A Bittersweet Garden

by Caren J. Werlinger

  “I see.”

  Eve’s eyes met Nora’s as she slid a plate across the table to her, and Nora was certain that Eve knew why they were really there.

  “From America, is it?” Eve asked conversationally. “But your family’s from here.”

  It wasn’t a question.

  “Yes,” Nora said. “My grandparents—”

  “Brigid Cleary,” interrupted Eve. “She married Thomas McNeill.”

  “Yes,” Nora said again. “How did… Do you know them?”

  Rather than answer, Eve took a bite of bread. Nora nibbled on hers.

  “Nora’s staying in Sióg Cottage,” Sheila said, but Nora again had a feeling that bit of information was unnecessary.

  She followed Sheila’s lead and let the silence stretch out as they all ate and drank. Eve set her cup down and focused those hypnotic green eyes on Nora again.

  “I take it you’ve met Móirín.”

  “Maureen?” Nora repeated.

  Sheila found a scrap of paper and pen in one of the multitude of pockets in her trousers. “In Irish, it’s spelled like this.”

  She wrote it out.

  Nora glanced at Eve. “The ghost has a name.”

  Eve’s eyes flashed. “Of course she has a name. Just because she’s dead doesn’t wipe her existence from memory.” She lowered her lids, veiling her eyes for a moment, as she seemed to collect herself. “Móirín Ní Ceallaigh was a real woman who deserves to be remembered.”

  She got up and went to one of her shelves, sifting through stacks of leather-bound books. She found the one she sought, smaller than the others, and set it on the table, raising a little puff of dust from its brittle pages. Its leather cover was scuffed and curled around the edges, as if it had been handled a lot. She flipped it open and leafed through the fragile sheets.

  “We know a little of her.” Tracing a finger along faded squiggles of ink, Eve read, “Móirín was married to Donall O’Heaghra in 1839. He was a blacksmith and she a skilled seamstress.” She paused. “From these records, that’s all we know. When the Hunger came, the western parts of Ireland, all of Connaught—including Mayo—were affected horribly. It’s likely Donall and Móirín’s skills would have remained in high demand, and they might have been able to sustain their family through their trades if they could find people who could afford to pay them. But that probably wouldn’t have been here. Except for Ashford, there weren’t many people who were well off in these parts. Another source tells us that Donall and the children went to America.”

  Eve closed her book and folded her hands over top of it.

  “What other source?” Nora asked, eyeing the book, wishing she could leaf through its pages. But Eve’s fingers tightened protectively, and she didn’t answer.

  “Only him and the children?” Sheila asked.

  “From what we know.”

  Nora glanced from Sheila to Eve. “Then what happened to Móirín? Why is she haunting the cottage? What about Rowan?” She sat back. “And what does she want with me?”

  “Have you asked her?” Eve asked.

  Nora opened and closed her mouth. “No.”

  Eve’s ageless face creased into a cryptic smile. “Don’t you think you should?”

  Briana and Sheila exchanged a worried look as Nora sat silently in the back seat, staring out the window. Sheila pulled up to Sióg Cottage and turned the car off.

  “Are you all right?” she asked, turning in her seat to look at Nora. “You’re pale.”

  Nora didn’t respond.

  “Nora?” Briana prompted.

  “Hmmm?” Nora blinked. “Sorry. Just thinking about everything Eve said.”

  She opened the door and got out. Sheila and Briana followed her into the cottage. Both of them paused in the parlor, listening, waiting.

  Nora noticed and snorted. “I don’t think she’ll come floating down the stairs at us.”

  “I don’t know,” Briana said uncertainly. “After everything Eve said, I remembered how Shannon reacted—there’s not much spooks her, but whatever’s here did.”

  Sheila pointed up the stairs. “Mind if we go up and have a look around?”

  “No.” Nora led the way. She gestured toward the bedroom at the back of the cottage. “Like I told you, I’ve never seen her in here. Nothing’s ever been disturbed.”

  They stepped into the front room. Everything was in place.

  “Shannon wouldn’t come into this room,” Briana told Sheila.

  “That would tell me something right away,” Sheila said, walking around the room. “Móirín? Móirín, are you here?”

  They stood still, but there was no sound, no whisper of movement, nothing at all.

  “Why don’t you come stay with us for a few days?” Sheila suggested. “You,” she added, pointing at Nora. “Not…” She waved her hand at the empty room.

  “That’s silly,” Nora said. “She hasn’t hurt me. I don’t think she means me any harm at all. I still think maybe she needs help.”

  “Help to do what?” Briana asked.

  Nora shrugged. “If we knew that, we’d have half the puzzle solved.”

  “I… I could stay here with you,” Briana offered.

  She felt her face grow hot as both Nora and Sheila stared at her. She shoved her hands into her pockets and shuffled her feet.

  “Just a thought. In case you didn’t want to be alone with… you know.”

  Nora’s face relaxed into a smile. “Thanks, but I think I’ll be okay. I appreciate the offer, though.”

  “Fine. Good.”

  Sheila’s chuckle followed Briana as she stomped back downstairs and out to the car.

  Chapter 8

  Nora gave up trying to bicycle the narrow streets of Cong. Between the tour buses off-loading tour groups near the Quiet Man Museum and the hordes of tourists roaming the streets of the village, it was nearly impossible to ride without hitting someone or getting knocked off her bike. She dismounted and walked her bicycle to the shops she’d been planning to visit, tucking her purchases into her backpack. It had been hard at first to trust that she could leave her bicycle leaning against shops or parked in bike racks and find it still there waiting for her when she came back outside.

  “You mean you wouldn’t do that back in the States?” Sheila had asked in astonishment.

  The day was gorgeous, sunny and pleasantly warm. Rather than taking the river trail, she decided to ride the long way out to Ashford and take some photos. She pedaled her way out of town, past the abbey ruins and the old church where more tourists congregated, taking selfies. She wheeled along the tree-lined road and saw a familiar Land Rover approaching. It braked to a halt, and Craig leaned out the open window.

  “Hello, Miss McNeill,” he called cheerfully. “How are you enjoying your summer?”

  “It’s been wonderful,” Nora said. “I can’t believe a whole month has gone by already.”

  “Heading to the castle?”

  “Yes. I want to get some more photos for my family.”

  “’Tis a grand day for it,” he said. “We’ll see you soon.”

  She rode the rest of the way to the castle. Crossing the bridge with a wave to Rob, the uniformed guard, she spent the next few hours wandering the gardens. Here, too, many more tourists were out, making it nearly impossible to get images that didn’t have people in them. She focused on shots of plants and trees. Despite the increased numbers of tourists, the castle was spectacular, as always, pennants flying from the stone towers.

  Deciding to treat herself, she rode back across the bridge to the Thatched Cottage for lunch.

  She placed her order and tugged her iPad out of her backpack to check her most recent emails. About once a week, she brought her laptop to the nursery to connect to the internet and catch up, but she hadn’t done it yet this week.

  She smiled as she saw five messages from her family. The smile slid off her face as she saw the sixth message.

  Amy.

  Nora hesitated, not
really sure she wanted to open it. At last, she clicked on the message.

  Hey, you must be having a good vacation, since you haven’t had time to write. Thought I’d hear something from you after four weeks. A postcard or an email.

  I’ve been thinking I might come over to see you. Spend a couple of weeks. Let you show me around.

  What do you think? Write back when you can. I’ve been looking into flights.

  Love,

  Amy

  Nora slumped back against her chair, staring at the tablet.

  “More water?”

  Nora jumped and quickly flipped the cover over the screen. “Sorry, what?”

  Her server stood next to her with a pitcher of iced water. “A refill?”

  “Sure. Thanks.”

  “You’re Nora McNeill, right?”

  “Um, yes. How did you know?”

  The young woman grinned. “I’m Liam’s sister, Mary. He said he’s seen you around the stables and that you’re working with Sheila at the nursery.”

  “I am.”

  “That’s nice.” Mary looked for a moment as if she was going to ask a question but just said, “I’ll leave you, then. Have a good day, Miss McNeill.”

  Nora opened her iPad again and dashed off replies to her family, giving her parents and sisters the same updates about working at the nursery and the price of groceries at the market and going for another ride with Briana. But with her message to her grandparents, she hesitated. After some thought, she typed,

  Mamma and Pop,

  I met a woman named Aoibheann Ní Mheolchatha. Do you remember her? She remembered you. She’s fascinating. Seems to know a lot of the history of this area. I’m particularly interested in the history of my cottage. Sure wish I could see you both face to face.

  Love you,

  Nora

  She hit Send and bit her lip, pausing a few moments over Amy’s email. She had time to think about it. Coward, she chided herself as she closed her iPad case and stuffed it back into her bag.

  Briana sat at the computer in the office at the private stable, scowling at the monitor. Vaguely, she was aware of boots clomping by outside, then heard them stop and return.

  “You know, computers are like horses, they can tell when you’re afraid of them,” Liam said, leaning around the doorway.

  She turned her scowl on him. He just laughed, coming in and folding his lanky frame to sit in the chair next to the desk, crossing his freckled arms over his chest.

  “What are you trying to do, squint?” he asked.

  Not accustomed to explaining herself—when was the last time you had anything to explain?—she belatedly tried to close the browser, but Liam’s quick eyes caught the image.

  “The Cliffs of Moher? Are you taking a sightseeing tour, then?”

  She felt that cursed telltale heat creep up her neck to her cheeks. “I just thought, since Nora McNeill hasn’t seen anything but Cong and a bit of Dublin, she might want to take a couple of days and…”

  Liam’s freckled face split into a wide grin. “That’s a grand idea. Mary said she waited on Nora at the Cottage yesterday. She was on her tablet, I suppose getting messages from home. Said she looked upset.”

  Briana’s eyes left the computer to focus on him. “Upset? About what?”

  “No idea. Bad news? Mary didn’t think it was her place to ask.” He pointed at the computer as he got to his feet. “Anyway, this sounds like it might be a good distraction.”

  He left her to check some other websites, printing off a few pages.

  Absently, she chewed on a fingernail, wondering what kind of bad news Nora might have received. Someone sick back home, maybe. But she had a feeling in her gut that told her it wasn’t that. She turned the computer off and went to her cottage. Leafing through the pages she’d printed, she wondered why she was even doing this. It was stupid to let herself care about someone who was going to leave in a couple of months. The whole reason she’d never let herself get involved with anyone when she was racing was the unpredictable gypsy lifestyle they all led. It had never been worth the heartache to let herself care for someone who wasn’t going to be around.

  If her gut was right, if Nora’s bad news had to do with the woman she’d been involved with, then this idea was for naught. That thought brought her to an abrupt stop.

  Why are you doing this?

  What had started as a good-natured gesture had begun to change into something else in the shadows at the back of her mind, and she wasn’t ready to stare at the something else in the light.

  She tossed the pages onto her table and headed back outside to work with another of the yearlings.

  An aromatic steam rose from a pot on the stove. Nora crushed lavender with a mortar and pestle while Sheila added other oils to a large pot, stirring the thick, creamy concoction inside, as it bubbled sluggishly like white lava.

  “This smells so good,” Nora said.

  “It works as good as it smells,” Sheila said. “If I say so myself. Nothing better for your skin.”

  The shop bell rang.

  “Give this a stir every minute or so, will you?”

  Sheila left to tend to the customers, while Nora continued grinding and stirring. Steam from the pot moistened her face. The warmth felt good, chasing away the chill from a damp ride to the nursery that morning.

  When the customers left, Sheila came back and peered into the stone mortar. “I think that’s fine enough.”

  “Do you only sell your products here? I thought I saw some in town.”

  Sheila took over the stirring and added Nora’s crushed lavender to the pot. “Several of the gift shops in the village stock them. I thought about opening a shop of my own, but it’d be one more thing to juggle. This works best.”

  They worked in silence for a bit, letting the mixture distill. At some point that was evident to Sheila, she slid the pot off the burner.

  “We’ll let that cool and then put it in the jars there.”

  They went to the sink to wash their implements.

  “Any sign of Móirín?” Sheila asked.

  “Nothing,” Nora said glumly. “I finally have a name, and she’s not shown herself once in these past few nights since we talked with Eve.” She paused. “I’ve wondered if I should ask Eve to come to the cottage. She seems to have a way about her.”

  Sheila chuckled, tucking some loose strands of hair behind her ear. “She does that.”

  “How old is she?”

  “I’ve no idea.” She flicked a glance in Nora’s direction. “My Gran remembers her from when she was young. Says Eve hasn’t changed at all.”

  “That’s impossible.” Nora stared. “But somehow it doesn’t surprise me. I just wrote my grandparents that I met her. Can’t wait to hear back from them.”

  “It is a bit eerie, how she never seems to age.” Sheila filled the kettle. “Time for a break.”

  Rusty stirred himself from his nap to sniff hopefully as Sheila placed a jar of cookies—biscuits, Nora remembered—on the table.

  “How are your family?” Sheila asked.

  Nora retrieved a couple of mugs from the cupboard. “They’re fine. Getting ready for a Fourth of July picnic at my mom and dad’s house this weekend.”

  “Can’t believe you’ve been here more than a month already. Do you miss them?”

  “I do, but I’ve loved every minute here.”

  “Then what’s wrong? You sound… not quite happy.”

  “I got an email yesterday. Well bunches of emails. But one in particular.”

  Sheila lifted one eyebrow. “From what’s-her-name?”

  Nora sighed. “Yeah. Amy. Wants to come here for two weeks. Have me show her around.”

  Sheila’s eyes flashed, but then she carefully composed her face. “What do you want to do?”

  Nora snorted. “I don’t want to waste any of my precious summer with her.”

  “Then tell her so.”

  Nora’s doubt must have shown on her face bec
ause Sheila said, “Not in those words. Look, you told me you waited and planned a long time for this summer. To get away and do what you wanted for a change. Don’t lose that.”

  She poured the hot water in the mugs and joined Nora at the table. Opening the jar, she took a couple of biscuits, giving one to Rusty who was now sitting at her feet.

  “You’re right.” Nora broke a ginger cookie in half, taking a bite. “I’ve got to find a way. It just feels selfish. I feel guilty even thinking that it would waste my summer to have her here, but I know what it would be like. She’d take over, plan everything. And I would let her.”

  Sheila tilted her head as she regarded Nora. “Why would you?”

  Nora huffed out a breath. “Because that’s what I do. It’s easier than arguing. Everyone around me is better at making decisions. Better at everything.”

  “Bollocks. That can’t be true.”

  “Well, it feels true. It’s not just my lack of accomplishments compared to them.” Nora frowned at her cookie, deliberately avoiding Sheila’s gaze. “My dad took over my grandfather’s electrical business and grew it into this big company. He’s still handsome. My mom has this gorgeous head of silver hair and produces amazing pottery. My oldest sister looks just like her—beautiful now, and she’ll still be beautiful as she gets older and continues showing her watercolors. The two younger ones are like pixies—cute and petite—and they’re both teachers. One teaches music and the other art. And then there’s me, all clumsy and—”

  “Don’t say you’re ugly,” Sheila cut in. “Because you’re not a’tall.”

  “Thanks for saying that,” Nora said, though she didn’t believe it. “But it’s not only looks. They’re all artistic and creative, or have built something. My life is dull. I’m dull.”

  “You’re nothing of the sort,” Sheila insisted.

  “But I am,” Nora said firmly. “And I’ve realized I kind of set my life up that way. I’m just a librarian.” She ignored Sheila’s scoff. “Work and my cat and my books. It was safe and predictable. Amy liked it well enough because I never had anything else more exciting to do than hang with her every weekend. But I don’t want to any longer. I want my life to be different.”