Rosewater and Soda Bread (22 page)

“IT'S THE MARK OF THE DEVIL, that's what I say. No decent person goes around with those kinds of fingers,” remarked Dervla Quigley tucking her legs under her straight-backed chair. Joan Donnelly nodded from beside a shelf of New Testaments and dunked her biscuit in her teacup again. “I always knew there was something fishy about that Estelle Delmonico. Never thought she'd be consorting with the dark forces, mind you.”

Dervla sniffed. “She's Italian, isn't she? Wasn't it the Romans that had a hand to play in our Lord's fate?”

The women of the Bible study group nodded, musing soberly.

“If you ask me, that girl's no niece of hers. Not with the ginger hair on her. Marie saw it clearly, ginger as Benny Corcoran's. And his kin go as far back as any to this place.”

“And Padraig Carey not doing a tit about any of it, then? Not even taking it up with the hospital people?”

“Useless man.” Dervla sneered. “Best thing he did was marry that Margaret—not that you'd know it now; she's gotten too big for her britches with all the running around she's doing. From one pub to the next as though she's living it up in Dublin.”

“Sure, her kiddies are all up at her mam's now after school,” said Antonia Nolan. “No time for her motherly duties, that's what I hear.”

“Terrible,” spat Dervla. “Shocking all round, I say.”

“But what of the girleen? What was it you saw after she got up from her chair? Sure, they started chanting in tongues, did they, Marie? Something to the Lord of Darkness?” Assumpta Corco-ran's eyes were filled with terror.

From her corner, near the bargain bin of chastity key chains, Marie Brennan gave a meek shake of her head. She was about to replay what she had heard Estelle say when Dervla interrupted.

“Can't you see she's in shock from the whole thing? As it stands, we'll be saying novenas till Easter before she'll be right again.”

Antonia puckered her lips. “It's the work of the fairies, that's what I say. Potions and all. Goes all the way back to olden days— sure we've had our share of witches as well.”

June took up her mother's prompt: “Biddy Early, isn't that so, Mam?”

“The one and the same,” Antonia replied, recalling the famed witch doctor from County Clare. Like the greatest Druidesses before her, Biddy Early worked her magic through the all-seeing eye of a blue egg, a crystal ball that held the answers to maladies of villagers across the West. Fame and fortune had been hers in a time when famine took hold of every stomach in Ireland. “That Estelle Delmonico's probably thinking of reaping her benefits
from this girl here. Now that there's no bakery for her to run and no husband as well.”

Assumpta nodded. “I'd say she'd got Father Mahoney onboard already. What with flaunting his dirty mind on that radio like he is.”

Antonia's eyes widened. “I nearly keeled over when I heard the show. Didn't I now, June?”

June nodded. “Keeled over nearly she did. Who does he think he is, talking about Frank Sinatra's mistresses? And what of the virtues of volleyball? I've never heard of such filth!” June paused. “What's this volleyball, anyhow?”

Dervla placed her teacup firmly on the counter and shook her curly gray head. “It won't do, I tell you. It just won't do,” she said. “Something has to be done about all this—before it's too late.”

June moaned. “But what can we say of it, Dervla? What's there to be done about the whole mess?”

The Bible group awaited their leader's decision.

Dervla Quigley thumbed her rosary, smacked her lips decisively. “You just leave that to me. There's only one way of sorting this hole of decrepitude we've fallen in.”

She paused, squinting at the women seated before her. “Judgment Day could be upon us and we'd have no mind of it. It's time to put an end to all this shame.”

SHE COULD NOT BELIEVE the beauty of the place, the grand mansion surrounded by the deep forest.

As Julian took her through its many rooms, most of them filled with scaffolds and covered in sheets, Marjan felt herself transported back to a time when dances were held in its velvetwalled
ballroom and horse-drawn carriages, complete with plumed footmen, took their water breaks at an adjoining ivy-covered cottage. There were parlors after parlors, each grander than the next, and an entire ground floor for what would eventually be the restored kitchen.

They had taken a detour around the burnt-out southern wing and made their way to the dining room, a generous room with a vaulted ceiling. The fresco on one large wall was indeed the marvel Julian had promised. It was a Pre-Raphaelite portrayal of the Children of Lir, those four siblings cursed to remain swans for nine hundred years. Despite a ragged crack that was making its way down the plaster, the fresco was as pulsing with life as though one was actually looking out on a placid freshwater lake.

When Marjan turned away from the painted wall, she saw its real-life inspiration outside the window. There, through floor-length panes, stood a pond complete with a flock of those gracious birds, the white-necked swans. There was even a maze on the property, the kind shaped like a Rubik's cube of greenery. They had only stopped at its opening, for, as Julian had pointed out, people had been known to get lost in its fifteen-foot hedges for days.

It was then that he had leaned in for a kiss.

Running his hands down her arms, he gently skimmed his lips over hers, so taking her by surprise that she didn't have the time to turn away. It was only his lips, but to Marjan it felt as though she was crossing a great divide, traversing boundaries she had not realized existed deep within her.

She closed her eyes, taking in that gloriously manly scent of his, of leather and the pinecones crushed beneath their feet. She was sure he could hear her heart pounding, bursting against her jacket, wanting release, wanting to feel his. She allowed herself that moment, ignoring even the scar on her shoulder, which
pulsed in counterpoint to her myriad, kaleidoscope-like emotions. And then it ended, just as simply as it had begun. He pulled back, taking a step away.

“You need to say yes to me.” He looked at her intently, those green eyes taking on the color of the forest.

“Yes?” She felt so dizzy. For a moment it seemed as though they had been walking the maze for days.

“Yes to dinner. This Friday night. Yes to seeing me again. And again.”

Yes, she said. Yes.

THE ARBOR OF ROWAN TREES
curtsied along the curve, masking the inlet from view. It shimmied demurely as Marjan steered the van onto a leafy road, following Estelle Delmonico's directions toward Clew Bay.

“You think you are lost,” Estelle had said on Tuesday, “but suddenly you turn and there is the tree and you are found again.”

And just as her dear friend had described, the next gullied corner led straight into the dome of a majestic valonia oak. Like the arms of an aged and grand doyenne, its silvered limbs reached up and over the hillock, casting berry patterns that Layla's boyfriend, Malachy, would have likened to far-reaching constellations. As Marjan maneuvered the van around the tufted crest, an Atlantic breeze coaxed a handful of its mistletoe onto the lime green roof. The next instant brought into view the shimmering waters of Clew Bay.

Estelle's voice rang in her ear once more: “We have to help her, Marjan. Nobody is alone in this world. Someone knows this girl. Someone cares very much for her. We have to find this someone.”

The widow had been sitting on her linen couch when she said this, cradling the cup of warm milk Marjan had made for her. The young woman was asleep in the bedroom, away from their hushed voices.

“Tomorrow,” Marjan promised. “I will go to that beach tomorrow. I'll see what I can find there.” She paused, turned to the widow. “I still think you need someone else here to help you with things full-time. You can't take care of yourself and her as well,” Marjan pointed out. “Do you remember what Dr. Par-shaw said?”

Estelle shook her head. “What is there to do anyway? A little sewing, a little talking, some eating—I do this for myself all the time. No, we will be okay.”

Despite her exhaustion, Marjan could tell that the widow was happy to have the new responsibility. Still, she felt it important to ask: “But what about your arthritis? What if you get a bad spell again? Are you sure sleeping on the sofa won't be bad for your back?”

“Pfft! That is nothing. You should see the skinny hammocks we sleep in during the war in Napoli. We were lucky we didn't break our heads, we fell like melons in the night!” Estelle chirped, waving her hands around her head. “Don't worry so much, darling. The doctor is coming here every day. If I have any pains, I tell him.” She hoisted herself up from the cushiony sofa, the empty mug in her hand. “Anyway my hands, they are much better today. See?” Estelle wriggled her chubby fingers happily.

They did look less puffy, thought Marjan as she helped Estelle
into a straighter stance. “Then you'll let me make all your meals,” she conceded. “I've got the barberry rice for today. I'll bring you lunches and dinners for as long as you need them.”

Estelle's face brightened even more. “Well, that I cannot say no to,” she exclaimed. “Energy for all of us! Energy for living!”

SHE HADN'T BEEN ABLE to keep her promise to explore Clew Bay until Thursday morning. On Wednesday the café was packed with tricolored revelers making pit stops from the pub during what turned out to be a rousing success in the world of mullet haircuts, testosterone, and fancy footwork: football's coveted Cup. Football, as the inhabitants of Ballinacroagh were prone to say, was as true an Irish venture as the telling of tall tales and that black stuff called Guinness. For what other sport in history gone required such grace from grown men, every travel and kick taken from the reels and jigs of this craggy little island? Not as far a leap of the imagination as once scoffed, for on Wednesday, Ireland at long last managed to qualify for the Cup.

As a consequence, Marjan had not stopped rolling out
sangak
sandwich bread and turned off the stove until well after sunset. She would go to the Bay as early as possible the next morning, she told herself. Thursday was one of their slower breakfasts of the week anyway, giving her plenty of time to investigate.

At least she no longer needed to hide her reasons for taking the morning off. Both her sisters had seen her drive away from the back alley, Bahar with a sour and disapproving face, Layla with waves of encouragement.

Those two, thought Marjan. Sometimes, they just didn't see how hard it was to keep everything running so smoothly. Not just in the café but in every other area of their lives as well. Her
sisters never had to worry about anything beyond their everyday duties. She was the one, for example, who had to take care of the bills, make sure their business licenses were in order, and sort through the mess that was the Irish tax system. She was the one who had applied for their residency, ensuring that they were all on their way to becoming citizens of this land of endless green acres.

Neither Bahar nor Layla had ever questioned her about any of these matters, taking it for granted that Marjan would fix everything. Part of it was her fault, Marjan admitted to herself. She knew she often strove to protect them, to shelter them from upset. She had been taking care of everything since she was seventeen and didn't know how to be any other way. Maybe she should start, thought Marjan, staring out the van window. Start a different way of being.