The Parting Glass. Emilie Richards
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perceptive and didn’t ask them.
Just in case, he changed the subject. “We’re nearing the village. Sneeze and we’ll have passed it before you open your eyes again.”
“It’s all so beautiful.” Peggy’s gaze was riveted outside the window.
“Yes, you Americans always seem to think so.”
“And you don’t?”
“There’s been hardship here, the likes of which you probably can’t imagine. It’s only now coming back to life. Not always with the old families. With new people and holiday cottages, and people working from their homes. You see leprechauns and fairy hills, and I see people who work too hard and earn too little.”
“Yet you stay? There must be a draw.”
They passed through the main street of the village, lined with colorfully painted buildings nestled shoulder to shoulder. Mountains hung like stage props behind them, and the ocean sparkled in the distance. A brook ran through the center of a tiny town square. As villages went, it was picturesque and tidy. He imagined she was enthralled.
They were out in the country again before he answered. “I stay because I stay,” he said.
The last kilometers were silent. He pulled into the gravel lane lined with a spotty hedgerow that ran to Irene’s cottage. He risked one glance at Peggy Donaghue. She was leaning forward, and even though her son stirred behind her, she didn’t turn. “Oh, look at this. This is where my sisters and I came from, Finn. And it’s so glorious. How could Terence Tierney ever have left?”
“I’d suppose he was starving.” He pulled up near the house and turned off the motor. “Irene will be out to greet you, count on it.”
Peggy opened her door and took a step toward the thatch-roofed cottage. He was almost sorry it was so charming, with its whitewashed stones and paned windows. Finn watched as Irene opened the traditional half door, a door she’d painted brilliant blue and let no one dissuade her. He stayed in the car as the two women eyed each other. Then he shook his head as Peggy covered the distance between them at a sprint and fell into Irene’s withered arms.
chapter 7
The Tierney Cottage had been remodeled in Irene’s lifetime. Her mother, Brenna, had remarried several years after their return to Ireland, and Irene’s stepfather had been a man of some wealth. He had purchased the land that the Tierneys had worked for centuries as tenant farmers, and more beyond it. Together he and Brenna added bedrooms and a kitchen with an inviting fireplace. And when the cottage became Irene’s after their death, she added electricity, gas heat, fresh plaster and imagination.
Peggy lay in bed a week after her arrival and stared up at the beamed ceiling in the room she shared with Kieran. Not a cobweb hung there; not an inch of the ceiling was stained or peeling. The cottage was pristine. Irene might have refused a live-in companion until Peggy’s arrival, but she hadn’t refused household help. The day she’d realized she could no longer keep the house spotless, she hired a neighbor to come and clean each morning and lay the turf fire. In good weather Nora Parker bicycled over bumpy roads, cheerful and ready, after the exercise, to put the place to rights. She made breakfast, too, and even though it was only just seven, Peggy could already hear her bustling around the tiny kitchen.
Nora’s existence was a welcome surprise. Peggy had expected to clean and cook, but Irene had explained that she could never sack dear Nora or worry her by letting Peggy take on any of her jobs. Nora brought news from the village, fresh groceries and a blithe presence that disguised the analytical soul of a military commander. No one except Nora had the same stiff standards as the mistress of the house, and the two women gleefully plotted each morning to rid Tierney Cottage of every hint of dust.
The evening had been almost warm, and Peggy had slept with the windows open. This morning a cool breeze stirred the lace curtains, but sun beamed outside the windows. The house smelled pleasantly of centuries of peat fires, an organic, earthy fragrance imbedded deeply in wood and stone. The breeze smelled of the ocean, a quarter of a mile in the distance.
Peggy wondered, as she did every morning, what her ancestors had thought upon rising each day. Had they been so worn with hunger and care that they cursed the rocky windswept promontory on which some more romantic forefather had built their home and grazed their sheep? Had they cursed the invader who had taxed them heavily and sent their food to market when they needed it to feed their children? Had they stopped, for even a moment, and felt a surge of gratitude for the beauty of their surroundings?
Finn had said she would see leprechauns and fairy hills, but the good doctor was wrong. Peggy saw reality. That didn’t make her love it any less.
Kieran stirred, then came fully awake. He laughed, a sound that always thrilled her to the marrow. She didn’t know at what, and she didn’t care. His laughter, as rare as it was, still meant Kieran might someday find real humor in his life. A laughing child was not afraid or confused or oblivious to his surroundings.
“Kieran,” she called softly. “Kieran…”
She sat up and looked over at his crib. Kieran lay on his side, looking at her. “Kieran,” she said with a big smile. “How’s my little guy?”
He smiled and laughed again. Her smile widened. Then she saw that his gaze was fixed on the wall just behind her. She turned and saw sunlight reflected through the east window. It glistened and moved as the lace curtain blew.
“You like that, don’t you?” she said, only a bit disappointed. “It’s like liquid gold, isn’t it?” She held up her hand, index and middle fingers like bunny ears. “Hip hop goes the bunny rabbit.” Her little shadow bunny hopped across the wall.
Kieran screeched in excitement, and Peggy felt a surge of the same. She made the bunny hop backward. Forward, backward, a quick dip out of sight and then back up. An ear quirked, then straightened. “Here comes Peter Cottontail,” she sang off key. “Hopping down the bunny trail.” She couldn’t think of the rest of the words. She hummed instead and made her bunny hop in rhythm.
Kieran stood and shook the bars of his crib. “Hi. Hi.”
“Bunny,” Peggy said. “Bun-ny.”
“Hi, hi!”
She was so glad to see him happy that nothing else mattered. This was a little thing for most mothers, but with Kieran, unbridled happiness was rare enough to be treasured. She would never take any child’s joy for granted again.
She rose when she tired of the bunny hopping and went to the crib. He looked up at her, then over at the wall, his bottom lip quivering.
“Yes, Mommy made the bunny hop,” she said. “Kieran can make him hop, too.” She lifted him from the crib and took him to her bed, propping herself on the pillows as she had before. Then she took his resistant little hand and held it up in the beam of sunlight.
“See, Kieran can make shadows, too.”
He had stiffened the moment she touched him. He was still stiff, but interested. She could see his little eyes narrow in concentration.
“Kieran can make shadows, too.” She took his arm by the elbow and gently moved it back and forth, back and forth. His fist was balled, as if he was about to strike out. He watched the shadow change and cocked his head to examine it better.
“Kieran can make shadows.” She pointed to the shadow of his fist. “Shadow.” Then she moved his arm again. “Back and forth, back and forth.”
She watched his expression. He forgot to resist, to tense, to be afraid. He was caught up in the movement. She guided his hand, but he did the work.
He tired at last, scrambling to get down, but she held on to him. “Sorry, partner, but let’s do a quick change before you go scurrying off.” He protested, but she was firm. In a few minutes his diaper was changed and clean overalls had replaced his pajamas. Then Peggy slipped into jeans and a fleece sweatshirt before she