The Lace Makers of Glenmara - By Heather Barbieri Page 0,80

face in his neck and cried with sorrow or joy, that tiny red-haired girl, all arms and legs and temper. Even when things were bad with the cancer, she hadn’t broken down, not in front of him, being strong for everyone.

Niall patted Denny’s shoulder, letting Oona take his place. He would wait for his friend at the pub.

Up at the vicarage, a curl of smoke rose from the chimney as the priest tried, unsuccessfully, to burn every copy of the Gaelic Voice he could get his hands on.

Chapter 27

A Turn in the Road

The house felt right now that Finn had returned, her Finn, home at last—his mac hanging on the peg by the door, his boots below, his fisherman’s cap on the shelf above. The salmon pegged on the line to dry. (Colleen had given him his own pegs so that he wouldn’t take the laundry pins—how many times did she have to tell him she didn’t like her clothes smelling of fish?) The nets laid out to be dried and mended in the days to come. The boat in its slip on the dock.

Everything where it should be. Him too.

He insisted on cooking dinner that night, picked a bouquet of primula and columbine for the table.

“What are you making?” she asked, leaning over the pot.

“Cioppino,” he said, slipping a hand around her waist.

“Cioppino? What do you know about cooking? Oh, I see. You traveled all the way to the Meditteranean on your last trip, did you? No wonder you were gone so long.”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” He smiled, holding up a spoonful of broth for her to taste, cupping a hand underneath.

She closed her eyes and savored it. “Delicious.”

“Surprised?”

“A little.”

“I’ll have to see what else I can do to keep you guessing and spice things up.” He shook some pepper into the pot with a flourish.

“Look at you. Such culinary prowess.”

“Culinary and otherwise.” He winked at her.

“I’d better watch out,” she said. “Soon you’ll be hosting your own cooking show.”

“Captain Finn’s Table.” He saluted her. “I’m serving a special dish for you tonight.”

“You’re a terrible tease.”

“Am I making you hungry?”

“Yes.” She kissed him before putting on her coat.

“Love them and leave them, eh?”

“I’m only going for my evening walk. I’ll be back soon enough.”

“Mind you are. The soup—and I—won’t wait.”

She walked the cliff road as she did almost every evening, breathing in the salt of the sea, feeling its mist on her face. It’s come out well, hasn’t it? she thought. The lace growing more lovely each day—who knew what they’d make next? Denny giving Father Byrne what-for in the Gaelic Voice. (The priest would no doubt have a fiery reply that weekend at mass.) Finn home safe. The two of them would have another special evening together when she got home. She was wearing the lace. She’d learned that anything could happen with the lace.

Seabirds quarreled over bits of cockles and clams, abandoned by diggers that afternoon, the tide higher now, the ocean keeping its secrets once more. Seals rode the silvered waves, heads bobbing, regarding her with limpid eyes. It wasn’t hard to imagine Cuculain’s horses galloping in the surf, or the merrows swimming in the shallows, the men bestial, rarely seen, the women achingly beautiful, hair festooned with shells. The birds joined in, swirling now, in a great spiral; they made it look easy, the gift of flight. If she spread her arms, she might soar with them toward the far horizon. She used to dream of doing so when she was a girl, when she wanted to get away, be part of something greater than herself.

Not now. Her needs and wishes were simple. She was a fifty-five-year-old woman who wanted nothing more than to take an evening stroll and go home to her husband.

The way twisted and turned as it climbed to the high ridge, no guardrails, no mileposts, just the road and the drop to the beach below. She wouldn’t go the entire length as she did some evenings when Finn was away. He was home now. He was waiting for her, making stew with mussels and clams from the docks, from the fish he’d caught in the sea, the sea that had returned him to her. In her mind’s eye, she saw him knocking about the kitchen, bumping his head against the copper pots hanging from the ceiling. She laughed at the thought, would have teased him if she were there—her tall, ungainly husband, in some ways still awkward as the teenager