“Whenever you’re ready, Liz,” she said quietly, afraid her elation would burst from her mouth.
“When I was a young girl, I’d visit my grandmother’s house on the mainland. I’d wake every morning and she’d hand me a basket to go pick blackberries. For my breakfast, she’d pour fresh cream over the berries and cut a big slice of warm bread. The smell of baked bread and blackberries always reminds me of my grandmother. You ever smell blackberry bushes on a warm summer’s morning?”
“Yes. They grow everywhere in my hometown.”
“Where’s your hometown?” Rose asked as she sat down nearby and set her spinning wheel in motion.
“Redding. It’s in north central California.”
“Warm blackberry bushes,” Liz repeated with her eyes closed. “Heaven must smell like warm blackberry bushes.”
Liz placed a pot of tea on the table and sat down next to the sweater. Rebecca smiled, quickly glancing down at the camera, making sure Liz and her gansey were in the frame.
“One morning, I was collecting my breakfast when a boy ran up. He asked what I was doing and after I told him, he helped me finish gathering the berries. We talked so easily, like I had known him my whole life. When we were done, I thanked him and he went away. The next morning, he was standing there by the wall where the bramble was, waiting for me, and we talked as we gathered. I can’t remember a time before when I had laughed so much, and to this day I couldn’t tell you what was so funny. We had picked the bush clean near the bottom by the end of the morning.
“On the third day, I was walking to the bush and heard a muffled cry. The bramble was all in motion. I dropped my basket, ran around the wall, and found the boy stuck in the middle of the bush.”
“Ouch!” Rebecca exclaimed.
“Aye—thorny. Through much fighting and fidgeting, we finally got him free. He was a mess, bleeding everywhere, with a particularly deep gash on his eyebrow, here.” Liz pointed to the middle of her right eyebrow.
“I had to drag him inside so my grandmother could mend him. She asked him what happened and he wouldn’t say anything to her. She left to fetch something and I asked him what he was doing in the bush. He said he had climbed the wall to pick the best berries at the top for me and lost his balance.” Liz sighed. “What beautiful eyes he had. I couldn’t help myself. I just kissed him. Right on his hurt eyebrow. Then he left and I didn’t see him anymore that summer.”
“He was probably embarrassed,” Rebecca said.
“I thought so, too. The next year, I visited my grandmother again and the first morning I went out to fetch my breakfast. There, sitting neatly on the wall, was the biggest basket of blackberries I’d ever seen. And every time I went to my grandmother’s house, from that year until my seventeenth birthday, I’d find a big basket of berries on the wall on the first morning of my stay.”
“What happened when you were seventeen?”
“I married him. The berry-picker.” She giggled as she glanced over to the camera’s lens. Rebecca smiled back to the woman through her camera’s frame. This was exactly the kind of story she had hoped she’d find when she had thought about writing this book for all those years. Rebecca stepped over to the sweater while Liz poured tea. “Blackberries?” Rebecca asked as she touched a column of bumpy stitches.
“Hmm. It’s called the Trinity stitch.”
“And this is the basket?” Rebecca pointed to the pattern next to the blackberries.
“It is. Guess what was on my kitchen table every morning on the day of our anniversary.”
“A basket of blackberries,” Rebecca replied with a chuckle.
“And guess what I gave him?”
Rebecca shrugged.
“A kiss right here,” Liz whispered, reaching up and touching Rebecca’s right eyebrow. The old woman smiled and peered distantly at the sweater. Following her gaze, Rebecca noted a small column of stitches next to a section of diamonds. They were half an inch wide and reminded her of the propellers on the prop planes that flew across the fields in Redding. She touched the stitch, and at that moment a tear fell from Liz’s eye onto Rebecca’s finger.
“His scar?” Rebecca whispered.
Liz nodded.
The spinning wheel whirred softly behind Rebecca, who bent down and lifted her still-shot from the table.
Rose began to hum. Then she stopped and said, “There’s an old song, Becky. I’ve forgotten the tune. Would you like to hear the lyric?”
“Please.”
“How does it go, Liz? My memory, you know.”
Liz wiped her eyes. “ ‘They say a fairy has no heart, but sorrow now they feel. For mortal souls that grieve apart, they’ve sent a spinning wheel. Spin the warmth of wool, little wheel. Forget your fairy days. Spin for men so brave and leal, who guard the ocean ways.’ ”
“Aye. That’s it. May I have a cup of tea, please, Liz?” Rose asked, setting her wheel in motion once again.
“We were married for fifty-seven years,” Liz said as she poured the tea. “He passed into the Lord’s arms five years ago.”
“I’m sorry,” Rebecca replied.
“We’ll meet again,” Liz said, patting Rebecca on the shoulder as she stood to give Rose her tea.
The rest of the day, Rebecca took still photos of Liz’s gansey, talking with the women about their past. She also began a spinning lesson on the wheel. Near suppertime, Rebecca took her leave to collect Rowan from Siobhan’s house. There she found not only Annie and the girls, but also Maggie, who mentioned that Mairead Fitzgibbon was still waiting to meet her. They agreed to make the trip the next day, after which Rebecca took Rowan home.
Darkness fell behind them as Rebecca pedaled Rowan up to their cottage. There, at the front door, lay Trace. He stood to attention as soon as he spotted them. Giggling, Rowan jumped off the handlebars and ran toward the dog, who wagged his tail so fast about the little girl’s legs that Rebecca was certain she would have lost her kneecaps had she been wearing shorts.
Leaving her daughter and the dog at the door, Rebecca put the bike away in the shed. From her side baskets, she removed her cameras and a new bag of unspun wool. Upon her return, she found the front door open and no sign of Rowan and Trace.
It had been sunny and warm all day, but now dark clouds were building up to the north. Rebecca watched them slowly move southward, roiling and tumbling inexorably toward her house. She went inside and set the bag of wool and her cameras on the floor. As she turned to close the door, a huge gust of wind blew through the post and lintels, tearing the door from her hand. The wind barreled across the front room, knocking over candles and flipping the pages of the books that sat on the sofa. It blew Rowan’s whistle book onto the floor, and when it reached the fireplace, it coughed, sending ash flying across the room.
“Ah!” Rebecca cried, grabbing the door and leaning her weight behind it. The wind whipped around and fought, pushing on the door to keep it open. With one great lunge, Rebecca slammed it shut, and the latch clicked into place with finality.
“Good Lord!” she exclaimed, brushing her hair out of her face and gazing through the ash that was now sifting to the floor.
“What happened?” Rowan asked from the kitchen door.
“Bloody wind.” Rebecca turned around and found Trace standing next to her daughter.
“Rowan, Trace cannot stay here.”
“He likes the peat fire.”
“You’ve said. But maybe Mr. and Mrs. O’Flaherty would like him back.”
“Mr. O’Flaherty says he usually stays here or at Mr. Fitzgibbon’s house.”
“Fitzgibbon. Bees?”
“Yeah! Mr. O’Flaherty says since no one else wanted to be mayor of the island, Mr. Fitzgibbon appointed Trace the mayor one night when he was playing darts with Father Michael at the pub.”
“Appointed the dog mayor?” Rebecca repeated slowly.
“Yep. Mr. O’Flaherty says Trace goes where he wants on the island. The whole island is his house now that he’s
mayor.”
Rowan said this with such a straight face that Rebecca could do nothing but stare at her. It was exactly how Sharon told stories—the sincere and honest delivery of an absolutely absurd tale. At times Rebecca had to actually think the story through before she could tell that Sharon was pulling her leg, just as she did now, staring at her daughter. Slowly, a smile crept up Rowan’s chin and crawled onto her mouth. It was Sharon’s smile. It was Irish.
“Right,” Rebecca said, squinting at her daughter.
Rowan giggled.
“Let’s find something for supper,” Rebecca said, scratching Rowan’s head as she slipped past her.
“Can I go with Siobhan and her dad fishing next week?” Rowan asked, following Rebecca into the kitchen.
“We’ll see.”
“Annie says she’s gonna make me a pair of pampooties like Siobhan has. You know what pampooties are, Mama?”
“Go ahead and tell me,” Rebecca answered as she washed her hands. Of course she knew what pampooties were. She was an archaeologist—old clothing was her specialty. But why ruin Rowan’s pride in the newfound information?
“They’re leather shoes that tie up around your ankles with a strap. Sean says when he was a boy, they used to put them in water at night so they wouldn’t get stiff.”
“Sean Morahan?” Rebecca asked, glancing sharply at Rowan, who was now washing her hands in the sink. “You’ve been talking with him?”
“Yes,” Rowan replied quietly, not looking at her mother.
“I told you to tell me if he ever talked to you again.”
“Sorry.”
“I want you to stay away from him.”
“Sean isn’t bad, Mama.”
“The people here stay away from him pretty much.”
“I don’t think they understand him.”
“He yelled at you, Rowan. Kind people don’t do that. You stay away from him.”
“He said he was sorry.”
Rebecca contemplated her daughter’s face. Rowan’s eyes were wide and watery.
“Rowan, look. There are people in this world that can seem really nice, but if you hang around them long enough, you find out they aren’t nice all the time. And when they’re mean, they can be very mean. I think Sean is like that. I think he is just pretending to be nice to you.”
“He said he was sorry,” Rowan repeated.
“He says sorry to you but is nasty to every other kid in town. Remember John and how afraid he was of Sean? That means he’s not truly a kind person, Rowan, and it is only a matter of time before he hurts you. I don’t want that to happen, so I want you to stay away from him.”
“He’s teaching me to play my flute,” Rowan said, tears flowing from her eyes.
Rebecca brushed Rowan’s cheek with her hand and sighed. Pulling her daughter into her arms, she sat down on a kitchen chair. The wind tapped triple-time on the window as Rebecca combed her fingers through Rowan’s hair. Trace’s claws clicked in rhythm with the wind as he circled around one spot, then finally flopped down on the stone floor.
“I know this is hard. I hear that you like him.”
“He’s not bad, Mama,” Rowan mumbled into her chest.
“Look. A wise woman once told me a riddle. You are hot and hungry and as you pass this shop, a person inside asks you to come in and have—raspberry sherbet. Thinking the person kind for the invitation, you enter and sit. Then the person says, ‘If you eat the sherbet, I’ll slap you. If you don’t eat it, I’ll slap you.’ Which would you choose?”
Rowan wiped her cheeks. “Do I get another choice?”
“What other choice would you have? The person said eat the sherbet or not. No matter what, you get slapped.”
“I could leave.”
“Yes! Exactly, Rowan! The person has something you’d like or want or even need, but they will hurt you if you stay. So it’s better to just leave.”
Rowan sniffled.
“I guess I can learn my flute from the book.”
“You bet you can! You’re very talented.” Rebecca kissed her daughter on the top of her head. “Remember, Rowan, when you grow up, no one gives you your choices. Those you give yourself. You can always get up and leave. You’re free. That’s what I want you to learn from this.”
Rowan nodded, drying her eyes on the dish towel. They sat together in the silence for a minute, and then Rowan said, “Mama! Listen!”
Rebecca’s mind was so busy yelling at herself for letting Rowan go about the town so freely that she didn’t respond at first.
“Hear it, Mama?”
Now she listened, but she heard nothing except her own anger. “Hear what?”
“The little bird.”
Both of them were still again, and sure as the wind howled in the thatch, the little bird’s song flowed from the bedroom.
“You think it has babies yet?”
“Let’s check after dinner.”
“Okay!”
As Rowan whistled scales on her pipe from the kitchen table, Rebecca peeled two potatoes and put them on to boil. From the small refrigerator, she pulled out four sausages and tossed them into a frying pan, which she had slid onto the cooker. The water boiled and the sausages popped and so did Rebecca’s mind. So slow was the island—so small, so friendly, so safe. For the first time in six years, Rebecca had relaxed, and sure enough, as she had always told herself would happen, something came along and threatened Rowan. She could hear Dennis in her head as she mashed the potatoes in the pot, his voice repeating the words he had said to her over and over again from the moment he discovered she was pregnant.
You’re too stupid to raise a kid by yourself. She’ll probably die when you’re not paying attention.
For five days she’d been on the island, and in five days, just as Dennis had said, she had stopped paying attention.
“So stupid,” Rebecca whispered as she sliced up two apples.
The wind whined and thrashed the thatch as Rowan and Rebecca ate. Together they washed the dishes, Rowan talking about the old mare and how she would just follow a path to town and back. No one needed to lead her because she was just like everyone else on the island; she knew what needed to be done, and just did her part. So Mr. O’Flaherty had said, anyway.
After supper Rebecca and Rowan went to their bedroom window. Only one bird was in the bramble and it was sitting on the nest, so they couldn’t tell if the eggs had hatched yet.
“What happened to the daddy?” Rowan asked as she brushed her teeth.
“We don’t know if that isn’t the daddy,” Rebecca answered.
“That sounds like a mama bird to me,” Rowan said. “Maybe something bad happened to the daddy bird.”
“I don’t know, Rowan,” Rebecca replied, not wanting to go too far in this conversation. “He seemed like a very brave and strong bird. I bet you he’s just getting the mama bird’s dinner. Birds do that, you know.”
Rowan nodded and rinsed her mouth out.
“Time for bed.”
After tucking Rowan in, Rebecca sat before the fireplace, looking at the ashes as she listened to the rain and the little bird. Though nothing bad had happened to Rowan, a deep unsettled feeling weighed on her mind. She could hear Dennis telling her she was stupid.
“No. It’s just Sean. The island’s safe,” she whispered to herself. “No safer place than here.”
Rebecca rose to her feet to make a fire from the ashes left by the wind and as she turned, she spotted the bag of wool near the door. It was white—the color of Rowan’s little gansey that Sharon had brought from the island when she and her mother had come for Rowan’s birth. That gansey made of bainin wool had wrapped Rowan’s little body on Thanksgiving Day six years ago. Shaking, Rebecca lowered herself back to the chair as that memory rolled across her mind.
Rebecca sat in her family room chair as Dennis stood by the front door, holding Rowan’s tiny body swathed in her small white Irish sweater. Sharon had brought the sweater from Ireland, saying it
was the kind given to all who were born on the island she was from. It had magical properties, and no harm could come to a child who wore it. As soon as Dennis had pulled up in the driveway for his first court-ordered visitation, Rebecca had slipped the sweater over Rowan’s head. There was nothing else she could do to keep her daughter safe.
“You think you can just leave me?” he asked her.
“We don’t belong together,” Rebecca replied, measuring her tone in an effort to avoid making him angry.
“I will always be in your life. We have a child. You’ll never be free.”
His words and body were wound tightly, as they always were when he threatened. “Please, Dennis. Please don’t hurt the baby.”
“She’s my baby. I can do as I please,” he answered.
“She’s her own self, Dennis.” Rebecca started to weep, her throat tightening as she watched the tips of his fingers push Rowan’s tiny body into his chest like the claws of a great predatory bird.
“Becky?” Sharon called from the upstairs. “You want me and Mum to come down yet?”
“It’s all that bitch’s fault,” Dennis growled as he turned and walked out the front door. Rebecca jumped out of her seat and rushed to the door. She watched Dennis strap little Rowan into a car seat in the back of his Audi.
“Becky?” Sharon inquired as she stood just behind Rebecca at the front door.
“Happy Thanksgiving, bitch!” Dennis yelled and he slammed his car door.
“She’ll be okay, Becky.”
“She will?” Rebecca asked, not convinced at all.
A great clap of thunder sounded overhead. Rebecca jumped up from the sofa with a small scream. Trace barked.
“Mama?”
“It’s okay, Rowan. That thunder just surprised me,” Rebecca replied, her heart thudding against her stomach.
Turning off the living room lights and leaving the fireplace dark and cold, Rebecca headed for the bedroom. When she flipped on the light there, she found Trace on the bed with Rowan.
“What’s he doing there?” Rebecca asked.
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