The Parting Glass (11 page)

“Exactly. Lena married a Donaghue and changed her son’s name. That was many years before Liam arrived in Cleveland, and apparently he never talked to the few people who might have remembered, including Lena herself, who was an old woman by then. Irene just happened to find out about us on the Internet. The
Cleveland Plain Dealer
did an article about the history of the saloon my family owns, and Terence Tierney’s name was mentioned because Lena was the founder and he was her first husband.”

“Odd that Irene would still be looking for relatives, don’t you think?”

She combed her hair back with her fingers, a lovely, feminine gesture he hadn’t been privy to in a long time. “Not really. She never married, and she has no children. We all want to feel connected, don’t we? She’s not well. I think the idea of wanting some part of you going on into the years is natural.”

He froze, fingers gripping the steering wheel. At one time he’d understood that need himself.

Peggy looked over her shoulder at her sleeping son. “Kieran’s my bid for immortality, I guess. Do you have children, Finn?”

He could not bring himself to answer casually, and that angered him. The question was simple enough. The answer was impossible.

“You’ll meet my daughter Bridie,” he said at last. “She visits Irene when she can.” He had expected more questions, but she was surprisingly 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

T
he 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 opened the door into the living room.

The living room was the loveliest in the house, with plastered white walls, stone floors and high ceilings. A fireplace for burning blocks of turf snuggled into one wall; mismatched windows with spectacular views of rock-strewn fields and sheep snuggled into two of the others.

“Good morning,” she called to Nora. “What a beautiful day.”

“It is that,” Nora said. “And herself’s having a bit of a lie-in this morning.”

Peggy came to attention. Irene was usually bathed, dressed and waiting for Nora before she arrived. “She’s not feeling worse, is she?”

“No worse than usual, if that’s what you mean. Only tired. Hip’s bothering her a bit, and she didn’t sleep as well as she might have.”

Peggy had made sure Irene took all her medicine before retiring, so she knew that couldn’t be the problem. Irene had gladly agreed to let her take control of all health matters, and Peggy had drawn a chart to make sure every pill was taken on time.

“She may need more anti-inflammatories,” Peggy said. “I’ll talk to Dr. O’Malley.”

“She takes a barrel of pills as it is.” Nora was somewhere in her fifties, silver-haired and thin as the rushes in Irene’s meadows. She was widowed—claiming that widowhood was an improvement over what had come before—but she had three adored sons who lived in the county and six grandchildren, so she never lacked for family.

“She takes quite a few,” Peggy agreed, “but not too many. Dr. O’Malley’s a careful man.”

“He was the best doctor in Mayo, and that’s a fact. My family went to him, from granny on down. And we were all better for it.”

Peggy tilted her head in question. “Was?”

“Surely you know he doesn’t practice anymore?”

Peggy had a forlorn vision of a medical license suspended and wondered if Irene was in such good hands after all. “I didn’t know. Why in the world?”

“I’d tell you if I had time for a cup of tea and a chat, but there’s none this morning. He’s on his way, and I promised Irene I’d bring her a tray in bed.”

“Of course. I’m sorry. I’ll ask Irene….” She looked up from fastening a snap on Kieran’s shirt. “Is it okay to ask her?”

“Oh, she’ll be happy to tell you, I’m sure.”

“I’ll make Kieran’s breakfast.”

“All done, and yours as well.”

Peggy thanked her, and Nora gave her a warm smile. “You’re not what I expected, you know.”

“I’m not?”

“We only see the telly. What do we know?”

Peggy hated to think her countrymen were represented worldwide by “Survivor” and “The Simpsons.” “I’m afraid if you were expecting glamour or excitement, you picked the wrong girl.”

“I hoped for good manners and a warm heart and got them both.”

Peggy was touched. “You and Irene are wonderful. I couldn’t be luckier.”

“Enough of this, I’ve got work to do.” Nora headed for the kitchen.

Peggy joined her there as soon as she could drag Kieran away from a window overlooking the road. The window was low enough that he could see over the ledge, and the view of endless stone walls lined with wind-tortured evergreens, blackthorn and fuschia always seemed to fascinate him. She’d found him there many times in the past week and wondered exactly what he saw.

“There’s porridge and bacon, and I made coffee the way you like it,” Nora said, passing back and forth between the stove and the tiny refrigerator.

“I love the way you take care of me, but I worry we’re too much work.”

“Not at all. I’d have cooked the same, only less.”

Peggy installed Kieran at the table. Before their arrival Irene had borrowed baby furniture from families in the parish, never having needed any herself. The high chair nestled perfectly against an old pine table, scrubbed in its time by generations of Tierney women.

She fixed oatmeal for her son with honey and lots of fresh, sweet milk straight from a neighbor’s dairy. She was particularly careful about Kieran’s diet, foregoing all sweets and processed foods, since some people felt they were a particular problem for autistic children. She cut him a thick slice of the brown soda bread Nora had brought with her that morning from the village grocery, and thought of Megan and the bread she made for lunches at the Whiskey Island Saloon, lunches her sister wouldn’t be serving again until the renovation was completed.

Nora dried her hands on a tea towel. “I hear the doctor’s car. I’ll just go and let him in.”

Peggy finished fixing breakfast for Kieran, who was beginning to whine and pound the table. “I’m almost done, kiddo,” she said. “Good food for a good boy.” She set the plate with bread in front of him, the same plastic plate he had used at home. He ate the bread with his fingers and ignored the spoon she set beside the bowl of oatmeal.

Peggy made a note to herself to introduce holding the spoon during Kieran’s “school time” that morning. In the meantime, she spooned oatmeal into his mouth whenever he would let her.

A piece of bread hit the floor, and she stooped to pick it up and carry it to the trash container under the sink. When she straightened, Finn was standing in the doorway.