a dash, a soupçon, confirmation that he’d done the right thing. He plucked a spent dandelion from the base of the bench, blew, watched the seeds scatter, remembering how he’d played the game with Oona when she was a little girl. Close your eyes and make a wish. Sending hundreds of seeds into the air. She never tired of it. His grandchildren, great-grandchildren, either.
He’d lived all these years in this village, raising a family, outliving his wife and most of his friends. Here he was, on this bench. These things were real, they mattered. The heart of Glenmara mattered. His heart. Their heart.
He glanced at his watch again. What was taking Niall so long?
He didn’t like having so much time to reflect. It wasn’t his nature, and yet something had compelled him to write that column, to speak for everyone—
Yes, there he was: Niall at last, small at first, in the distance, a dot of a man growing larger, until Denny could hear the sound of his brogues on the lane, of his huffing breath. He had the paper tucked under his arm, and he was frowning, either from the seriousness of the situation or the physical exertion, Denny couldn’t tell just yet.
“No bicycle this morning?” Denny asked.
“Had a flat. No patches left,” Niall said, still breathless. “My daughter’s buying replacements today, but I couldn’t wait—not with this on the doorstep.” He waved the paper at him.
“They delivered it early today,” Denny said. “A special edition.”
“Special indeed.” His face, uncharacteristically, gave nothing away.
Denny couldn’t take it any longer. “Well, for pity’s sake, man, aren’t you going to tell me what you think?”
Niall fixed him with a cold stare. “What I think—about your mouthing off to the priest in front of everyone, taking on the local representative of one of our major institutions? A few years ago, I might have said you were either very foolish or very brave.”
“And now?”
“Fecking brilliant,” he crowed, sitting down beside him.
Denny punched him in the arm. “You fecking play-actor.”
“Good, wasn’t I?” Niall gave him a gap-toothed grin. “Maybe I should try out for one of the theatrical productions in Kinnabegs, eh?”
“Then you’d really be insufferable.”
“Maybe I’ll get some dramatic practice in now.” He began to read Denny’s column aloud:
This might surprise you, but you won’t find any debates about the Manchester United, Chelsea, or Arsenal in today’s column. I never thought I’d say this, die-hard fan that I am, but there are more important matters that deserve your attention than the football standings.
A question has been raised about the limits of our tolerance, the state of our very souls.
Strong stuff, eh?
Are we talking about global warming, world hunger, the gas crisis (no, Niall, we’re not referring about the state of your intestinal tract), or the wars raging beyond our borders?
Heavens, no. We’re talking about The Great Knicker War.
It seems our esteemed local ecclesiastical authority has taken it upon himself to launch the assault (uniforms and ammo available at the sacristy door after this weekend’s mass, no doubt).
Yes, it sounds like a comedy routine straight out of Monty Python, but it’s not. It’s dead serious.
But for entirely different reasons than Father Byrne supposes.
The question is: Will you follow the lead of an out-of-touch firebrand and take up the cudgel? Or will you take up the right cause: support our community, the lace makers, women we’ve known all our lives, our daughters and friends, who are only trying to better their craft and themselves—and us too?
I think you know the answer. I know I do.
“Such eloquence,” Niall chuckled. “Perhaps you should run for office.”
“Might have to run for my life, more like it,” Denny joked, though there was a bit of truth to the concern.
Just then, they heard the sound of Oona’s car laboring up the lane.
“I’d know the sound of that engine anywhere,” Denny said. “The sound of judgment.”
“Has she seen it yet?”
The car screeched to a halt. Oona got out and slammed the door. (It wouldn’t shut otherwise, and yet she might have done it with more force than necessary that morning.) She marched toward them, a stern expression on her face.
“She must have by now,” Denny said. “I’ll probably be getting an earful.” He sat up straighter, ready to face her down. He’d only said what needed to be said.
She stood before him, not speaking. It was only then that he saw she was fighting back tears. It had been years, years and years, since she’d hurled herself into his arms and buried her