the band. He learned to fiddle from his grandfather during the summers he spent in Glenmara. He’s a fine musician,” Bernie said, adding, “A fine man too. They’re getting harder to find these days.”
“Yes, they are,” Kate agreed.
“John was one of them,” Bernie said, her voice softer. “I remember the day I saw him for the first time, across a field not far from here. The cowslips were in bloom. He’d moved to the area to take a teaching position at the school in Kinnabegs. He was out walking that evening—he loved to walk.
“I’d been seeing a young man I’d met at one of the dances near Tarryton,” she continued. “Thought I was serious about him, but then I saw John and everything stopped. I wouldn’t call it love at first sight. No, more like a sense of recognition that passed between us, as if we’d been looking for each other, but we didn’t know it until that moment.”
“The first time I saw Sullivan, I was clinging to a rock wall.” Kate laughed.
“You saw him that day you went out walking?” Bernie’s eyes brightened with interest.
“I did—and I certainly caught my breath—whether from the sight of him or the fear of falling, it’s hard to say.”
“You never said anything—”
Kate shrugged. “The lace meeting was in progress when I came in. I got so caught up learning the stitches and talking with everyone that I must have forgotten to mention it. And besides, I thought I’d never see him again.”
“And yet you did.”
“Yes, I did.” She shook her head.
“What is it?”
“I was just thinking how funny life is. Seems like the more you want something, the more it eludes you. Then, when you least expect it, there it is.”
“One of life’s lessons, isn’t it? At least, I’ve found it to be true,” Bernie replied, adding, “Sounds as if you like our Sullivan Deane.”
She gave Bernie a conspiratorial little smile. “I like him very much indeed.”
Later, after Kate went upstairs, Bernie brushed her hair, gazing out the bedroom window, the moon’s eyes covered with a strip of muslin cloud. Was it playing blind man’s bluff or a part in a masquerade? She smiled to herself. She’d always had an active imagination. Things looked different at night. The eye could play tricks, turning hawthorn trees into giants, currant bushes into trolls, thistles into faeries. Oh, the frights she’d given herself as a child.
She’d draped the lace lingerie over the back of the chair, threads gleaming in the half-light. Such a lovely rose pattern it was. Somehow, Kate had known it was the perfect one for her. The girl certainly had insight. Bernie was surprised she hadn’t been more successful with fashion design in the States, but destiny had a number of tricks up her sleeve, didn’t she, both joyful and tragic? Perhaps Kate’s coming to Glenmara was such a gift. It was as if she belonged there. Bernie hoped she felt that way too.
She fingered the lace. Sumptuous blooms, they were, the petals full, beckoning, in shades of pink and red, a tracery of green, here and there, for the leaves. The flowers nearly covered the entire set, except for the band and straps and elastic. Perhaps she’d make a nightgown with the same pattern too, worked along the yoke, smocking at the waist. She’d fill the drawer with beautiful things by the time she was done.
If only John were there to see.
A bank of mist moved in from the sea, spilling into the valley, one tendril touching the edge of the garden. She felt the coolness of it but didn’t close the window. She kept it open, a small slip of an opening, near the sill. She wanted to feel the air on her cheek, the nearness of him, her husband, who had fallen on that patch of earth, just there, past the back gate. Fergus had run back to the house to get her that evening, and she’d known right away something was wrong, though not how bad it would be: John, prone on the ground, his cap and glasses askew, the bouquet of wildflowers—lupine, daisies, a spray of ferns—he’d intended to give her scattered on the grass. She’d said his name, over and over, as if he was only asleep, and she had only to wake him. John, John. Put her head to his chest, his lips, listening for his heart, his breath, but he was still. She’d never known he could be that still.
Later that night, Bernie lay in