with the news. The room he’d converted into an office was remarkably neat, stark even, with its wood floors, its single desk with a computer, two chairs, and a reading lamp. Sturdy shelves lined two walls, and books filled every available space. Sean was seated at his desk staring at the computer screen when he first heard the knock.
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