The Lace Makers of Glenmara - By Heather Barbieri Page 0,43

guest room—she didn’t snoop, no, of course not, that wouldn’t have been right, but she looked for hints in the arrangement of things: the rumpled sheets at the foot of the bed (restless sleeper, something on her mind, nightmares? About what?), the markers in the novels (thank goodness she wasn’t one of those people who turned down corners; Bernie couldn’t abide that)—the girl had gone for Edna O’Brien’s latest novel, no great surprise, and the William Trevor collection. Hmm, interesting. As Bernie emptied the wastebin, a crumpled scrap of paper tumbled out, a single letter on the lined page: E.

A lover perhaps? Had it gone wrong?

The girl needed someone new, Bernie decided, not necessarily a permanent attachment, but to take her mind off whatever it was, whoever it was, that haunted her from across the sea. Not that there were many candidates in Glenmara. Most of the men were middle-aged and married or elderly and widowed, not for the likes of Kate.

Bernie stared at the ceiling. The light fixture looked like an angel from one angle, a devil from the other, her eyes playing tricks on her. Hmm. Sullivan Deane. Sullivan Deane might do. He’d suffered a loss of his own, could use the company too (though he probably found enough in the neighboring villages, he wouldn’t have met anyone like Kate). How could she get them together? She’d already had Kate deliver the week’s Gaelic Voice. She could hardly put out a special edition. Wait. There was something one of the women had said the night before about Sullivan Deane. What was it again? Yes: Sullivan Deane’s laptop computer. She’d send Kate to see about it. So much could be accomplished with a little thought. She lay in bed as the sky brightened in the east, the sun rising through a break in the clouds, light spreading into the room. She let it envelop her in the possibilities before turning back the covers and hopping out of bed, one foot into a slipper, then the other, her robe next, a magician putting on her cloak. She’d make scones. The British occupation had its good points, scones being first among them. She loved scones and clotted cream and homemade strawberry jam. That’s what she’d serve that morning. And bangers and eggs. Juice too. Orange? Americans liked orange juice; everyone knew that. She lit the stove. What first? A handful of fresh flowers for the vase on the table. The peonies were in bloom, early this year. She walked out into the dew. A squadron of swallows circled her in tight loops. Pure joy, it was, joy. A sign that anything could happen. She was sure of that now.

“I’d do it myself, but I’ve got to run these down to the printer. I’m behind this week—and I never miss a deadline. So you’ll be doing me a favor, you see, asking Sullivan about the computer.”

“I’d be happy to help,” Kate said. “As you said, the Gaelic Voice must be heard.”

“Yes!” Bernie waved a proof of the next newsletter for emphasis. The latest crime headlines ran across the top:

Man calls Garda, says neighbor’s bull is remodeling his house. Garda asks if he’s putting in a new kitchen. No, he says, the bull is taking it down.

Woman calls Garda, says neighbor won’t stop gardening in the nude. Garda asks if he’s good-looking. No, she says, he has a potbelly and skinny legs. Well, Garda says, the weather’s changing and he’ll have to put on a raincoat on the morrow. That should improve the view.

Fergus sat by Bernie, whining for a scone. Bernie shook her head. “I’m sorry. You know the vet said they’re bad for your health. You have to eat your senior dog food now.”

Fergus sighed and shambled over to his bowl, giving her a backward glance filled with reproach.

“He dreams of burgers and scones,” she told Kate. “My husband spoiled him something awful.” Her gaze settled on his picture on the mantel, a brief yearning in her eyes, before she looked away again. “Take the car if you want,” she added. “Can be tricky to start, though.”

“The bike’s fine. I like the exercise,” Kate said. “Where does Sullivan Deane live?”

“Take the west road out of town, then left at the blue farm. It’s a stone house. He spent summers there with his grandparents when he was growing up. Holidays too. Been in the family for generations. Only place of any size around here that didn’t get taken over by the English.