When Kate arrived at the house, she was almost relieved there wasn’t a car in the drive, no answer when she knocked on the door. She’d sensed a setup in Bernie’s proposal. The last thing she needed was a romantic entanglement. She peered in the front window, saw a fiddle, an upright piano, an unlit fireplace. In a detached outbuilding, she glimpsed lines of pots, dripping with glaze the colors of the surrounding landscape—blues and lavenders, grays and pearls, greens and umbers—he must have made the bowl she liked at Bernie’s cottage. And in the corner, a sculpture: the curve of a woman’s torso and breast. Kate had never seen anything so beautiful.
“You’re not a burglar, are you?” Niall Maloney cycled up behind her.
She hadn’t heard him coming. His chain was well oiled, and he’d ridden straight over the turf, the wheel leaving a thin trail in the grass. She pressed a hand to her chest. “You shouldn’t sneak up on people like that.”
“My daughter lives up the road—though it seems I’m not the only one doing the sneaking,” he teased. The straw basket mounted on the handlebars held a bag of meat pies, the grease seeping into the paper, the smell of warm, fresh-baked pastry and beef making her hungry again. Sometimes her mother had made pasties when Kate was growing up, using her Butte Irish grandmother’s recipe.
“Here,” Niall said, insisting when she shook her head. “Have one.” He handed her a small turnover, more of an appetizer, really.
She took a bite, somewhat disappointed. Lu’s pies had been bigger, made the way her grandmother made them, crammed with potatoes—potatoes being all her ancestors could afford; the meat came later, when they were done with the mines and secured jobs aboveground at the power company, her grandfather working his way up from the mailroom, her mother the first to go to college, the mines still and silent now.
A wind came up off the sea, bent the grass and lupines to earth, let them go—on and on it went, the pressure, the release.
“What are you doing here?” Niall asked. “After some pottery for a souvenir?”
“I’m looking for Sullivan Deane.”
“The girls are always looking for Sullivan.” His eyes sparkled. “Lucky man.”
“It’s not like that—”
“It isn’t? And here I was hoping for a bit of gossip.”
“Sorry to disappoint you, but Bernie asked me to find him,” she explained with a good-natured smile. “She said he has a computer.”
“What’s she need that for?”
“A project for the lace society.”
“Entering the modern age, is she?”
“Something like that.”
“My grandson knows computers. Works for a software company in Dublin. I don’t understand a thing he says when he starts going on and on about cyberspace. Might as well be speaking Greek. But he’s made a go of it. Took me for a ride in his fancy car last time he visited. Christmas it was. The young ones don’t come home often enough—which makes your being here even more of a novelty,” he said, adding, “How do you like our little village?”
“It’s a lovely place.”
“It is, isn’t it? I’ve lived here my whole life. Wouldn’t want to be anywhere else. It’s important to have a place to call home. A place where people know you.” He scratched his chin. A scruff of silvery beard had started to grow. “You’re from Seattle, aren’t you? Were your people Irish?”
“Some of them.”
“No wonder you seem so at home here.”
“It’s hard not to be. Everyone has been so welcoming.” Well, almost everyone; she thought of Aileen and Father Byrne. “Do you know where Sullivan is?”
“I think he went to the market in Kinnabegs. It’s his day to sell the pottery.”
“Is it far?”
“It’s a thirty-minute cycle from here. One of the towns scattered along the coast, bigger than ours, gets more tourists, though not much,” he said. “Some of the best scenery in the area.”
She thanked him and set off again. Even if she didn’t find Sullivan Deane, she’d see more of the countryside. She supposed the place looked much as it had for centuries, an occasional standing stone breaking the low rolling hills, monuments to forgotten gods, a horse among the buttercupped fields, whinnying for a handout as she went by. She hummed to herself, her voice blending with the wind, the spinning of the wheels, and headed for the sea.
Kate skirted the bay with its flotilla of boats, painted green and blue and red, some advertising trips to the convent ruins offshore. A man sang in Gaelic as he mended his nets, a cap over his frizzled hair, his skin the texture of dried fruit. Another sold cockles by the bucket. Market stalls crowded the square beyond, where vendors displayed teas, preserves, and the usual linens—though none as fine as the lace society’s work. Kate searched for Sullivan Deane’s awning. Yes, there it was, by a stand selling local cheeses flavored with chives, rosemary, and pepper. He wasn’t at the table, only a blond, curvaceous girl—Kate had never seen anyone with such a small waist—who seemed to attract more attention than the goods themselves.
“You looking for Sullivan?” she asked Kate with an assessing look that suggested she knew him well. “You’ve just missed him. He went to the pub. He sometimes stops there before going home.” A slyness in her smile hinted Kate wasn’t the first woman to seek him.
“I’m not—,” Kate began to explain, then thought better of it. What did it matter if the whole countryside thought she was chasing after Sullivan Deane? That wasn’t her purpose.
As she turned away, she glimpsed a van parked behind the stand—the same van that had nearly run her off the road days before. The van driven by the man from the cliffs. Wouldn’t that just figure? He must be Sullivan Deane. She had mixed feelings about encountering him again, equal amounts anticipation and annoyance. But all she had to do was use his computer. How difficult could that be?
She rattled down the cobbled lane in the direction the girl indicated and parked the bike outside a pub called the Hungry Gull. Someone had had the foresight to print the name in English for the benefit of the tourists. She smoothed her hair before going inside. There were five patrons in the bar at that hour. The one nearest the door looked up as she walked in.
It was him. He wore black leather sneakers, jeans, and a fisherman’s sweater, a vaguely bohemian look that managed to be both put together and unstudied; his hair somewhat shaggy, a scruff on five-o’clock shadow on his chin. “Down off the mountain, are you?” he asked.
She’d half expected to see him, and yet she found herself having to catch her breath before speaking, and not because she’d been pedaling uphill. “So it would seem,” she said, adding, in reference to his nearly running her down in the lane a few days before, “though the hazards of the road are just as dangerous.”
He leaned back in his chair and grinned. “Scared you, did I?”
“I’d describe the experience differently.”
“As?”
“As: You nearly killed me.”
“The roads seem narrower than they are. There was plenty of room for both of us.” He shrugged.
“They do, do they? Easy for you to say from the comfort of a driver’s seat.”
“Looking for someone?” he asked.
“Yes, as a matter of fact, I am. Do you happen to know Sullivan Deane?” she asked with a knowing smirk.
“You’re looking at him. What can I do for you?”
“I need to borrow your lap—,” she began, stumbling over the words. He had such a brilliant smile—and that dimple next to his mouth—
“My lap? That sounds interesting.”
“No, your top—” She was completely flustered now.
“Do I get to wear yours?” he asked.
Why wouldn’t he let her complete a sentence? She was perfectly capable of expressing herself eloquently. “What I was trying to say was—” She broke off again, expecting another quip.
“Yes?” He tried not to laugh.
“That I need to borrow your computer.�
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“And here you got me all excited,” he said. “You American girls are rather fresh.”
“I wouldn’t have bothered you, but Bernie sent me. She said you had the only computer in Glenmara.”
“No hookup, though. Good you caught me here. Fine thing, their setting up Wi-Fi.” He offered her his chair, brushing her arm as he passed. She barely reached his shoulder. “For the tourists. Like you.”
“I’m not a tourist. I’m a traveler. There’s a difference.” She felt the warm spot he’d left behind when she sat down. She scooted to the edge of the seat and uploaded the pictures from her camera.
“Here, a traveler means a gypsy,” he said, “though you don’t look much like a gypsy to me.”
She could have been. She could have stayed with William, traveled the coast. “I’m on a trip, that’s all.”
“And what’s your destination? Surely not Glenmara?”
“Why not?”
“It’s not exactly a metropolis.”
“I’ve had enough of cities for a while. It seems you have too.”
“Yes.” He didn’t say anything more.
She suspected his reticence might have something to do with the tragedy the lace makers had alluded to, but didn’t press.
“Do you have a name?” he asked, changing the subject. “Or are you like one of those characters in an existential novel?”
“It’s Kate.”
“As in The Taming of the Shrew?”
“As in Katharine Hepburn.”
“You’re not sending pornography, are you?” He leaned over her shoulder. “I could get in trouble for that.”
“It’s a business proposition.”
“I’m sure it is.”
“A new line for the lace society.”
“I see. Stirring things up, are you?”
“Just trying to help. Would you mind?” She couldn’t work with him standing over her like that.
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to distract you.” He went to talk to the barman, glancing in her direction occasionally. She looked away whenever their eyes met, stole another peek when his back was turned.
She tried to focus on the task at hand. After all, she had things to do. She sent pictures of the lingerie to the various tourist boards. She thought about sending some to Ella, who’d wanted another update. “You have to let me know how you’re doing. Promise me that, Kate, or I swear to God I’m not letting you get on that plane in the first place,” she’d said as she saw Kate off at Sea-Tac Airport. But then she decided against it. Better to wait until she was sure where this was going first.
She logged into her Hotmail account. Not much in her in-box but advertisements offering to enlarge her nonexistent penis and, of course, another message from Ella: “It’s been raining here for days. We might as well be in Ireland!” Kate’s pulse quickened, as it always did when she checked the column of new mail lately, anticipating a message from Ethan that never came. She’d gone over the scenario in her mind, considering whether she’d want to hear from him—they’d broken up and reconciled before. Or did she just need to have the last word, to be the one to reject him, once and for all? If he did try to make contact, it would be by instant message, she supposed, sent on the impulse, the cursor flashing. That would be what he was reduced to—a miniature blinking rectangle, a door too small for her to walk through.
“Kate?”
“What?” She looked up. Sullivan had been saying her name. She quickly closed the screen, hands shaking.
“Is everything okay?”
“Fine,” she lied.
He raised an eyebrow but didn’t pursue the matter. “At least let me buy you an ale,” he said. “I owe you one after teasing you so mercilessly.”
“You don’t owe me anything, and besides, to be honest, I don’t like ale very much.”
“Are you sure you’re Irish?” He slid a glass across the table. “Why don’t you give it another try? Maybe you’ll change your mind. Besides, I could use the company, and I’m guessing you could too.”
How soon did she know she was going to sleep with him? Maybe from the beginning. She hadn’t meant to that day, but he was irresistible, presented her with the possibility of forgetfulness in another’s touch. He took the bicycle by the handlebars, intending to give her a ride to Bernie’s house in his van.
“I can manage, really.” She took hold of the seat. She wasn’t exactly drunk but had had enough—one glass was all it took, she had so little tolerance—to make the prospect of riding to Glenmara challenging if not impossible…and that of being with him more appealing.
“Are you kidding?” He laughed. “You can’t walk a straight line, much less cycle one.”
They engaged in a playful tug-of-war over the bicycle and the direction they were taking. She let him win.
He stood on the running board and lifted the bike up with one easy movement, fastening it into the rack atop the van, which also had slots for kayaks and surfboards. “There,” he said. “All set.”
The van smelled of clay and paint, the air moist and close. She felt the springs through the seats, but they didn’t bother her. Nothing bothered her. She was warm and relaxed. She hadn’t felt this way in weeks, maybe ever. He turned on the radio, hummed along to a song by the Frames. Kate hadn’t heard that particular tune before. A melody that would play in her head over and over in the next few days, reminding her of him, of that night.
He rolled down the windows, the wind in their hair as they sped along the lane. He drove with both hands on the wheel. She wondered if he’d always done that, or if an event in his past had made him more careful.
She touched him first, needing something from him, a temporary oblivion; perhaps that was what made her put a hand on his thigh. He might have asked her if she was sure, stopping the car along a deserted road. She didn’t remember if she replied or if she just let her lips meet his in answer. At first she was aware of the boxes of fragile vessels around them, the vases and bowls and plates he’d made, the few that remained unsold that day, the gannets shrieking in triumph as they dove for fish in the sea below, the wind buffeting the car, another change coming. Fair weather could only last so long. But at that moment, there was only him, with his breath on her cheek, his hand on her breast, his brown, brown eyes. Him.
Chapter 15
Held So Close
Kate kissed Sullivan again, unable to pull away, neither of them willing to say good night. His lips were perfect, neither too full nor too thin, softer than she’d expected. A light mist fell from a band of clouds overhead, stopping and starting, dripping from the blackthorn trees in a rhythmic patter. Kate didn’t mind the cold or the wet. She didn’t feel anything but Sullivan’s arms around her. The shower would pass within moments—there, it already had, the clouds moving off to rain in another place—the memory of the squall contained in the puddles that reflected shadows and stars, Kate and Sullivan too, standing there in the lane below Bernie’s cottage.
“I’ll be away for a day or so, selling, upcoast, but there’s a craic on Friday,” he said, still holding her close as they lingered by the van, which he’d parked just outside Bernie’s gate, the bicycle resting against the wall. “You’ll be there, won’t you? Say yes.”
“Well—”
“There will be dancing.” He rocked her gently, side to side. “A girl like you must love to dance.”
“A girl like me?”
“With such fine, strong legs.”
“Now who’s being fresh?”
“We’re past that now, aren’t we?”
Yes, she supposed they were. She’d only been with him a few hours, and yet it seemed longer in the best way. It must have been past midnight by then. A crescent of moon shone down on them, ribbons of cloud trailing across the sky, and the breeze stirring the trees and carrying the scent of primrose and lily of the valley.
“Come home with me,” he said.
“I can’t,” she replied, though she wanted to. “Not tonight.”
She took a step toward the house, as she knew she must, because Bernie was waiting, because a part of her sensed that this was too much too soon, that she needed to slow things down. They had days ahead of them, didn’t they? Days and days to get to know one another better. She wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon. She liked Glenmara. She could stay for a while, learn about the lace, about him.
“Please.” He held onto her hand.
“I have to go.” She laughed. The light was on in Bernie’s front room. Her hostess was still awake.
He gave her hand a squeeze before releasing her at last. “Friday, then. Don’t forget.”
When Kate opened the door, Fergus woofed a greeting as she hung her coat on the peg in the hall and went into the sitting room. Bernie looked up from her chair by the fire, reading glasses perched on the end of her nose, a book open on her lap. The turf glowed in the hearth, burning low.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” Kate said. “I should have called. I didn’t mean to keep you up—”
“Not at all,” Bernie said. “I’m glad you were having fun. With Sullivan, were you?”
“I don’t know where the time went.”
“It passes quickly, doesn’t it, when you’re with the right person.” Bernie gestured to a teapot on the side table. “I was getting ready to have a bit of warm almond milk. Helps me sleep better. Would you like some?”
Kate took the cup Bernie offered. She tucked her hair behind her ears and blew on the milk to cool it, realizing, with a twinge of embarrassment, that she had a smudge of clay from the van on her cheek. She quickly wiped it away, hoping Bernie hadn’t noticed. “He asked me if I was going to the craic Friday night,” she said.
“Oh, yes, you must. We’ll all be there for the music and dancing. Sullivan is part of the band. He learned to fiddle from his grandfather during the summers he spent in Glenmara. He’s a fine musician,” Bernie said, adding, “A fine man too. They’re getting harder to find these days.”
“Yes, they are,” Kate agreed.
The Lace Makers of Glenmara Page 12
