LITMIR.BIZ

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he’s kept his office in town, but he claims that’s only because there’s not much commerce in real estate here and no one to sell it to. No, he sees only me, and only because I refuse to see anyone else. I told Finn I’d die in my bed rather than see Dr. Joseph Beck and nearly proved it. He treats me because I was his granny’s best friend, and he doesn’t want to answer to her in the next world. Eveleen could pinch the back of a neck just so.” Irene demonstrated in the air. “It’s nothing to look forward to.”

      Peggy was still caught up in Finn’s tragedy. “That explains so much about him. He’s so…” She couldn’t think of a kind word.

      “Difficult,” Irene supplied. “Yes, he is that, our Finn. He wasn’t always. He’s never been easy, but in the old days he was a pleasure to know. The pleasure has gone out of it now. Lucky for him the people of Shanmullin remember the old Finn and pray he’ll be back. No one understands pain better than the Irish, although there are many others who are our rivals in that curse.”

      “The toys must have belonged to his sons.”

      “I suspect so. And it won’t be getting rid of them that will be the problem. No, the problem will come when he has to touch them, put them in new boxes to bring to us, remember…”

      “Does having Bridie help, do you think? He must be so grateful she was spared.”

      “A difficult man, and a difficult father these days, I’m afraid. He was one of the best until the drownings. But he’s kept his pain locked inside and never shared it with her. She’s a sweet little thing, one of my favorite people in the wide world. You’ll meet her soon, I expect. She visits often.”

      “How old is she?”

      Irene did the math. “Eleven. And if she doesn’t find her father again soon, she’ll be looking for him in other men soon enough, mark my words.” Irene patted Peggy’s hand. “Nora’s planning to stay until four. It’s windows today, and scrubbing the floors. Why don’t you take a ride into the village? Do you some good. If Kieran wakes up, we’ll be sure he’s happy.”

      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

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