on her desk that she pinged constantly and ferociously. The sound had put my teeth on edge ever since. I didn’t ring it again, though several minutes passed without a response.
“Mr. Donnelly?” I called. “Hello?”
The door opened behind me, and I turned expectantly. A man with watery eyes and a red nose ambled in with tall waders on his feet, a baker boy cap on his head, and suspenders keeping his pants from falling down. I startled him, and he jerked, wiping at his mouth.
“I’m sorry, miss. I didn’t know you were waitin’ on me. I saw your car, but I assumed it was someone takin’ a stroll or throwin’ a line.”
I stuck out my hand, and he took it awkwardly. “I’m Anne Gallagher. I was wondering if I could rent a boat for an hour.”
“Anne Gallagher?” he asked, his brow furrowed, his voice disbelieving.
“Yes?” I said, drawing out the word. “Is there something wrong?”
He shrugged and shook his head. “Nah. It’s nothin’,” he grunted. “I can take you out if you want. There’re clouds rollin’ in, and I don’t like people goin’ out alone.”
I didn’t want to tell him I was throwing ashes into his lake, and I really didn’t want him with me when I said goodbye to Eoin. “I won’t go far. You’ll be able to see me the whole time. I’ll take a paddleboat or one of those small rowboats I saw on the dock. I’ll be fine.”
He stewed, eyeing me and peering out the window to the overcast afternoon and the boats bobbing, empty, at his dock.
“I just need a half hour, Mr. Donnelly. I’ll pay double,” I pressed. Now that I was here, I wanted to be done with the task before me.
“All right. Sign here, then. But stay close and watch the clouds.”
I signed his waiver, plunked forty pounds down on the counter, and followed him to the dock.
The boat he chose for me was sturdy enough, though it had clearly seen better days—or a better decade. Two oars and a life jacket completed the package, and I put one on to allay Mr. Donnelly’s concerns. One of the straps was broken, but I pretended it was perfectly fine. Mr. Donnelly had offered to put my things in a small locker in the foyer, but I declined. The bag held Eoin’s urn, and I wasn’t about to pull it out in front of him.
“Your bag will get wet. And you aren’t dressed for the lake,” he complained, eyeing my clothes and my slim flats. I’d worn a heavy cable-knit sweater, a plain white blouse, and cream slacks. This was the only burial Eoin would receive, and sneakers and jeans were too informal for the occasion.
My thoughts tiptoed back to Ballinagar Cemetery once more, to the stones in the grass I’d visited the day before. I wanted that for Eoin. A monument that he had lived. Something permanent. Something with his name and the span of his life. But that was not what he’d asked for, and leaving a grave in Ballinagar, a grave no one would visit or care about once I returned to the States, seemed wrong too.
I’d made a promise, and with a sigh, I grasped Jim Donnelly’s hand, stepped into the swaying skiff, and took up the oars in determination. Mr. Donnelly looked down at me doubtfully before untying the boat and giving it a good shove with his foot.
I dipped the oar into the water to my left and then to my right, experimenting a little, trying to find a rhythm. The boat cooperated, and I began to inch away from the dock. I would just row a little way out. The skies had grown gray, but the water was placid and peaceful. Mr. Donnelly watched me for a while, making sure I had the hang of it before making his way back up the dock toward the beach and his cheery house with the blue roof and the gorse blooming along the walk.
I was pleased with myself, moving smoothly through the water. The stretch and pull of rowing was new to me, but the lake was as calm as bathwater, lapping softly against the boat, and I found I enjoyed the motion. Sitting for hours at my writing desk was not conducive to good health, and I’d found if I forced myself to exercise, it aided me in my writing. I ran and forced myself to do push-ups to keep my arms from wasting away and my back