to reassure him. It occurs to me that Anne might have created the stories to comfort Eoin in the event that she couldn’t.
“You won’t go too, will you, Doc?” Eoin whispered, taking my hand. “You won’t disappear into the water and leave me behind?”
I promised him I wouldn’t.
“Maybe we can both go,” he mused, looking up into my face, trying to ease my pain. “Maybe we can get in that boat in the barn and go find her.”
I laughed then, grateful I’d had the foresight to put the boat where he couldn’t reach it. But my laughter didn’t ease the ache in my chest.
“No, Eoin. We can’t,” I said gently, and he didn’t argue.
Even if I knew how, even if we could both follow her across the lough into another time, we could not go. Eoin must grow up in this day, in this age, and have a son who grows up in the next for Anne to exist at all. Some sequences must unfold in their natural order. Of that much, I am sure. Anne will need her grandfather even more than Eoin needs a mother. He has me. Anne has no one. So Eoin will have to wait, and I have promised to wait with him, even if it means I will never see her again.
T. S.
25
LOVE’S LONELINESS
The mountain throws a shadow,
Thin is the moon’s horn;
What did we remember
Under the ragged thorn?
Dread has followed longing,
And our hearts are torn.
—W. B. Yeats
Deirdre had a large canvas bag over her shoulder, and she clung to the strap nervously, clearly standing on my doorstep against her will. Maeve looked perfectly comfortable as she gazed at me through her thick glasses, unblinking.
“Kevin says you always call him Robbie,” she said without preamble.
Deirdre cleared her throat and stuck out her hand. “Hello, Anne. I’m Deirdre Fallon from the library, remember? And you’ve met Maeve. We thought we’d welcome you to Dromahair officially since you’ve decided to stay. I didn’t realize you were Anne Gallagher, the author! I’ve made sure we have all your books in stock. There’s a waiting list for your titles. Everyone in town is so excited you’re living here in our little village.” Each sentence was punctuated with enthusiasm, but I sensed she was more nervous than anything.
I clasped her hand briefly and ushered them both inside. “Come in, please.”
“I’ve always loved the manor,” Deirdre gushed, her eyes on the wide staircase and the huge chandelier that hovered over our heads. “Every Christmas Eve, the caretakers open the house to the town. There’s dancing and stories, and Father Christmas always comes for the children. I got my first kiss here, under the mistletoe.”
“I’d like tea in the library,” Maeve demanded, not waiting for an invitation and veering through the foyer toward the large French doors that separated the library from the entrance hall.
“M-Maeve,” Deirdre stuttered, shocked at the old woman’s impudence.
“I don’t have time for niceties, Deirdre,” Maeve snapped back. “I could die at any moment. And I don’t want to die before I get to the good stuff.”
“It’s all right, Deirdre,” I murmured. “Maeve knows her way around Garvagh Glebe. If she wants tea in the library, then she shall have tea in the library. Please make yourself comfortable, and I’ll get the tea.”
I already had a kettle on; I drank peppermint tea all day long to soothe the nausea that was now my constant companion. The doctor in Sligo said it should ease in the second trimester, but I was almost twenty weeks, and it hadn’t ebbed at all. I’d wondered if it wasn’t nerves more than anything.
Jemma had shown me where the tea service was—a service I’d been convinced I would never use—and I arranged a tray with more enthusiasm than I’d felt in two months. When I joined Deirdre and Maeve in the library, I expected them to be seated in the small grouping of chairs surrounding a low coffee table. They were standing beneath the portrait instead, their heads tipped back, quietly arguing.
I set the tray down on the table and cleared my throat.
“Tea?” I said.
They both turned to look at me, Deirdre sheepish, Maeve triumphant.
“What did I tell you, Deirdre?” Maeve said, satisfaction ringing in her voice.
Deirdre looked at me and looked back at the portrait. Then she looked at me again. Her eyes widened. “It’s uncanny . . . I’ll give you that, Maeve O’Toole.”
“Tea?” I repeated. I sat down and spread a napkin over my lap, waiting for the women to join