from her hands.
She considered her options: she could try hitching again. Or perhaps there was a farmer heading to the next village, though as Bernie said, it was Sunday, and since Glenmara seemed to be a Catholic village, it was doubtful anyone would be making the trip.
“The good news is, the road isn’t going anywhere,” Bernie added quickly. “It will be there when you need it. There’s stew on the stove if you’d like some, since it’s nearly lunchtime—I put it on before I went to mass this morning, though I can make eggs, if you prefer.”
“Please don’t go to any trouble. Stew is fine.”
“Oh, and here are your clothes. They smell of the sea, but at least they’re dry.” A pair of Bernie’s panties, tangled in the sleeve of Kate’s jacket, fell to the floor. The older woman snatched them up. “Aren’t these the most god-awful things? Not fit for the light of day. Elephant drawers, I call them.”
Kate smiled, in both sympathy and amusement. “They must be far too big for you.”
“They do bag a bit in the bum, not that there’s anyone around to see,” she said. “The nearest town doesn’t sell much in the way of fashion, especially when it comes to intimates, even if I wanted to get something fancier.”
“Don’t you? You deserve to have beautiful lingerie,” Kate said. Already, a new garment began to take shape in her mind. “Every woman does.”
“I’d never thought of that.” Bernie ducked her head. “Well, I’ll just put these away. Let me know if you need anything else.” She hurried from the room, basket in hand. “And don’t forget to help yourself to the stew.”
Kate hoped she hadn’t embarrassed her hostess. She ladled stew into a ceramic bowl. The bowl had an almost iridescent drip glaze in shades of blue that captured the colors of the sea, the shape and form reminiscent of 1930s-era Beswick pottery, but uniquely its own. She checked the maker’s mark, taking care not to spill the contents: “SD.” Local, probably. She wondered where the studio was. She wouldn’t mind taking a piece home.
She took a bite of the stew, a traditional sort, heavy on the beef, gravy, potatoes, and carrots, light on the spices, nothing fancy, comfort food in the truest sense. It reminded her of the meal her mother made on Saint Patrick’s Day, though she used more vegetables and less meat; it was one of the few recipes into which she didn’t try to sneak some tofu.
Bernie reappeared. “There’s plenty for seconds,” she said. “It was my husband’s favorite. That’s him on the mantel. He was a handsome fellow, wasn’t he? He passed last May. Had an aneurysm, they said, while walking Fergus. Nothing anyone could do.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t—” Here she’d gone saying the wrong thing again.
“It’s all right,” Bernie assured her, stirring the pot. “The stew brought it to mind, that’s all. Things have a way of doubling back on themselves. It gets better with time—both the stew and the grieving. More tea?”
After lunch, Kate put on a shapely brown fleece jacket (just because it was utilitarian didn’t mean it couldn’t have style), a pair of jeans, and hiking boots, and set out, eager to see the countryside. She brought a sketchpad in the hope inspiration would strike, as it often did when she went for a walk. The beauty of the place was overwhelming, wrapping her in a velvet cloak—such purity of color, texture, and scent. It was everywhere, in the belled petals of foxglove, the rawness of the earth, even the handful of broken window glass she scooped up from the side of the lane, sparkling like diamonds. She let the pieces fall in a glittering cascade, admiring how they caught the light. She felt the stirring of creative impulse, but didn’t act on it right away: she must coax it from its hiding place, like a fox from its den. She wouldn’t force anything; it didn’t work that way. She took her time, picking daisies for a bracelet, slipping it on her wrist as she crossed the meadows. The air smelled of grass and wildflowers.
A half hour later, she reached the cliffs, the sea raging below. Waves rushed the rocks, recoiled, hurled themselves forward again. She sat down and closed her eyes, let the sound fill her—the sensation of power was thrilling—and opened her notebook in anticipation. Nothing happened. She clutched the pen, the nib hovering in the air. The blank page stared back, daring her