right away. You’ve the look of him.”
“You know him.” Cradling the harp, she stood.
“That I did. I made him a fine box once upon a time.”
“A box?”
Now he grinned. “An Irish accordion—squeeze box, you see. Custom work, as he had very specific wants in it. And the man could play like a fleet of angels or demons. Does he still?”
“I don’t know, but I imagine he does. He and my mother . . .”
“Ah well, I’m sorry to hear it. I heard he went to America.”
“Yes, but he came back here. I think here in Galway.”
“I haven’t seen him for . . . Oh, I can’t count the years.”
“He grew up on a farm in Galway. Would you know where?”
Sympathy covered his face. “I don’t, and I’m sorry for that. I can ask around and about if that might help.”
“It would, very much. I’ll give you my number in case. I’m staying nearby for the summer.”
When she walked out, carrying the harp in its case, she thought maybe, just maybe, he’d find someone who knew someone who knew.
She wanted to go back to the cottage, but pushed herself into the market for those supplies. Then made herself put everything away before she changed into hiking boots.
No writing, she thought, not when her mind was so crowded. A long walk into the peace of the woods might quiet it.
But when she stepped out, Seamus stood on the little patio with a big painted pot at his feet and a flood of flowers waiting to be planted.
“And how are you today, miss?”
“Glad to see you. What a beautiful pot. Are you going to plant flowers in it?”
“Well now, I thought you might like to do that yourself.”
“Oh, I’d love to, but I wouldn’t know where to begin.”
He offered her gloves and a spade. “You start with earth and good intentions.”
He showed her how to fill the bottom of the pot with broken crockery—for drainage—and how to mix soil and peat and rich compost in the barrow.
But he wouldn’t pick the flowers for her.
“What if I choose the wrong ones?”
“There’s no wrong to it. All of these are happy in this clime. And what’s left, well, we’ll find another spot for. There’s always a spot waiting to be filled.”
He gave her the names of the ones she chose—the Dragon Wing begonias, the lantana and lobelia, bells of Ireland, heliotrope and impatiens and sweet alyssum.
“It’s a good eye you have, for the color and the heights, the textures.”
As once her father’s had over harp strings, Seamus’s gloved hands covered hers as she placed a plant. “That’s the way of it, there you are now. And we wish it good fortune, and a long, happy life in its new home.”
“Can I add this? I love the color—such a pretty green.”
“Creeping Jenny, she is, and you’ll want her at the edge so she can flow right over and show off her skirts.”
“It’s like a rainbow. A really bold one.”
“It is indeed, it is just that. You did fine and well. Now we’ll water her up, though you’ll have some rain tonight. You’ll want to keep the soil moist, you see, but not wet. What you do? You stick your finger into the soil to test it.”
When they’d finished the pot, he helped her choose spots for the leftovers. She dug in the dirt with a kind of giddy glee.
“I’m going to find a house and plant a garden one day. Like this one, where it all seems unplanned and beautiful.”
“You’ll do well with it.” His voice, so soothing, sounded like a whisper in her heart. “It’s all connected, you see, young Breen. The earth, the air, the water that falls from the sky, the sun that brings the light and warmth. And all that grows—the plants, the animals, the people. The bees that buzz, the birds that fly, all bound together.
“You’ll talk to them now, to the flowers, sing them a tune now and again. They’ll reward you for it.”
She sat back on her heels, smiling at her grubby garden gloves. “I was feeling a little sad when I got home. Now I’m not.”
“Gardens bring the joy.”
“This one sure did.” She, so often uncomfortable around strangers, felt as if she’d known him all her life.
Connections, she thought. All bound together.
“Seamus, have you always lived in the area?”
“I haven’t, no. I’m here now, of course, but Galway’s not my home.”
Then he wouldn’t know her father, she thought, so no point in asking.
“Now I’ll be cleaning up this