“I’m not wearing hiking boots.”
“The path is fairly dry. It’s not a difficult climb, and the view is worth it.” He smiled down at her and tightened his hold on her arm. “Trust me. I won’t let you slip.”
She said something. She must have. If only she knew what it was. She hoped it was coherent and appropriate. She pulled her hand away. A strange self-consciousness spread through her. “I won’t slip, but the path is too narrow for both of us. I’ll follow you.”
Apparently unaffected by a similar emotion, he agreed and moved ahead. Mollie waited until he was several paces away before following. Her senses were unusually sharp. With heightened fascination she was aware of the smooth length of his stride as he climbed the hill, the bunch of muscles under his loose corduroy trousers, the easy, confident swing of his arms, and the faint gleam of red where the late-afternoon sun touched his dark hair.
Once more the tears welled, stinging her eyelids, already sensitive from days of spontaneous, unexplained weeping. Pressing her fingers against her closed eyes, she forced them back and hurried after Sean. Ireland wasn’t what she’d expected. Everything she’d envisioned had fallen to pieces. There would be no happy family reunion, no welcoming a daughter lost and now regained. Danny and Kerry were dead, and her father—She would never have worried about her father’s drinking if she hadn’t come here. She pushed the thought away. She would think about Patrick’s problem later. A nagging worry formed in her mind. What if she’d taken on too much? She could go home. Her mother wouldn’t blame her. In fact she might even be relieved. The strange lethargy that had taken hold of Emma might reverse itself once she was back in California.
“Are you managing, lass?” Sean called back to her. “We’re nearly there.”
The wind whipped her hair loose. She tugged the stray strands away from her mouth and increased her pace. “I’m fine.”
He waited until she caught up, took another long measured look at her face, and frowned. “You’re fairly undone, aren’t you?” he asked gently. “Shall I take you home?”
“No.” The word came out too quickly. She bit her lip and explained. “I don’t want to go back just yet.”
He nodded and once again reached for her hand. “The path narrows from here. It’s called Bothar na gCread, the road of the crags. Hold on, and we’ll be through in a bit.”
The path became a stony track that wound and wove its way up through a network of stonewalled fields. Bindweed, a native grass, crept across the limestone, and the remains of summer’s blackberry bushes lay dormant against gray rock. Looming above them was Dun Aengus fort. He led her past the ancient Viking landmark, around the sound to a stone-spattered cliff. The wind was vicious now. Mollie narrowed her eyes to tiny slits, gave herself up entirely to Sean’s direction, and forced herself to push forward against the resistance. Suddenly, he stopped and motioned for her to follow him around a low stone wall.
She looked down and swallowed. Part of the cliff had fallen away, and one side of the path was too exposed for comfort. Sean’s head appeared above the wall. He grinned and held out his hand. “Throw your heart over, lass. No one’s fallen in yet.”
Grasping his hand, she was around the wall in an instant and sighed with relief. The roaring wind had completely disappeared. Rocks, covered with soft green moss were arranged, couch like, with a spectacular view of a large rectangular hole in a flat terrace below the cliffs. It looked like a swimming pool. “What is it?” she breathed.
“Poll na bPeist, the worm hole.”
“How did it get here?”
“It’s connected to the sea by an underground passage,” Sean explained. “The currents surge at high tide to meet the water pouring in over the top. As the tide ebbs, the water inside swirls and boils. Amazing, isn’t it?”
“Incredible. It looks like a giant sea monster trapped inside.”
He laughed and pulled her down on the rock beside him. “You’ve an imagination, haven’t you? Rest a bit and feast your eyes. There isn’t another place like it.”
She looked at him curiously. “Have you traveled much?”
He laced his fingers behind his head and leaned back, closing his eyes. “I’ve never seen America, but I’ve been through most of Europe and parts of Asia and Australia.”
“Did Kerry go with you?”
He shook his head. “Kerry never wanted to leave the island.”
“Do you enjoy traveling?”
He thought a minute. “I do, actually, although it’s good to come home.”
Again the questions begged to be asked. Again instinct told her to leave them for now.
Streaky orange clouds tinted with black hung near the horizon. The Atlantic, peaceful for a change, except for the great boiling hole below them, lapped at the rock-strewn shoreline. Minutes passed. Mollie closed her eyes. Slowly, by degrees, the ache in her heart lessened.
His voice, lilting, reverent, broke the silence. “My family has lived here forever.”
She turned her head and looked down at him resting comfortably beside her. “Nothing is forever.”
His eyebrow quirked. “Are you in the mood for a story?”
Mollie smiled. “Always.”
With his native brio thicker than usual, he began. “Because of its isolation, Inishmore maintained not only a physical separation from the rest of the island but an economic one. The ruling tribe, the O’Flahertys, developed a lucrative trade between Inishmore, Connemara, and the continent. By the fourteenth century, Connemara and Inishmore with it had become nearly an autonomous kingdom completely free of colonial interference. The O’Flahertys, the O’Malleys, and the Burkes, all island families, had their own fleets of ships and traded regularly with Flanders, Portugal, Spain, and France, while Galway City, the city of the tribes, produced its own governing body and mint.
“This opulence did not escape the notice of Elizabeth, who used brute savagery to squash the region’s independence. There arose an island hero, Granuaile O’Malley, the fey pirate queen. Through marriage she united the Burkes, the O’Flahertys, and the O’Malleys to create a united force against the invaders. She managed quite well for many years.”
He was silent for a long time. Mollie thought he’d finished, but then he spoke again. “Granuaile wanted to pull away, to have nothing to do with Elizabeth and her ships and wars. But the pull of progress was too strong. She died, a broken woman, on Clare Island.”
The words were simple, the moral blatantly obvious. It wasn’t a powerful story. But the telling more than the content told her a great deal of the teller. Sean O’Malley was unmistakably Irish, with his sympathy for human suffering, his love of the land and sea, and that uniquely Irish understanding that words are the mightiest weapon of all in their everlasting quarrel with destiny.
He lay there beside her, relaxed, unmoving. She wanted to touch him, the bones of his face, the tips of his fingers. Suddenly she no longer cared if it was safe to ask. “Why did you bring me here?”
She heard the slight, nearly imperceptible change in his breathing. “Patrick isn’t a demon, Mollie,” he said carefully. “He’s a man who’s had more difficulties than most.”
“Yours are every bit as hard, and I don’t see you drowning yourself in alcohol.”
“Times have changed, lass. In Patrick’s day it was common for a man to find his solace at the pub or in the confessional.”
Again the despised tears rose in her throat. She stared out to sea.
“If you feel you can’t be a daughter to him, at least be a friend. You’ve nothing to lose and more than a little to gain.” His hand was on her shoulder, turning her toward him. “Don’t cry, Mollie.” His voice held traces of humor. “And here I thought you weren’t a woman for tears. There’s no judgment in what I said.”
Light flashed across the sky. Seconds later thunder cracked. Heavy drops of rain fell on her head, her face and arms. Below, the sea boiled threateningly. Sean sat up, scooted back under a sheltering rock, an
d motioned to the spot beside him. “There’s room enough.”
Suddenly the thought of touching him terrified her.
It must have shown in her face. Slowly, gently, in the voice he used with Caili, he attempted to reassure her. “The clouds are isolated, Mollie. The storm won’t last long. There’s plenty of room for both of us to sit here comfortably.”
He was unbelievably kind, and she was a fool. If she didn’t act soon he would think so, too. Scrambling up beside him, she sat down, pulled her legs up, and wrapped both arms around them.
Again lightning streaked, closer this time. Thunder cracked. The rain poured down in torrents. Sean had shifted to one side, avoiding her completely. His right shoulder and part of his leg were drenched. Conscience-stricken, Mollie pulled at the sleeve of his jacket. “Move over,” she said. “I won’t attack you.”
He laughed and shifted out of the wet. His left side was flush against her right. “Is that what your panic was all about? I thought you were worried it might go the other way around.”
She didn’t answer. She couldn’t. What was there to say except, this time, he’d gotten it completely wrong?
CHAPTER 11
Mollie looked out over the expectant faces of her students. They were amazingly alike, twenty of them, all between five and ten years old, fair-skinned with large light eyes and the sharp, fine features typical of islanders. But it was more than coloring and bone structure that identified them as belonging to the same race. It was something behind the eyes, a quality of patience or, better yet, endurance. Mollie could see it in the lines of their young unformed jaws, in the stillness of their hands and feet as they sat quietly at the wooden desks waiting for her to speak or act, accepting whatever would follow.
That undefinable quality was there in Marni’s face staring up at her from the middle row and in Caili’s down in front, young as she was. They were her nieces, her brother’s children, her mother’s grandchildren. They shared her blood, and yet they were separate from her, more like the children around them than they would ever be like her.
Mollie felt her difference. Because of her American mother she was new blood. For the first time she realized the vastness of what her mother had attempted and failed to overcome.
Mollie cleared her throat and smiled. “Good morning, boys and girls.”
“Good morning,” they chanted in unison, not a smile or a change of expression among them. It always began this way. Not until mid-morning would she coax a glimmer of a smile from the youngest ones. Eventually, near dismissal time, they would all come around. The following day she would start all over again.
The morning passed quickly. Beginning with the five-year-olds and moving up, Mollie went from one level to the next, explaining assignments, answering questions, writing directions on the chalkboard. The children were attentive and bright. Even the smallest ones showed a remarkable ability to stay on task without fidgeting.
At recess time she pulled on her sweater and followed the children outside. She watched Alice Duncan leave her classroom and crossed the grass to join her. Alice was a wonderful mentor. With her short, no-nonsense hair, sturdy legs, and comfortable shoes, her calling was obvious even to those who didn’t know her. Her answers and advice had helped Mollie enormously over the last few hectic weeks.
“How are you getting on?”
Mollie’s face lit up. “Beautifully. The children are wonderful. I wonder how long they’ll be on their best behavior.”
Alice laughed. “You sound experienced. I imagine children are the same the world over.” She shrugged, and her smile faded. “You’ll have a few challenges as the year moves on but nothing unmanageable. People here take education very seriously. They know it’s the only way out for those who want to leave, and most don’t stay. Inishmore has had a consistent population for decades. There’s no greater nightmare for a parent than to have a child who wants to leave and isn’t able to because he can’t do anything. That leads to other problems, unemployment, alcoholism, abuse. We’ve seen it all. You’ll have no argument with the parents when it comes to homework and discipline. They all want the university for their children.”
“Is that realistic?”
Alice hesitated. “You’ll lose a few, Mollie. We always do, and that’s the heartbreak. But for the most part, I believe that it is realistic. There’s no reason anyone with normal intelligence can’t do what he wants if he’s willing to work at it.” She thrust her hands into the pockets of her jacket. “What do you think?”
“Absolutely.” Mollie nodded her head emphatically. “In California, community colleges are nearly free of charge. Everyone goes, but not everyone finishes. There are classes for all ability levels. Those who don’t finish are the ones who don’t attend.”
“So, we agree. I’d not expected that.”
Mollie turned to look closely at the woman beside her. Alice stood facing the schoolyard and the white-capped sea, a small, fierce woman, gruff but kind, a woman who groomed herself sensibly, modestly, a woman who had deliberately eradicated all that was feminine about her. It occurred to Mollie that she knew very little about Alice Duncan. “Are you a native of the island?” she asked.
Long seconds passed before Alice answered. “No,” she said reluctantly, as if the answer was one she would rather not have given. “I’m not a native, but I may as well be. I’ve lived on Inishmore for thirty-five years, longer than anywhere else.”
Mollie counted backward. Thirty-five years. Her eyes widened. “Did you know my mother, Alice?”
The older woman continued to stare out at the sea, the children apparently forgotten. “Not really,” she said slowly. “No more than to look at her. Emma Tierney was something to look at.” She glanced at Mollie. “You’re very like her, you know.” Her mouth turned down. “It was your father I knew. But that’s ancient history.”
“I don’t think I understand.”
“There’s no reason you should.” Alice looked at her watch. “Recess is over. I’ll ring the bell.”
Mollie gazed thoughtfully at the older woman’s retreating figure.
After slipping the last batch of essays into her tote bag, Mollie straightened a desk, pushed two chairs back into place, and stepped outside to lock the door.
“It’s almost dark,” said a small voice behind her. “I’ve been waiting for you.” Caili sat on top of the playground slide, one hand holding on for balance, the other wrapped around something edible judging from the condition of her mouth.
Mollie smiled and held out her free hand. “If I’d known you were waiting I would have come out earlier. Is there something you needed?”
Caili slipped her sticky fingers into Mollie’s hand and shook her head. “I wanted to eat cheese and bread with you and Grandma Emma again,” She cocked her head and looked inquiringly at her aunt. “May I?”
“Of course you may, but you’ll need to ask your Uncle Sean.”
“We’re staying with Mrs. Harris until he comes for us. She won’t mind,” Caili replied confidently.
“We’ll ask her anyway, and we’ll also ask Marni if she would like to come.”
Mrs. Harris was preparing the evening meal for her family. Not only was she relieved to be free of the girls, but she also prevailed upon Mollie to keep Luke as well.
“My son will give you a lift home in the trap with the wee ones,” she said. “I’ll ring Sean and tell him where the children are.” She shooed them out the door.
Once again Mollie found herself in the back of a pony cart with a blanket tucked around her legs. Only this time two small girls were wedged in beside her and she held a baby in her arms. She looked down at Luke contentedly chewing his fist. She loved the smell and feel of him and the plump softness of his baby skin.
“He’s hungry,” Marni said matter-of-factly.
“Really? How do you know?” Mollie asked.
“He’s eating his hands. He always does that when he wants food.”
“What shall we feed him?
I don’t think bread and cheese will do.”
“There’s baby formula in his bag,” said Marni. “Uncle Sean packed it in case he’s late coming to fetch us.”
Already they’d established a routine without their mother. “Well, then,” said Mollie bracingly, “I’ll feed him first and then the rest of us will eat together.”
“We can help,” Caili said, slipping her hand through Mollie’s arm. “We always help at home. Marni fixes food, and I lay the table.”
“This time remember that forks go with the napkins on the left,” Marni admonished her. “You always forget.”
“I don’t.”
“You do.”
“I don’t.”
“Never mind,” Mollie broke in. “I’m sure we’ll all remember everything we’re supposed to.” She looked anxiously at Luke. He smiled gummily at her, and she relaxed. Luke’s hunger pangs had not yet reached a level of emergency.
“Sometimes Luke spits his food out,” Caili offered, “but not when he’s really hungry. You’ll have to change his diaper first. Then when he goes to bed you have to change it again.”
Mollie laughed. “I’ll make sure and do that, but won’t your uncle be back before then?”
“He will.” Marni nodded confidently. “But sometimes he forgets to look at the time.” She looked at her aunt. “You have lots of rooms, more than we have.”
It wasn’t exactly a subtle request. Mollie’s heart warmed toward her motherly little niece. “I have plenty of extra rooms, sweetheart. I’d be happy to have you all spend the night.”
“How old are you, Aunt Mollie?” Marni asked unexpectedly.
Mollie considered her answer. “Twenty years older than you are,” she said, wondering if the little girl would be stumped over the math.
The child thought for a minute. “Twenty-eight is old not to be married.” Yawning, she rested her head against Mollie’s shoulder. “Why aren’t you married, Aunt Mollie?”
The child’s weight was comfortably warm against her side. The driver, a boy of seventeen or so, was silent, his head turned away toward the encroaching darkness.
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