Chapter 6
Cliff Walk
By the time Kate woke, the sun was already high in the sky and shadows stretched across the quilt, rebuking her laziness. She rubbed her eyes, taking in the lace curtains, the crucifix on the wall, the bouquet of lily of the valley and stack of books Bernie had placed on the nightstand the night before while Kate was taking a shower. Kate hadn’t paid much attention to the room’s decor that evening, so road-weary she fell asleep the minute her head hit the pillow. She still hadn’t unpacked her bag. What was the point? She wouldn’t be staying long. The room at Bernie’s cottage didn’t belong to her, nor she to it. She was only a tenant, their association temporary, and yet it felt, in a peculiar way, as if the room had been waiting for her.
She couldn’t remember what day it was at first. Yes, Sunday. Early Sunday afternoon, she guessed. She parted the lace curtains, tatted edges intricate as snowflakes. Her clothes flapped on the line below, the arms of her coat waving. Hello. Good-bye. Help. Bernie’s garments hung alongside: a sweater, blouse, and the sorriest excuse for lingerie she’d ever seen, high-waisted panties and an industrial-strength bra that might have doubled as a Valkyrian breastplate. Both nylon, flesh-colored, broadcasting the woman who wears these isn’t getting any sex.
Off to one side were neat rows of lettuce, carrots, and peas emerging from the earth, stick teepees ready to receive the first tendrils; clumps of parsley, rosemary, and chives flourished in a kitchen garden; bees buzzed drunkenly in the pansies. Early tulips bloomed in green-glazed planters, red petals matching the front door. In the distance, where the land dipped to a small bay, Kate glimpsed the sea, glazed pewter and teal. Was it from the precipitation? The quality of the light?
The air was full of moisture, from the sea and the ever-present promise of rain. Kate saw Bernie dart from the house in a pair of Wellingtons and pull the clothes off the line so the damp wouldn’t undo a morning’s work. Her hostess glanced up, smiling when she saw Kate, and began folding the garments into a wicker basket.
Kate managed a wave—she’d never been much of a morning person, not that it was morning any longer—then pulled on the aqua-colored chenille robe hanging from a hook on the door. She washed her face and brushed her teeth in the bathroom across the hall. Evidence of Bernie’s handwork was everywhere—in the lace doily atop the low cabinet and the violets embroidered on the towels, the stitches tiny, precise. Kate gave herself a quick once-over in the mirror, neatening her hair—the weather made it wilder than usual—then padded downstairs in her socks. She hoped Bernie didn’t notice the heels were almost worn through.
Fergus rose from the hearth and tottered toward her. “Hello, boy,” she said. He rubbed his graying muzzle against her hand before settling by the fire again. Kate studied photographs on the mantel: a young Bernie with a mass of curls and sparkling eyes; a wedding picture of the young couple touching foreheads, smiling; a portrait of Bernie’s husband, years later, striking a pose on the cliffs. Kate wondered where he was. Off on a job? Fishing with friends?
“Good morning—or should I say afternoon?” Bernie set the laundry on the counter, her cheeks pink from the breeze, matching the color of her sweater. She slipped off the boots, set them by the back door, and smoothed her skirt. “Had a nice rest, did you?”
“I’m sorry I overslept.” Kate stifled a yawn. “I had no idea how late it was.”
“It’s not as if you had an appointment to keep. We take our time around here,” Bernie said. “You know that trend in cooking—what’s it called—slow food? Our version is slow living. Mostly because we don’t have a choice in the matter. Nothing goes fast, even when we want it to.”
“I didn’t mean to impose on you—I meant to be off early today,” Kate said.
“The bus doesn’t come until next week,” Bernie told her.
“Next week?” Kate couldn’t hide her surprise.
“We don’t get much traffic here, especially on a Sunday, so the service tends to be irregular,” Bernie explained. “Do you have someone waiting for you?”
“No. It’s just that there’s so much to see—” She had a plan. An itinerary. Following it, checking places off the list, let her think there were things she could still control, the design of her life a pattern that could be set, worked. And yet ever since the bus broke down and she’d started walking, met William, and ended up here, in Glenmara, it felt as if the map by which she’d been navigating was being gently pried from her hands.
She considered her options: she could try hitching again. Or perhaps there was a farmer heading to the next village, though as Bernie said, it was Sunday, and since Glenmara seemed to be a Catholic village, it was doubtful anyone would be making the trip.
“The good news is, the road isn’t going anywhere,” Bernie added quickly. “It will be there when you need it. There’s stew on the stove if you’d like some, since it’s nearly lunchtime—I put it on before I went to mass this morning, though I can make eggs, if you prefer.”
“Please don’t go to any trouble. Stew is fine.”
“Oh, and here are your clothes. They smell of the sea, but at least they’re dry.” A pair of Bernie’s panties, tangled in the sleeve of Kate’s jacket, fell to the floor. The older woman snatched them up. “Aren’t these the most god-awful things? Not fit for the light of day. Elephant drawers, I call them.”
Kate smiled, in both sympathy and amusement. “They must be far too big for you.”
“They do bag a bit in the bum, not that there’s anyone around to see,” she said. “The nearest town doesn’t sell much in the way of fashion, especially when it comes to intimates, even if I wanted to get something fancier.”
“Don’t you? You deserve to have beautiful lingerie,” Kate said. Already, a new garment began to take shape in her mind. “Every woman does.”
“I’d never thought of that.” Bernie ducked her head. “Well, I’ll just put these away. Let me know if you need anything else.” She hurried from the room, basket in hand. “And don’t forget to help yourself to the stew.”
Kate hoped she hadn’t embarrassed her hostess. She ladled stew into a ceramic bowl. The bowl had an almost iridescent drip glaze in shades of blue that captured the colors of the sea, the shape and form reminiscent of 1930s-era Beswick pottery, but uniquely its own. She checked the maker’s mark, taking care not to spill the contents: “SD.” Local, probably. She wondered where the studio was. She wouldn’t mind taking a piece home.
She took a bite of the stew, a traditional sort, heavy on the beef, gravy, potatoes, and carrots, light on the spices, nothing fancy, comfort food in the truest sense. It reminded her of the meal her mother made on Saint Patrick’s Day, though she used more vegetables and less meat; it was one of the few recipes into which she didn’t try to sneak some tofu.
Bernie reappeared. “There’s plenty for seconds,” she said. “It was my husband’s favorite. That’s him on the mantel. He was a handsome fellow, wasn’t he? He passed last May. Had an aneurysm, they said, while walking Fergus. Nothing anyone could do.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t—” Here she’d gone saying the wrong thing again.
“It’s all right,” Bernie assured her, stirring the pot. “The stew brought it to mind, that’s all. Things have a way of doubling back on themselves. It gets better with time—both the stew and the grieving. More tea?”
After lunch, Kate put on a shapely brown fleece jacket (just because it was utilitarian didn’t mean it couldn’t have style), a pair of jeans, and hiking boots, and set out, eager to see the countryside. She brought a sketchpad in the hope inspiration would strike, as it often did when she went for a walk. The beauty of the place was overwhelming, wrapping her in a velvet cloak—such purity of color, texture, and scent. It was everywhere, in the belled petals of foxglove, the rawness of the earth, even the handful of broken window glass she scooped up from the side of the lane, sparkling like diamonds. She let the pieces fall in a glittering cascade, admiring how they caught the light. She felt the
stirring of creative impulse, but didn’t act on it right away: she must coax it from its hiding place, like a fox from its den. She wouldn’t force anything; it didn’t work that way. She took her time, picking daisies for a bracelet, slipping it on her wrist as she crossed the meadows. The air smelled of grass and wildflowers.
A half hour later, she reached the cliffs, the sea raging below. Waves rushed the rocks, recoiled, hurled themselves forward again. She sat down and closed her eyes, let the sound fill her—the sensation of power was thrilling—and opened her notebook in anticipation. Nothing happened. She clutched the pen, the nib hovering in the air. The blank page stared back, daring her to make the first move. She pressed the point of the pen to paper, let it flower into a blot, ink saturating the fibers. She filled the page with a doodle universe, splotted with tears, turned the page, and tried again. None of it was right.
Don’t think. Play.
Could she remember how?
After more false starts, a line danced across the page, then another, twisting, turning, tangoing. She laughed, surprised at what came forth: new-and-improved versions of Bernie’s underwear. She’d never attempted to design lingerie before, having focused her efforts on what she’d hoped would develop into lines of couture. She loved Audrey Hepburn, Gigi Young, Suzy Perette, Jerry Gilden, but her timing was off; the hottest looks were 1970s-inspired, with banded hips and thighs, blouson tops, and undefined waists. “People aren’t buying these styles now,” Jules had said while reviewing her sketches over lunch at the Two Bells Tavern last summer. (He’d taken her to the Palm Court at the Four Seasons Hotel when he’d first signed her.) He was impeccably dressed, as always, in a handmade suit by Gian DeCaro. He kept glancing at his watch. He had appointments to keep, appointments with people whose designs were selling, who were on the rise. She tried to smile, radiate positive energy, take his advice, but inside, she felt as if she were drowning. She noticed, later, that she hadn’t turned down the collar of her jacket, that her vintage scarf had a stain.
“You have to decide who you want to be,” he said. “What you want to be known for. What your signature is. Hot concepts sell.”
He’d probably shake his head in disappointment if he could see her perched on the precipice of those remote Irish cliffs, embellishing bra straps and panties. “I’m giving all my clients a reality check, Kate,” he’d said. “I have to be honest with you—” No, she wouldn’t think about him now. She wouldn’t let doubt spoil her fun. To hell with viable projects and ex-boyfriends, this was real: the ink on her fingers, the callus on her finger, the weight of the pen in her hands, the rhythm of dashes, dots, and lines.
The sea crashed and sighed against the rocks. The wind curled the pages. Her lips tasted of salt. The sun, while not exactly warm, shone in a clear blue sky, the mist having moved off to the north, a momentary gift after the clouds and rain. Minutes, hours, passed as she filled the pages. She lost track of time, not moving until the sun slid toward the horizon and she realized she should return to the cottage, or Bernie would get worried and send out a search party. The thought of a chorus of Irish voices hallooing her name amused her.
She stuffed the supplies in her bag, shifting the detritus of old cough drops, Kleenex, a dry-cleaning receipt for Ethan’s work shirts—which she wadded up and threw off the cliff, the wind bearing it aloft, as if it was something worth keeping, before letting it fall into the spray below (Get your own fricking light-starched shirts, Ethan!); a leaky pen, soft plum lip gloss, cover-up, a Chinese fortune (“You will travel far”—well, it had that right) from the dinner she’d had with friends before she’d left town. “I’ll be fine, really, I’ll be fine,” she’d protested, an edge to her voice that warned them not to probe too deeply, to stop exchanging glances of concern and pity when they thought she wasn’t looking.
“This is far enough,” she said, nearly convincing herself. It ought to have been, and yet grief was a stowaway, coming along for the ride, undetected by airport security. She had to keep the bag zipped, or it might escape and spoil everything.
With a start, she realized she didn’t know the way to Glenmara. She’d never been good with directions. Think. She retraced her steps, ending up on a lesser path that descended rather precipitously to the valley. No, that wasn’t right. She considered going back and trying again, but she couldn’t spare the time, the sun an orb of liquid glass, pouring itself over the end of the world. Oh, well, she didn’t mind an adventure. She’d take this new route. The trails probably connected at some point. There were only so many ways she could go.
The path descended into a steeper section, which, if she could negotiate it, would save half a mile of backtracking. She reached out a hand, a foot, one hold to the next. Careful. She didn’t want to sprain an ankle. She’d left her cell phone in Seattle, packed in a box. Perhaps that hadn’t been such a good idea, but it felt right at the time, when she was throwing things into crates, putting her life on hold.
She breathed steadily to calm her nerves. Don’t think about the drop. It went well enough at first, and she felt proud of the progress she’d made. At this rate, she’d reach the bottom in no time. Then she made the mistake of looking down and had the frightening realization that she was clinging to a near-vertical section of rock. How had she gotten herself into this? The main path was just below, if only she could get to it. A flock of sheep snickered from the grass on the lower slopes. “Oh, shut up,” she snapped at them. The sheep maa-ed more loudly. She was getting tired of sheep and their stupid remarks.
She pressed her stomach against the rocks, breaths coming shallow, fast. People made poor decisions every day, though they usually didn’t die from them. Take it slow and easy. She crabbed along the shelf on a descending diagonal, only progressing a foot or two. Jesus. Would she ever get off that wall?
“Looks like you’ve found one of the more challenging pitches in the area,” a voice called.
She glanced down, fighting a wave of dizziness, and glimpsed a man with unruly black hair. He was tan for an Irishman. She supposed he must have spent a good deal of time outdoors. Handsome too, so handsome she stared at him for a moment, entranced—those dark eyes, square shoulders, a grace and strength in the way he carried himself, the scar on his cheek lending an air of mystery or roguishness, she couldn’t be sure which—before regaining her composure.
“Need help?” he asked, his smile broadening, as if pleased she’d been studying him.
“No. I’m fine,” she said, embarrassed now at having a witness to her predicament, at having stared at him so openly. She’d never been much of a flirt. She supposed it showed. “I know what I’m doing.”
“An expert rock climber, are you?”
Was he mocking her? “I do all right,” she replied, on the defensive now, even though in truth, she didn’t, at least not the last time she’d tried rock climbing at the Vertical Club in Seattle with Ella. “How come you look like a dominatrix in that harness and I just look like an idiot?” she’d asked, laughing so hard she’d turned upside down and had to be lowered to the ground on a cable.
But she wouldn’t think about that now. She couldn’t afford to lose her balance, no safety net here.
“You’re not exactly dressed for it,” he observed. “Jeans are tough to climb in, especially if they’re tight.”
He was beginning to irritate her. If she fell, she might squash him. The thought had some appeal—and besides, she needed someone to break her fall. “Don’t need a uniform, just legs and hands and rocks,” she replied through gritted teeth.
“You’ve got those, that’s for certain,” he said, “though I wasn’t aware a sharp tongue was required too.”
“Only when necessary.”
“A dangerous weapon, that tongue of yours.”
“If you don’t mind, you’re breaking my concentration.”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt your tête-à-tête with the limestone,” he said. “You sure you’ll be all right?”
“P
ositive.” Her muscles burned.
“I almost forgot: is this yours?” He held up a page from the sketchbook, covered with sketches of bras, camisoles, and panties. “I found it over there.”
The paper must have fallen from her bag when she was clutching for handholds. “Yes,” she said, immediately wishing she’d denied it. She couldn’t think fast enough. No doubt he’d make some crack about the designs, which was the last thing she needed right then.
“I’ll anchor it with this rock, so it doesn’t blow away.” He sauntered down the path. “Good luck with the descent—and the knickers.”
Her cheeks felt hot. Why was she blushing? What did she care what he thought? She averted her face, waited until he’d rounded the corner before lowering herself down, one shaky leg at a time, the rush of adrenaline and annoyance giving her the push she needed to reach solid ground. When she finally set foot on the path, she nearly collapsed in relief and exhaustion. She held her side, trying to catch her breath. Now that she looked back at the cliff, she realized it wasn’t so treacherous after all. From this different—and safer—vantage point, she could see that if she’d lost her grip, she wouldn’t have fallen to her death, though she might have—what? Broken a bone? Sprained an ankle? Pulled a muscle? Scraped her knee? Injured her pride?
The drawing fluttered, still pinned under the piece of granite. She tucked the page, now smudged with dirt, into her bag and kept the stone, round as a miniature globe, for a souvenir. It was rare to find rocks of such symmetry. The man stood on the opposite rise, the wind ruffling his hair, hers too, in the same long breath. Before he disappeared from view, it occurred to her that he might think she’d kept the stone as a memento of their encounter. When really, if asked, she would have explained—skirting the truth—that she liked the shape, which fit perfectly in the palm of her hand.
Chapter 7
The Lace Makers of Glenmara Page 5
