The Parting Glass. Emilie Richards

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      Peggy doubted her son would wake. Predictability was the way he dealt with his confusing life. The thought of biking into Shanmullin, which so far she’d only seen in passing, was tempting. Irene had told her there were bicycles in a nearby shed. Peggy was sure they were old, and just as sure they were well kept up.

      “You’re certain?” she said.

      “Oh yes.”

      Peggy could feel energy returning. Fresh air and exercise were more likely to restore her than a nap. She hugged Irene. “What can I get for you in the village?”

      “Now, I was hoping you’d ask. There’s a list in the kitchen. You run on and have a good time. Turn right on the main road and you’ll be in the village before too long. Just be sure to mark the end of the boreen in your mind so you don’t get lost coming home.”

      Freedom. With a smile and a grateful wave, Peggy went to find the list and say goodbye to Nora.

      chapter 8

      Peggy calculated that she had almost two hours before Kieran woke up. She had another teaching session planned for the afternoon. More holding a spoon, more “Mommy,” and a fierce coloring session with a red crayon. If there was time or patience left, she would begin teaching him to turn the pages in a cardboard picture book. So far he’d shown no interest in the stories that were read to him, but she was hoping that would change.

      She found an assortment of bicycles in the shed. One, shiny green with a deep basket, looked newer than the others, and a trial run proved it was in good working order. She started up the lane, turning when she was halfway to wave at the women in the cottage, who were undoubtedly spurring her on.

      After a week of gloom the day was breathtakingly lovely, just cool enough to keep her from growing overheated as she struggled up the incline that led to the main road. Wild primroses grew in the ditch, and iris made ready to burst into bloom. Hovering in the distance, she could see the Atlantic, with mist-shrouded Clare Island, and farther beyond, Croagh Patrick, the conical mountain named after the saint who was said to have fasted there. Fuschia in the hedgerow were just beginning to bloom, the scarlet flowers bobbing in the gentle wind, and a magpie roosted on the lichen-encrusted stone walls, watching her with a startling lack of concern.

      On the narrow main road the few cars that passed gave her wide berth, which was lucky, because it had been some time since she’d ridden a bicycle. Megan and Casey had taught her, of course, running along beside her at breakneck speed to catch her if she fell. They had always been there to catch her, mothers well before their time, and she missed them already.

      She passed Technicolor sheep grazing in fields clumped with rushes. The sheep were splotched with dye to establish ownership and gave the landscape a surprisingly whimsical touch. Farmhouses and vacation cottages dotted the undulating hills, and “famine cottages,” nothing more than roofless, abandoned dry stone houses, were more plentiful than she’d expected. Some farmhouses were old, none thatched like Irene’s, and she gave thanks for the stroke of good fortune that had landed her in such a picturesque setting. By all rights, Tierney Cottage should have fallen to the ground years before—and would have, if Brenna and her second husband hadn’t restored it.

      She was perspiring by the time she arrived at the outskirts of Shanmullin. Her legs ached, and her behind protested the narrow plastic seat. She still felt exhilarated. Playtime was a concept to introduce to Kieran, not something she indulged in herself. She reveled in it now.

      The town of Shanmullin could have been a National Geographic cover. The main street curved in a gentle arc leading farther uphill. Buildings lined it, some white with bright trim like Tierney Cottage, more in varying shades of green, gold or blue. The signs looking over the sidewalk were half divided between “Irish,” the country’s original Gaelic language, and English. Some fair number of the signs advertised pubs, and the Guinness signs were a nostalgic reminder of home.

      On one side of the street a dog ambled in and out between parked cars, stopping long enough to sit and scratch in a sliver of sunshine; on the other side a woman stood talking to three men in Wellingtons and woolen flat caps outside one of the pubs.

      Peggy parked her bike against one of the buildings and started up the sidewalk, window shopping as she went to discover what Shanmullin had to offer. She found the church, a restaurant, even Finn’s “surgery” tucked away on a side street with an air of abandonment. An hour later she came out of the grocery store, Irene’s shopping list completed. She’d bought hairpins, knitting needles—because Irene was determined to make Kieran a sweater—and the latest issue of The Irish Times. She’d experienced good “craic,” or “crack,” as a bonus, not the illegal variety but the Irish version: lively conversation. The proprietor at the news agent had asked for her life story and given his own, his more colorful than hers. She thought she’d made a friend.

      At the end of the sidewalk she saw the same dog she’d noticed earlier. He was floppy-eared, varying shades of red-brown, and vaguely bloodhound in appearance, a change from the multitude of Border Collies that had observed her trip to town. His long body stretched from one end of the slate walkway to the other; his head was pillowed on his paws. If a dog could look forlorn, this one did.

      She approached him tentatively. She had great respect for man’s best friend, and she stopped a few feet away, debating just walking around him instead of approaching.

      “Hey, fellow.”

      He thumped his tail lethargically. He was too thin, and droopy-eyed to boot. As she stared at him, a girl in a school uniform of plaid skirt and navy sweater came out of the shop to her left and joined Peggy in the investigation. She had a cloud of white-blond hair that would undoubtedly darken someday, and delicate features distorted by a frown.

      “He’s been out here a week,” she said, her voice rising and falling like a sad Irish ballad. “His owner died.”

      Peggy shook her head. “Well, that’s a shame. Does he have a name?”

      “Banjax. Mr. McNamara said he wasn’t good for anything, but he’s good for mourning Mr. McNamara, isn’t he?”

      “I’d say so.” Peggy stared at the poor tragic beast. “Nobody’s claimed him? Family doesn’t want him?”

      “People feed him, I guess, from the pubs at night. Crisps and things. But my father says somebody will carry him out to the country before too long, and he won’t be coming back.”

      Peggy didn’t like the sound of that. “I guess there’s no organization in town to take care of homeless pets.”

      “Just people who take them in if they can.” The girl looked up at Peggy. “You’re not from Shanmullin.”

      “Ohio, in the United States.”

      “I’m Bridie O’Malley.”

      Finn’s daughter. Peggy hadn’t suspected, not only because the odds were against meeting this way, but because Bridie didn’t resemble her father in the least. She was as blond as he was dark. Peggy thought she had a good idea what Finn’s wife had looked like.

      Peggy introduced herself. “Irene Tierney tells me you’re a good friend.”

      “Oh, you’re the American who’s living at Tierney Cottage. I’ve heard about you.”

      “Your father was kind enough СКАЧАТЬ