to make the first move. She pressed the point of the pen to paper, let it flower into a blot, ink saturating the fibers. She filled the page with a doodle universe, splotted with tears, turned the page, and tried again. None of it was right.
Don’t think. Play.
Could she remember how?
After more false starts, a line danced across the page, then another, twisting, turning, tangoing. She laughed, surprised at what came forth: new-and-improved versions of Bernie’s underwear. She’d never attempted to design lingerie before, having focused her efforts on what she’d hoped would develop into lines of couture. She loved Audrey Hepburn, Gigi Young, Suzy Perette, Jerry Gilden, but her timing was off; the hottest looks were 1970s-inspired, with banded hips and thighs, blouson tops, and undefined waists. “People aren’t buying these styles now,” Jules had said while reviewing her sketches over lunch at the Two Bells Tavern last summer. (He’d taken her to the Palm Court at the Four Seasons Hotel when he’d first signed her.) He was impeccably dressed, as always, in a handmade suit by Gian DeCaro. He kept glancing at his watch. He had appointments to keep, appointments with people whose designs were selling, who were on the rise. She tried to smile, radiate positive energy, take his advice, but inside, she felt as if she were drowning. She noticed, later, that she hadn’t turned down the collar of her jacket, that her vintage scarf had a stain.
“You have to decide who you want to be,” he said. “What you want to be known for. What your signature is. Hot concepts sell.”
He’d probably shake his head in disappointment if he could see her perched on the precipice of those remote Irish cliffs, embellishing bra straps and panties. “I’m giving all my clients a reality check, Kate,” he’d said. “I have to be honest with you—” No, she wouldn’t think about him now. She wouldn’t let doubt spoil her fun. To hell with viable projects and ex-boyfriends, this was real: the ink on her fingers, the callus on her finger, the weight of the pen in her hands, the rhythm of dashes, dots, and lines.
The sea crashed and sighed against the rocks. The wind curled the pages. Her lips tasted of salt. The sun, while not exactly warm, shone in a clear blue sky, the mist having moved off to the north, a momentary gift after the clouds and rain. Minutes, hours, passed as she filled the pages. She lost track of time, not moving until the sun slid toward the horizon and she realized she should return to the cottage, or Bernie would get worried and send out a search party. The thought of a chorus of Irish voices hallooing her name amused her.
She stuffed the supplies in her bag, shifting the detritus of old cough drops, Kleenex, a dry-cleaning receipt for Ethan’s work shirts—which she wadded up and threw off the cliff, the wind bearing it aloft, as if it was something worth keeping, before letting it fall into the spray below (Get your own fricking light-starched shirts, Ethan!); a leaky pen, soft plum lip gloss, cover-up, a Chinese fortune (“You will travel far”—well, it had that right) from the dinner she’d had with friends before she’d left town. “I’ll be fine, really, I’ll be fine,” she’d protested, an edge to her voice that warned them not to probe too deeply, to stop exchanging glances of concern and pity when they thought she wasn’t looking.
“This is far enough,” she said, nearly convincing herself. It ought to have been, and yet grief was a stowaway, coming along for the ride, undetected by airport security. She had to keep the bag zipped, or it might escape and spoil everything.
With a start, she realized she didn’t know the way to Glenmara. She’d never been good with directions. Think. She retraced her steps, ending up on a lesser path that descended rather precipitously to the valley. No, that wasn’t right. She considered going back and trying again, but she couldn’t spare the time, the sun an orb of liquid glass, pouring itself over the end of the world. Oh, well, she didn’t mind an adventure. She’d take this new route. The trails probably connected at some point. There were only so many ways she could go.
The path descended into a steeper section, which, if she could negotiate it, would save half a mile of backtracking. She reached out a hand, a foot, one hold to the next. Careful. She