the wall, the bouquet of lily of the valley and stack of books Bernie had placed on the nightstand the night before while Kate was taking a shower. Kate hadn’t paid much attention to the room’s decor that evening, so road-weary she fell asleep the minute her head hit the pillow. She still hadn’t unpacked her bag. What was the point? She wouldn’t be staying long. The room at Bernie’s cottage didn’t belong to her, nor she to it. She was only a tenant, their association temporary, and yet it felt, in a peculiar way, as if the room had been waiting for her.
She couldn’t remember what day it was at first. Yes, Sunday. Early Sunday afternoon, she guessed. She parted the lace curtains, tatted edges intricate as snowflakes. Her clothes flapped on the line below, the arms of her coat waving. Hello. Good-bye. Help. Bernie’s garments hung alongside: a sweater, blouse, and the sorriest excuse for lingerie she’d ever seen, high-waisted panties and an industrial-strength bra that might have doubled as a Valkyrian breastplate. Both nylon, flesh-colored, broadcasting the woman who wears these isn’t getting any sex.
Off to one side were neat rows of lettuce, carrots, and peas emerging from the earth, stick teepees ready to receive the first tendrils; clumps of parsley, rosemary, and chives flourished in a kitchen garden; bees buzzed drunkenly in the pansies. Early tulips bloomed in green-glazed planters, red petals matching the front door. In the distance, where the land dipped to a small bay, Kate glimpsed the sea, glazed pewter and teal. Was it from the precipitation? The quality of the light?
The air was full of moisture, from the sea and the ever-present promise of rain. Kate saw Bernie dart from the house in a pair of Wellingtons and pull the clothes off the line so the damp wouldn’t undo a morning’s work. Her hostess glanced up, smiling when she saw Kate, and began folding the garments into a wicker basket.
Kate managed a wave—she’d never been much of a morning person, not that it was morning any longer—then pulled on the aqua-colored chenille robe hanging from a hook on the door. She washed her face and brushed her teeth in the bathroom across the hall. Evidence of Bernie’s handwork was everywhere—in the lace doily atop the low cabinet and the violets embroidered on the towels, the stitches tiny, precise. Kate gave herself a quick once-over in the mirror, neatening her hair—the weather made it wilder than usual—then padded downstairs in her socks. She hoped Bernie didn’t notice the heels were almost worn through.
Fergus rose from the hearth and tottered toward her. “Hello, boy,” she said. He rubbed his graying muzzle against her hand before settling by the fire again. Kate studied photographs on the mantel: a young Bernie with a mass of curls and sparkling eyes; a wedding picture of the young couple touching foreheads, smiling; a portrait of Bernie’s husband, years later, striking a pose on the cliffs. Kate wondered where he was. Off on a job? Fishing with friends?
“Good morning—or should I say afternoon?” Bernie set the laundry on the counter, her cheeks pink from the breeze, matching the color of her sweater. She slipped off the boots, set them by the back door, and smoothed her skirt. “Had a nice rest, did you?”
“I’m sorry I overslept.” Kate stifled a yawn. “I had no idea how late it was.”
“It’s not as if you had an appointment to keep. We take our time around here,” Bernie said. “You know that trend in cooking—what’s it called—slow food? Our version is slow living. Mostly because we don’t have a choice in the matter. Nothing goes fast, even when we want it to.”
“I didn’t mean to impose on you—I meant to be off early today,” Kate said.
“The bus doesn’t come until next week,” Bernie told her.
“Next week?” Kate couldn’t hide her surprise.
“We don’t get much traffic here, especially on a Sunday, so the service tends to be irregular,” Bernie explained. “Do you have someone waiting for you?”
“No. It’s just that there’s so much to see—” She had a plan. An itinerary. Following it, checking places off the list, let her think there were things she could still control, the design of her life a pattern that could be set, worked. And yet ever since the bus broke down and she’d started walking, met William, and ended up here, in Glenmara, it felt as if the map by which she’d been navigating was being gently pried