Chapter 15

Held So Close

Kate kissed Sullivan again, unable to pull away, neither of them willing to say good night. His lips were perfect, neither too full nor too thin, softer than she’d expected. A light mist fell from a band of clouds overhead, stopping and starting, dripping from the blackthorn trees in a rhythmic patter. Kate didn’t mind the cold or the wet. She didn’t feel anything but Sullivan’s arms around her. The shower would pass within moments—there, it already had, the clouds moving off to rain in another place—the memory of the squall contained in the puddles that reflected shadows and stars, Kate and Sullivan too, standing there in the lane below Bernie’s cottage.

“I’ll be away for a day or so, selling, upcoast, but there’s a craic on Friday,” he said, still holding her close as they lingered by the van, which he’d parked just outside Bernie’s gate, the bicycle resting against the wall. “You’ll be there, won’t you? Say yes.”

“Well—”

“There will be dancing.” He rocked her gently, side to side. “A girl like you must love to dance.”

“A girl like me?”

“With such fine, strong legs.”

“Now who’s being fresh?”

“We’re past that now, aren’t we?”

Yes, she supposed they were. She’d only been with him a few hours, and yet it seemed longer in the best way. It must have been past midnight by then. A crescent of moon shone down on them, ribbons of cloud trailing across the sky, and the breeze stirring the trees and carrying the scent of primrose and lily of the valley.

“Come home with me,” he said.

“I can’t,” she replied, though she wanted to. “Not tonight.” She took a step toward the house, as she knew she must, because Bernie was waiting, because a part of her sensed that this was too much too soon, that she needed to slow things down. They had days ahead of them, didn’t they? Days and days to get to know one another better. She wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon. She liked Glenmara. She could stay for a while, learn about the lace, about him.

“Please.” He held onto her hand.

“I have to go.” She laughed. The light was on in Bernie’s front room. Her hostess was still awake.

He gave her hand a squeeze before releasing her at last. “Friday, then. Don’t forget.”

 

When Kate opened the door, Fergus woofed a greeting as she hung her coat on the peg in the hall and went into the sitting room. Bernie looked up from her chair by the fire, reading glasses perched on the end of her nose, a book open on her lap. The turf glowed in the hearth, burning low.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” Kate said. “I should have called. I didn’t mean to keep you up—”

“Not at all,” Bernie said. “I’m glad you were having fun. With Sullivan, were you?”

“I don’t know where the time went.”

“It passes quickly, doesn’t it, when you’re with the right person.” Bernie gestured to a teapot on the side table. “I was getting ready to have a bit of warm almond milk. Helps me sleep better. Would you like some?”

Kate took the cup Bernie offered. She tucked her hair behind her ears and blew on the milk to cool it, realizing, with a twinge of embarrassment, that she had a smudge of clay from the van on her cheek. She quickly wiped it away, hoping Bernie hadn’t noticed. “He asked me if I was going to the craic Friday night,” she said.

“Oh, yes, you must. We’ll all be there for the music and dancing. Sullivan is part of the band. He learned to fiddle from his grandfather during the summers he spent in Glenmara. He’s a fine musician,” Bernie said, adding, “A fine man too. They’re getting harder to find these days.”

“Yes, they are,” Kate agreed.

“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.

The Lace Makers of Glenmara
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