The Lace Makers of Glenmara

by Heather Barbieri

“John was one of them,” Bernie said, her voice softer. “I remember the day I saw him for the first time, across a field not far from here. The cowslips were in bloom. He’d moved to the area to take a teaching position at the school in Kinnabegs. He was out walking that evening—he loved to walk.

  “I’d been seeing a young man I’d met at one of the dances near Tarryton,” she continued. “Thought I was serious about him, but then I saw John and everything stopped. I wouldn’t call it love at first sight. No, more like a sense of recognition that passed between us, as if we’d been looking for each other, but we didn’t know it until that moment.”

  “The first time I saw Sullivan, I was clinging to a rock wall.” Kate laughed.

  “You saw him that day you went out walking?” Bernie’s eyes brightened with interest.

  “I did—and I certainly caught my breath—whether from the sight of him or the fear of falling, it’s hard to say.”

  “You never said anything—”

  Kate shrugged. “The lace meeting was in progress when I came in. I got so caught up learning the stitches and talking with everyone that I must have forgotten to mention it. And besides, I thought I’d never see him again.”

  “And yet you did.”

  “Yes, I did.” She shook her head.

  “What is it?”

  “I was just thinking how funny life is. Seems like the more you want something, the more it eludes you. Then, when you least expect it, there it is.”

  “One of life’s lessons, isn’t it? At least, I’ve found it to be true,” Bernie replied, adding, “Sounds as if you like our Sullivan Deane.”

  She gave Bernie a conspiratorial little smile. “I like him very much indeed.”

  Later, after Kate went upstairs, Bernie brushed her hair, gazing out the bedroom window, the moon’s eyes covered with a strip of muslin cloud. Was it playing blind man’s bluff or a part in a masquerade? She smiled to herself. She’d always had an active imagination. Things looked different at night. The eye could play tricks, turning hawthorn trees into giants, currant bushes into trolls, thistles into faeries. Oh, the frights she’d given herself as a child.

  She’d draped the lace lingerie over the back of the chair, threads gleaming in the half-light. Such a lovely rose pattern it was. Somehow, Kate had known it was the perfect one for her. The girl certainly had insight. Bernie was surprised she hadn’t been more successful with fashion design in the States, but destiny had a number of tricks up her sleeve, didn’t she, both joyful and tragic? Perhaps Kate’s coming to Glenmara was such a gift. It was as if she belonged there. Bernie hoped she felt that way too.

  She fingered the lace. Sumptuous blooms, they were, the petals full, beckoning, in shades of pink and red, a tracery of green, here and there, for the leaves. The flowers nearly covered the entire set, except for the band and straps and elastic. Perhaps she’d make a nightgown with the same pattern too, worked along the yoke, smocking at the waist. She’d fill the drawer with beautiful things by the time she was done.

  If only John were there to see.

  A bank of mist moved in from the sea, spilling into the valley, one tendril touching the edge of the garden. She felt the coolness of it but didn’t close the window. She kept it open, a small slip of an opening, near the sill. She wanted to feel the air on her cheek, the nearness of him, her husband, who had fallen on that patch of earth, just there, past the back gate. Fergus had run back to the house to get her that evening, and she’d known right away something was wrong, though not how bad it would be: John, prone on the ground, his cap and glasses askew, the bouquet of wildflowers—lupine, daisies, a spray of ferns—he’d intended to give her scattered on the grass. She’d said his name, over and over, as if he was only asleep, and she had only to wake him. John, John. Put her head to his chest, his lips, listening for his heart, his breath, but he was still. She’d never known he could be that still.

  Later that night, Bernie lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. She missed him. She felt as if she were a puzzle, an essential piece lost, leaving her incomplete. It was worse at this time of night, when there were no distractions and her mind spun with endless thoughts—of not having enough money to live on, of being alone. She took deep breaths to calm herself, but the tears came anyway. Not a torrent, just a few, sliding down her cheeks and wetting the pillow.

  A gust billowed the curtains. Fergus, who had been snoring at the foot of the bed, raised his head and whimpered, gazing toward the window.

  “What is it, boy?” she whispered. Did he smell a fox or rabbit in the garden? They’d never had prowlers, though she’d taken the precaution of locking the doors before going to bed just in case, now that she was a woman living alone, heeding Aileen’s advice.

  Or was it only the wind? “Is someone there?” she called.

  No reply. Not that a burglar would announce himself, would he? Hello, don’t mind me. I’m just here to steal the silver.

  Silence. No one there but her.

  Another gust. Perhaps a front was moving in. They’d had some fierce storms that spring. Whatever the source, she’d had enough. She got up to close the sash, shivering. Heavens, why was it so cold?—too cold for this time of year. Strange. She could see her breath in the room. She’d have to pile more blankets on the bed. She headed for the closet to get another quilt, muttering to herself—

  And then she felt him behind her.

  John?

  She couldn’t see him. She didn’t have to. He was in the center of the room. Fergus sensed it too, wagging his tail, before he trotted out into the hall, as if he’d received a command from his master, the one John used to give when he and Bernie wanted to be alone.

  “Do you want to see the lace?” She didn’t ask him why he hadn’t appeared to her before, glad to have him there again at last, if only for a moment. She knew it couldn’t be long.

  She put the lace on for him, slowly, there in the pool of moonlight. “Stay with me for just a little while, will you?” She lay down on the bed, felt him holding her, until she drifted off into the realm of dreams.

  Chapter 16

  Craic

  The pub was packed with people two nights later, babies crying, children laughing and complaining, lifting their cups in honor of Saint Brendan, cheeks reddening, words slurring as the evening wore on.

  Here’s to Saint Blenna.

  Here’s to Saint Blender.

  Here’s to Saint Brenda.

  What, did he have a sex change?

  Didn’t have those back then.

  If God could change loaves into fishes, he could certainly—

  Once called the Lion’s Head, the bar had been in the Greene family for generations. Decades before, the painter hired to make a new sign botched the job, having sampled too much ale before taking up the brush, the result being that the bar’s namesake looked more like a rabid canine than a regal ruler of the animal kingdom. Despite his initial dismay, the head of the Greene family at that time embraced the error, rechristening the pub the Mad Dog—and so it had been ever since.

  The place was all wood and tarnished brass, its patrons inclined toward camaraderie or scheming, depending upon which corner they occupied. Plaques and pictures covered the walls, including shots of winners of the annual fishing derby (Colleen’s and Oona’s husbands had won several), the coracle races, a yellowed Irish Times article about Gaelic villages with a brief mention of Glenmara highlighted, and another about Shamrock Fields, a portion of the ever-enterprising-but-ultimately-unsuccessful Declan Moore’s holdings, once hyped as a tourist attraction for the excess of four-leaf clovers allegedly found among the grass—until the cows ate them one spring. “That’s my retirement, you stupid cow!” he cried. His wife was mad at him for a week. She thought he was talking about her. All that was left now were a few framed, pressed shamrocks scattered about town, in the bar, and above the mantel in Declan’s house, botanical samples brittle with age, their value purely sentimental, though some people claimed they brought the
m luck.

  The peanut shells and beer spills of the previous day’s dart tournament had been cleared away. The craic was one of the highlights of the Saint Brendan’s Festival, and Richie Greene, the bar owner, took special pride in his establishment. Kate sat with Bernie and Aileen at a table near the door. Sullivan Deane smiled from across the room, where he was with the band, playing a tune. Oona was nearby with her husband, Padraig; Colleen had stayed home, waiting for Finn’s boat to come in.

  Mrs. Flynn, Father Byrne’s housekeeper, wore her leopard-print jacket for the occasion. She stopped by the table on her way to join Oona, who she’d known since grade school. “Have you heard?” she said. “The priest has been asking questions.”

  “What’s he on about this time? Is it the tithing again?” Bernie asked. “I think I’m up to date.”

  “No. It’s the lace. He hasn’t spoken to me about it directly, but I have a feeling he’s going to.”

  “Does he want a pair of knickers?” Kate asked in mock innocence.

  Mrs. Flynn chuckled. “That would be a sight to see, wouldn’t it? No, he’s up to something. Got that light in his eyes, he does. Don’t know exactly what it means, but I thought you’d want to know,” she said, adding, “He’s not a bad man. Just rather limited.”

  “He can’t help himself. He’s a man of the cloth, steeped in the old ways,” Bernie said. “He came by to check on us the other night.”

  “Yes, he mentioned it, but I had the sense he wasn’t completely satisfied with what he saw, that he’d be keeping watch.”

  “He’s always keeping watch,” Bernie replied.

  “Perhaps he should have been a spy,” Kate said.

  “Agent double-oh seven, eh?” Mrs. Flynn laughed. “But then he’d have all the women—wouldn’t that get him into trouble—”

  “You shouldn’t poke fun at him. He’s our priest,” Aileen said.

  “True enough,” Bernie agreed, “though why is the lace any concern of his? We’re not harming anyone, are we? Some might say we’re sewing by the grace of God.”

  “Oh, you’d get his cassock in a bunch if he heard that!” Mrs. Flynn said.

  “He’s not here, is he?” Bernie cast a look around the bar.

  “Lord, no. Doesn’t touch a drop of the drink. Hard enough for him to sip from the communion cup—and only because it’s the blood of Christ. Maybe his da was a drinker. Who knows? He never talks about his past.” She patted Bernie’s shoulder before moving away. “I’ll let you know if I hear anything.”

  “Hey, ladies.” Moira’s voice rang with false cheer, alerting them to Cillian’s presence right behind her.

  “Moi, I’m glad you made it.” Aileen hailed her. “Sit here.”

  Cillian gave the women a curt nod, a hand firmly on Moira’s elbow, and whispered something in her ear.

  “Thanks, Ailey, but there’s no room,” Moira replied, barely pausing before Cillian steered her away. “I’ll catch up with you later…”

  “No room indeed,” Aileen muttered after they settled at a table on the opposite side of the pub, “at least not for the likes of Cillian.”

  “There weren’t enough seats, Ailey,” Bernie pointed out. “She no doubt thought it was easier—”

  “We could have pulled up another chair, could have squeezed in,” Aileen insisted. “We’ve done it before.”

  “But would you really want to sit at the same table as him? Remember what happened last time? Moira was probably trying to avoid another scene.”

  Aileen pressed her lips together and didn’t say more, studying the various messages others had written on the table in pen, hinting at varying levels of maturity and inebriation: Piss off. The fighting Gaels rule. Rosheen’s a good shag. “Look at that. The shame of it.” Aileen licked her finger and smeared it away. “Probably that lout Ronnie wrote it. He doesn’t even have a good Gaelic name. Ronald. He sounds like an accountant, when the only numbers he cares about relate to drugs.”

  “Are you sure? I mean—” Kate ventured.

  “Yes, dearie, we have addicts here too. It’s not all green fields and bright smiles in Ireland,” she retorted.

  “I’m aware of that. I had my pack stolen by one in Dublin—”

  “Not Rosheen, though,” Aileen continued as if Kate hadn’t spoken. “I’d know if she were into drugs. It’s bad enough she runs with that crowd. I keep telling her she’s going to get hurt.”

  “So she’s still seeing Ronnie, then?” Bernie asked, biting into a chip. “I thought you’d forbidden it.”

  “I have to be careful what I say. I don’t have proof of his wrongdoing, and I definitely don’t want to do anything to make the prospect of him more appealing to her than it already is. She has a bad-boy complex.” Aileen picked at her nails. She’d been at it with a vengeance from the look of them.

  “Has she called yet?” Bernie asked.

  “Maybe there’s a message at home. I’m trying not to think about it. I’ve already lost too much sleep over that girl. She’s of age; she can do what she likes.”

  “Do you really think so? My mother always said—,” Kate began.

  “What does your mother have to do with my Rosheen, with me? Is she here with us now?”

  “No.” Kate toyed with the thimble around her neck.

  “Do I really think that?” Aileen continued. “Of course not, but that’s what I tell myself, so I don’t go mad. You wouldn’t know. You don’t have kids.”

  Kate didn’t reply, crossing her arms over her chest and glaring at Aileen.

  “Last time I checked, one didn’t have to have children to have a conversation,” Bernie said.

  “Depends upon what comments one makes.” Aileen’s face tightened, clearly annoyed that Bernie seemed to be taking sides.

  “Guess I’d better watch what I say too,” Bernie said. “Childless women, take heed.”

  “I didn’t mean you—”

  “I think we should make our guest feel welcome. Ireland is supposed to be the land of smiles,” Bernie said.

  “Only on the face of things,” Aileen said.

  “What?”

  “Oh, never mind. Let’s have another round of Guinness,” she said with forced cheer. “It’s getting hot in here. Or is it just the flashes?”

  “Flashes of what? Brilliance?” Bernie was eager to bring some much-needed humor into the proceedings.

  “I wish.”

  “Isn’t that Sullivan Deane over there with Declan’s band? Haven’t seen him out in awhile.” Bernie made another effort to steer them to a lighter topic.

  “Well, it is a special occasion,” Aileen said. “No one misses the Saint Brendan’s craic.”

  “Or maybe he thought a certain person would be here.” Bernie nudged Kate.

  “Gotten to know him, have you?” Aileen raised an eyebrow.

  Kate tried to shrug it off. “He has a computer, remember? Bernie asked me to talk to him about it. For the lace.”

  “That and more, from what I hear.”

  Kate tapped her foot under the table. What the hell was Aileen’s problem?

  Richie, the barman, pounded the countertop, sparing them a confrontation. “Time for the dancing!”

  “What’s going on?” Kate asked.

  “It’s the step-dancing competition,” Bernie replied. “Been big here long before that Riverdance business in the States. You know it?”

  “I took lessons when I was a little girl.”

  “That’s grand. You’ll have to enter, then. Oona, did you hear?” she called over to the next table. “She dances!”

  “Get her up there!”

  Kate was tempted to slip out the door. It was close at hand, the knob gleaming. This way. But Bernie was too quick for her. She didn’t understand that the last place Kate wanted to be was on a stage in front of everyone. “I haven’t danced competitively in years,” Kate demurred. “I don’t remember the steps…” Which wasn’t entirely true. She’d danced that March, but it was on the sp
ur of the moment—and things were different then.

  “They’ll come back to you,” Bernie said. “Once you know them, they’re a part of you, that’s what my gran used to say.”

  “Are you dancing?” Kate asked.

  “Me? Heavens no,” Bernie said. “I’ve got a bad knee. Threw it out last year and learned my lesson. Aileen’s the only one of us who does anymore.”

  “Aileen?” she echoed.

  Aileen smiled, eyes glinting, letting Kate know she was looking forward to this. “Nothing like a little friendly competition, eh?”

  “Besides, you’re young, Kate,” Bernie continued. “There’s nothing holding you back.”

  “No, really—”

  Bernie didn’t listen. She went ahead and wrote Kate’s name on the list. Kate was about to erase it, but Bernie passed the sheet forward to the caller, and then the band struck up another tune, and it was too late. The dancing had begun. Everyone began singing at the top of their lungs. Kate didn’t know the song, but she managed to join in the chorus. The first groups of dancers stomped on the bar as the band played, Sullivan Deane bowing a fiddle. Her breath caught, his eyes pulling her in, as if there was no space between them.

  “Kate,” Bernie said a short time later. “Kate, they’re calling your name. It’s your turn to dance.”

  “Oh, I—”

  Everyone was pounding on the tables. There was no way she could get out of it. She felt a rush of adrenaline, equal parts fear and excitement. The last time she’d danced was at Kell’s, an Irish pub in Seattle, during the Saint Patrick’s Day celebrations. Ethan had dared her. She’d had too much to drink, said yes, she’d dance, for him, for her mother’s memory. People clapped in time with her feet. “That’s my girlfriend,” Ethan shouted. “Isn’t she incredible?”

  She guessed not incredible enough. What did The Model do? Burlesque? She wouldn’t put it past her.

  That night at the Mad Dog in Glenmara, the dancers went in pairs. Four women and men had already gone, their scores written on the board above the bar. One man had been disqualified for falling. (His friends caught him, though one sprained his finger in the process.)