Page 29 of The Irish Goodbye

She told Cordelia about currachs, the traditional boats that were once the only way to get from the islands to the mainland.

“First they used cowhide on the currachs,” she said. “Then it was calico. Then canvas.”

Her description jogged something in Cordelia’s memory.

“I saw a picture of those!” she exclaimed. “On the wall in Fiona’s house. They look like canoes, right?”

“They do indeed. Niall used to race in the summers—that’s what they’re mainly used for now. Though some still fish with ’em. You’ll get to see the races during Pátrún. Niall was a great rower back in the day. Strong arms. Broad chest.” She winked. “He’s a fine thing, isn’t he?”

Cordelia flushed. “Oh, um …”

Róisín laughed and put her teacup down. “I’m just teasing you, girl. He’s all doom and gloom now. I wouldn’t imagine any young girl, much less one so lovely as yourself, would go near him with a ten-foot pole.”

“He seems to have a pretty good reason for the gloom, though,” Cordelia pointed out.

“Yes,” Róisín said sadly. “That he does.”

After lunch, Róisín showed her how to hook Brigid to the cart. Cordelia climbed up to sit beside her in the driver’s seat and with a crack of the reins, they were off. The cart rumbled and bumped along the roads, and Róisín pointed out this house and that, telling Cordelia about who lived there, and who their grandparents were, and bits of small gossip. They passed the ruins of an old church and a beach where a few daring swimmers were kicking around in the surf. Everyone seemed to know Róisín and by extension Cordelia.

“Fine day, innit, Róisín?” a man called from the doorway of his house.

“Grand, Brogan,” she called back.

“Hello, American girl,” he said. Cordelia smiled and waved.

They were turning a bend in the road when a teenage boy ran out right in front of them chasing a soccer ball.

“You fecking eejit!” Róisín cried. “Watch where you’re going, Rory, or I’ll tell your mam you’ve been messing about with the Sullivan girl.”

“Sorry, Róisín!” the boy said, scampering away to safety.

Cordelia had quite forgotten where they were going by the time they reached a road packed with other carts, all headed in the same direction.

“Too nice a day,” Róisín grumbled. “The tourists coming out of the woodwork like termites. I know this island needs tourism but I wish they wouldn’t clog up the roads. All right, Darragh!”

The man with the bulbous nose from O’Connor’s was driving a cart in the opposite direction, a family in the back chatting away in German.

“American girl!” Darragh cried, waving at Cordelia. “Good t’see you again.”

“Hi,” Cordelia said. It was weird that everyone knew her, but it was also kind of nice. A little less lonely, maybe. There was a cluster of whitewashed buildings with thatched roofs huddled around a cobblestone square, selling various trinkets and hats and scarves made of Aran wool.

“There’s the entrance,” Róisín said, pointing. A wide path wound its way over a vast expanse of grass dotted with gray stones, leading up to where a larger, higher stone wall spread out across a cliff. The ocean sparkled in the distance.

Cordelia hopped off the cart. “Are you coming too?” she asked. Róisín chuckled.

“Not on these old stumps, lass.”

Cordelia joined the throng of people making their way along the path.

The wind picked up as she walked, whipping her hair about her face. The air was turning colder and goose bumps spread across her bare thighs. She climbed through a break in the larger wall and stepped out into a wide semicircle of ancient stone. The grass receded into smooth slabs near the edge of the cliff. The view was spectacular—waves crashed against the high cliff walls, the water a shocking turquoise at their base then dulling into slate gray as it spread out toward the horizon. Every now and then a wave would smash into rock and send up a violent spray.

She tried to take it all in but there were so many people peering over the cliffs and taking pictures and talking loudly. Cordelia headed back, and by the time she reached the cluster of shops, dark clouds were creeping across the sky, the air turning chilly and damp.

“It’s good you came back so soon—I don’t like the look of those clouds,” Róisín said, snapping the reins. When they reached the house, Cordelia helped Róisín untack Brigid then walked down to the cottage. As soon as she stepped inside, it began to rain.

“Perfect timing,” she said with a smile. She headed to the kitchen, humming to herself as she boiled water for pasta and heated up the sauce in a small pot. She poured herself a glass of wine while the pasta cooked, and when the meal was ready, she sat at the table in the front room with her book as the rain pattered against the windows.

Suddenly, she remembered the pictures she’d taken earlier. She grabbed her phone and opened her photos. Her breath caught and she put her fork down. Róisín’s house with Brigid framed by the blue sky and green grass … she felt like she could step inside it and relive the day all over again.