Текст книги "Her Name Is Rose: A Novel"

Автор книги: Christine Breen

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Текущая страница: 16 (всего у книги 17 страниц)

“No. Go. Not now, Rose.”

Rose shrugged and led Conor to the sunroom, but she threw her mother one over-the-shoulder glance. Rose had caught her smiling.

“I’ll tell you later,” Iris said. “Okay?”

“Sure. Can’t wait.”

Soon Rose and Conor were playing and Iris was left to think. What? Hector? How had he got here? How had he found her? Hector? It was as if a Californian poppy had unexpectedly appeared in her flower border. What did he want? It was mad, just mad.

She escaped outside to finish making the centerpiece. Tons of lady’s mantle bloomed along the path. Somewhat wildly, Iris clipped a large bunch and dropped it in her basket. She gathered a few love-in-a-mist seed heads and two fat hosta leaves, then began to arrange them with cosmos in a black watering can she had chosen as a container. She needed more color and hesitantly snipped her two last red poppies from the border in front of the sunroom.

Inside the shed her hands were shaking as she made final adjustments. What the … Hector? Here in Ashwood? Had he seen her garden? Talked with Rose? She tried to concentrate on the arrangement, but the flowers kept falling sideways. She placed a long red rose in the center and the arrangement held.

“Mum?” Rose was on the path. “Mum? Conor’s van is back. All fixed. We’re going to get a bite to eat in Doonbeg. Is it okay if we see you there? Conor needs to meet someone.”

“Of course.”

“You’re okay?” Rose waited.

“Sure … you’re home. That’s all I need. And … I get to hear you play tonight.”

Rose only half smiled. She turned and followed Conor, but had only taken a few steps when she came back to her mother. “Do you think he’d mind?”

Iris was holding the centerpiece in both hands. The large faces of the poppies obscured her own face. “Who? Mind what?”

“You know! Dadda?”

Iris’s face flushed.

“Would he mind me…?”

“Oh!” Iris said, realizing Rose wasn’t asking if Luke would mind about Hector.

“Would he mind me playing ‘Over the Rainbow’?”

Iris lowered the centerpiece. “I think he’d be happy.”

“And you?”

“Me? It’s wonderful.” She put the centerpiece on the wooden table under the porch and then her arm around Rose and led her out to where Conor was looking at his repaired van, like it was a temperamental friend he’d now forgiven.

“All right, then, ready for road?” he said. “’Bye, Mrs. Bowen.”

“I think you can call me Iris.”

Rose kissed her mother and whispered, “You’re not off the hook yet. I want to hear all about Mr. Hector Sherr.”

Iris waved her hand at her daughter. “Go!”

Along the path back to the house she picked up Cicero and brought him inside. She decided against making a supper just for herself and instead got some crackers and some cheese from the refrigerator. She cut a few slices for the cat.

“Is he a nice man?” she asked Cicero. “Hmmm? Isn’t he?” Waiting for the kettle to boil, she ran her hands over the cat’s back. She hadn’t gardened in two weeks and noticed her fingers were beginning to look, well, normal. The chapped edges of her forefingers were softening. Even her nails were growing. Her wedding ring clinked against the cat’s collar and, all of a sudden, she remembered the dream of Luke smiling and walking out of the sea toward her. He was carrying a box. It was an open box.

She had just enough time to wash her hair, so she grabbed some shampoo from the cupboard and washed in the sink. The lather released a scent of apples and cinnamon. Then with toweled-up hair, she sat and finished the blog post that had been gathering in her mind.

Sea change. Rainy summer is in full swing, but nothing can dampen the turning of the world. It goes on with or without you—the seasons and the garden and the very music of life itself. You’d think the rain might have a slowing-down effect. Even hope it will. But nothing can deter the steady passage of summer into autumn. The cuckoo flies south. The baby swallows leave the roof beams. The purple moor grass turns orange.

Neither wind nor rain nor sun nor gray skies can hold back the changing seasons. So perhaps they change in us, too. The thing your slow, redheaded gardener realized in her garden today was not to resist. The garden teaches trust. Accept the change.

Cry out: Onward, hail and olé.

And celebrate.

At seven o’clock Iris drove westward toward the sea. She was running late and so drove fast, constantly glancing sideways to mind the old black watering can doddering in the backseat. She should never have filled it with water. The rain had shifted east and the sky showed blue between parting clouds. Sunlight shone out beyond Spanish Point. In midsummer dusk didn’t fall until eleven. This was her country at its best.

Iris had decided not to tell Rose about Hilary, at least not yet. There was no need now. Iris wasn’t going to die. Not yet, anyway, thank God. She had reacted out of fear. Fear that Rose would be alone, and unable to manage without her. Tess was right. You can’t prepare for every eventuality. Rose had her own life to live and, judging by recent events, she was doing pretty damn well on her own. Hadn’t she managed her master class? Hadn’t she landed herself into a promising-looking relationship with Conor? In fact, she was blooming before Iris’s eyes. Blooming in a way that proved, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that all the nurturing, nourishing, wiping away tears, encouraging, consoling, challenging, and battling at times, all the guiding, supporting, parenting, and mothering—yes, real mothering—had given Rose the best possible circumstances in which to flourish.

In time, life was going to take her daughter away from Ashwood, probably before Iris was ready. That was one eventuality she could prepare for—and she would, and somehow it would be fine. Sonia McGowan, too, had been right. It was up to Rose to ask questions if she wanted to know about her birth mother. That’s the way it works. And even though there was no indication of a birth father, it would still be Rose’s decision to initiate the process of tracing information about her birth parents. Her natural parents.

It was ironic, but in discovering that Hilary was dead, Iris felt anchored to Rose in a way she hadn’t before. That was natural.

The fact was, hard as it was to take, Iris had lost her mate. And the truth was, she was learning, albeit slowly, that she had to get on without him. As for her promise to Luke, she had tried to find Hilary. The journey had taken her though a season of melancholia. A new season was emerging. It wasn’t exactly an epiphany, but Iris acknowledged, today, she hadn’t been able to see grief as a process that takes its own time. Waves come and go. And wash over you.

Allow grief to be a badge of courage, an inspiration, a transformative sea change—Luke was saying in the dream. Honor what is best. See it in me. In yourself. In Rose. That is my gift to you.

*   *   *

Fifteen minutes later she arrived at the Doonbeg Community Center. Cars were arriving and parking every which way as was the custom in that part of the world. She pulled over as near to the front door as she could and got out and eased the centerpiece from the backseat. Inside the foyer, a small crowd had gathered and stood admiring a children’s art competition on the walls, the theme being jazz. There were drawings of wild-haired drummers, and yellow saxophones, and crazy crooked pianos. One blue guitar had won first prize.

“There you are!”

“A bit late, sorry, Tess.”

“No bother, pet.” She stood back. “You look nice.”

“Have you seen Rose?”

“Inside. Bring the flowers and we’ll put them on stage.” Tess started through the double doors in the hall, then stopped and said, “You really do look nice.”

Iris blushed. She knew she had made an effort. And that was something new. But was it so noticeable? She followed Tess, snaking through the rows of chairs and up the stairs to the somewhat-bare stage. A drum set was arranged against a black curtain in the corner. Tess looked around for a place to put the flowers. “The piano will have to do. There’s nothing else. I’ll find something to put under it. Sean will have my head if I scratch the new piano. I’ll be right back.” Tess was wearing a sleeveless summer dress with a crazy patchwork pattern of flamboyant colors, some Spanish label she was fond of. Iris hated it. Tess knew that and knew, too, Iris preferred her flamboyant colors to be in the garden.

Iris stood on the empty stage holding the flowers, feeling somewhat conspicuous. She’d missed last year’s concert and the one before that because of Luke. And now she realized there were a dozen people she hadn’t seen in two years. Marjorie O’Neill was waving to her. Una Brew and Mary O’Dea, school friends of Rose’s, were signaling: Is Rose here? Was Iris obliged to approach them all and redeem herself? Apologize for her absence? Maybe later. Musicians nodded as they ambled up onstage and passed by on the way to the dressing rooms. A young man with a black baseball cap unpacked a bass in the corner.

Iris spotted Conor in the now crowded auditorium. He was talking with a tall man she could only half see, his back was to her. Hector? Was he here? Her heart skipped. Conor saw her and nodded. The stranger in a white shirt and jean jacket turned.

It wasn’t Hector.

Iris swiftly scanned the crowded room. No Hector. Why hadn’t she asked Rose what he’d said? Had she told him about the concert? She couldn’t spot Rose, either. Where was she? Practicing? Was she anxious about the piece? Did I not put her at ease about playing?

“Here we go.” Tess hurried back onstage and laid a gold cloth on the piano. “It’s the best I could find.” It had the name of the local drama group and their mascot, a greyhound, emblazoned in green. Tess laughed and stood back while Iris lifted the flowers and centered them on the piano.

“Looks rather fab,” Tess said. “You did a good job. Don’t you think?” She checked her wristwatch.

Iris didn’t answer.

“Iris?”

Movement down at the door had caught Iris’s eye. She let out a gasp and abruptly turned to face the back curtain of the stage.

“Iris? What’s wrong?”

“I have to get out of here,” she whispered.

“What? Why?”

Iris ducked past the piano, slipped through the curtain, and was gone.

Tess quickly followed her into the women’s dressing room.

“Something’s happened,” Iris said, “I tried to tell you earlier … at lunch. But … oh … I met someone in Boston. He’s here. Rose met him. He came to the house when you and I were at lunch. He’s been to my house, Tess.… And now … he’s here!”

“Okay. Okay. Calm down.”

“Tess! I don’t … he’s here … and I don’t—”

“It’s all right. Slow down.” Tess’s hands were waving up and down like she was softly combing the air. “Breathe.”

Iris blew air at the ceiling.

“Did you know he was coming?”

“No!”

“So he just—”

“Followed me.”

“Wow. I mean—”

“What should I do?”

“What do you want to do?”

Iris brought her hands to her face and felt the heat there. She shook her head and said, “I don’t know.”

Tess laughed. “You poor thing.”

“It’s not funny.”

“Okay. Sorry. But listen. You can’t leave. You have to hear Rose and Conor. Wait until most of the seats are taken. Before the music is about to start, which is in a few minutes! Slip out and take your seat. Easy peasy. I’ve put a reserved sign on our chairs anyway. At the front.” She squeezed Iris’s hand. “I’ll mind you.”

Somebody had bumped into the drum set onstage and set the cymbals clanging. It made Iris jump. “Where is Rose?”

“She’s probably tuning up.”

“I don’t think so.”

Tess checked her watch again. “I’ve got to get back to the front and help with the raffle tickets. You’ll be all right, pet.” At the door, Tess turned around. “What’s he look like?”

Iris gave her a helpless look.

“Gorgeous? Tall?”

“Tess!”

When Tess had gone, Iris caught herself in the dressing room mirror and sighed. She paced the room, casting her eyes about and listening for sounds of someone approaching. She hoped any moment Rose would come. The door opened and closed, but it was only the musicians gathering in the next dressing room. She heard Italian spoken and laughter rising from children running in front of the stage. It was time for the concert to start.

She stayed in the curtained wings, determined not to look out, but she couldn’t help herself. The community center was packed, every seat taken. Long benches had been carried in from the local school and placed up along the side walls. Rows of twenty seats now took twenty-five. The buzz of chat and shuffling noises of chairs and shoes and coughs and children’s squeals built around the auditorium.

She looked out into the faces, but she couldn’t see Hector’s. What was she feeling? She wasn’t sure. She couldn’t pinpoint it but it felt something like a mortified schoolgirl might feel. If he wasn’t so … so Hawaiian shirt!

For a moment her eyes locked on the man with whom Conor had been speaking. He was walking toward a seat at the back but looking directly at her. She lowered her eyes and went down the stairs and slid into one of the empty chairs at the front marked “reserved.” She held her hands in her lap and tried to be still and silent and invisible and studied the program notes.

A few moments later she felt someone standing in front of her.

“Mrs. Bowen. Hey. Exciting, isn’t it? Can’t wait to play with Rose.”

“Yes. Yes, I’m sure, Conor. Where is she, though, I wanted to speak with her.”

“She said she needed to clear her head. She drove down the road to the beach. Took Gerty. I mean, my van. She should be back soon.” Conor paused, eyeing the auditorium. “No worries. We’re not playing till after the intermission.”

“She used to go there with her father,” Iris said quietly. “To the White Strand. Just the two of them.”

“Ohhhh. Right. I didn’t know … okay. I’ll wait for her by the door so.” As he walked away he pulled out his phone.

Tess was hurrying up the aisle. She had the metal cash box with her. “Great crowd! Isn’t it just mad?” She sat down, leaned in to Iris, and whispered, “Did you see him yet?”

Iris shook her head. “I’m not looking!”

“Right.” Tess turned her head around but Iris grabbed her arm.

“Don’t. Please.”

Something onstage caught their attention. A group of young men in tuxedos in various states of wear came on carrying a bass, guitar, and violin. The man with the electric guitar introduced them as Tuxedo Jazz.

“Oh, they’re cute,” Tess said. Iris nodded, but she was only half listening. They started playing. Tess rocked to the beat of the bass. Iris closed her eyes and tried to concentrate on the violin part. And before she knew it, the piece was over.

Tess nudged her and whispered, “You okay, pet?”

“Not really. And where’s Rose?”

Tess’s eyes swept the audience and she gave a little wave and turned back.

“She’s at the back. Look over your shoulder to the left of the door.”

There was Rose standing with Conor. She seemed all right. In her brief scan of the audience she hadn’t seen Hector. It gave her time to think. For an encore the Tuxedo Jazz group played “Sweet Georgia Brown” and behind Iris someone was singing. It seemed as if half the audience was singing or humming and tapping their feet. Iris relaxed a moment and felt lifted, slightly. Rose was there. Okay.

Maybe Hector had left.

Maybe she had only imagined him. And in that moment, when she felt somewhere deep inside a swelling warmth, she realized she did want to see him.

When Tuxedo Jazz finished, they bowed and the crowd clapped wildly. It was as if their jazz was an exotic thing that landed in West Clare only once in a blue moon. It lifted the audience and with it came a greater freedom in their lives, if only for that evening. At the intermission the back doors were opened and evening sunshine spilled in. Some of the audience stood and chatted and some went out for cigarettes and some over to Tubridy’s for a pint before the second half. Three women started through the audience selling Tess’s raffle tickets. First prize was a dinner for two at the Doonbeg Lodge. Second prize was a family ticket for Bunratty Castle Folk Park and third prize was a wash, cut, and blow-dry at Peter Marks in Ennis.

“You want first prize,” Tess whispered. “I need third.” And she stuck two tickets into Iris’s hand.

The two women stood and stayed where they were facing the stage. Rose and Conor came toward them. Rose had changed into a black dress and her hair was pulled back. She wasn’t wearing any makeup and she looked tired, her mother thought.

Tess said, “Rose, you look wonderful.”

“Yeah, super,” said Conor.

“Are you okay, honey?”

“Um. Yeah, I guess. I’m fine.” She looked down. “A little nervous maybe.” Conor put his arm on her bare shoulder and she faced him, but in moving, his arm slipped off as she seemed to intend. “Who was that man you were speaking to when I came back?”

“The white shirt guy?”

“Yeah.”

“He’s the guy I told you about. He picked me up when my van broke and brought me to your house. I gave him a ticket. You should have come over. I wanted to introduce you. Nice guy. American. Golfer, he said.”

“Oh, that was him? Nice,” Rose said distractedly.

“Seems it’s the day for meeting the Yanks, hey?” said Conor.

Only Tess laughed and when she did Iris darted her a look.

“Okay, then. I’ll leave you all for a bit,” Tess said to Iris. “Better check on what trouble my boys are into,” and to Rose and Conor added, “I’m so looking forward to hearing you play.” As she darted off she crossed two fingers on both hands and held them up. “Best of luck!”

“Rose?” said Conor. “White shirt guy? I sort of told him all about you. He was superimpressed. He said he’d love to meet you one day. He gave me this.” Conor reached into his pocket. “He said to give it to you … some sort of good luck charm.” He dropped a little silver coin into Rose’s hand.

She turned it over. “What is it?”

“Old money. It’s got a hare and harp on it.”

Rose handed it to Iris.

“It’s an old Irish threepenny piece,” her mother said after a few seconds and handed it back.

“He said he hoped it would bring you luck.”

“That’s kind of random,” Rose said. “Nice, but random.”

“Luck sometimes is. Isn’t it, Mrs. Bowen? I mean, Iris.”

Iris smiled.

“He told me he wanted to be a musician himself. Hadn’t worked out for some reason. He said he was hopeful you’d have a wonderful career, though.”

Rose looked at both sides of the coin, at the hare and the harp, and then slipped it into the pocket of her dress. She looked around at the crowd as if to see him, to even thank him perhaps, Iris thought, as recognition crossed her daughter’s face.

“Hey, Mum, isn’t that your new friend, Hector? Over there?” She pointed.

Without thinking Iris turned to look, diagonally to the far side of the room.

There.

“Oh. He’s seen us,” Rose whispered.

Hector came gingerly toward them, excusing himself as he weaved though the audience, his head nearly a foot above most of them.

There was no way out unless Iris made a show of herself. Rose sensed her mother’s disturbance, as if somehow the very air in the room was changed and she could feel her steadying against it. She stepped forward as Hector approached.

“Hello, Mr. Sherr.”

“Hello. Hello, Rose.” He carried a bouquet of flowers. He’d acknowledged Conor with a nod but he looked directly at Iris. “Hello, Iris.” He laughed self-consciously. “I had to see you again.” He spoke as if they were the only two there. “I’m sorry, I just had to.”

Iris felt she had fallen off the world, or into it. She couldn’t tell. She had too many feelings scrambling for her attention and no thoughts for any of them. Except one, the understanding that she couldn’t deny she was happy to see him. Hector. Hector Sherr. Mr. Jazz Piano Man was standing in the Doonbeg Community Center in the middle of the west of Ireland.

“Rosie?” Conor said, nudging her. “We’d better get—”

“Mum?”

Iris found herself looking from one to the other. Then to Hector: “You’ve met Rose … she’s playing … with … with…”

“Conor,” Hector said. Iris looked surprised. “I saw it on the program.” He turned to Rose. “Yeah, you’re performing one of my favorite pieces.” He handed her the flowers. “Good luck.”

“Two good luck tokens in one evening. You must be on to a winner,” Conor said.

“Thanks. Thanks, Mr. Sherr.” Rose’s expression showed she was somewhere between bewildered and bemused. She took a deep breath and let it out with a long, slow whoosh. She gave her mother the flowers and hurried up the stage steps with Conor and disappeared behind the curtains, leaving Iris somewhat thunderstruck and standing alone beside the tall, tanned man in the colorful shirt with his fair, midlength hair behind his ears, like wings, and his eyes sympathetic and glad.

“May I sit with you?” he asked.

Iris nodded and sat down with the flowers on her lap. Hector took the seat to her left.

Tess suddenly reappeared and, without batting an eye, seeing her seat was taken, sat down on the floor alongside some children seated in front of them. They giggled and Tess shushed them.

Tess’s husband, Sean, introduced the second half of the evening as being devoted to duets, and then acknowledged the great work of the volunteer committee. He announced the winners of the raffle and thanked the sponsors, saying it couldn’t be done without them.

“And if anyone has a free seat, would they be so kind as to give it over to my wife, the tireless Countessa, who’s sitting down there on the floor!” The audience laughed and a few shouts went up and Sean said, “There, Tess, at the back. Thank the good man and let the music begin.” They all watched as Tess got up and spiritedly jogged her way to the seat vacated by the man in a white shirt and jean jacket who moved to the back wall of the auditorium.

First up was a jazz version of “As Time Goes By”—on violin accompanied by harmonica. Hector turned briefly but Iris refused to look at him or anyone and kept her eyes straight ahead. The duet of two young musicians, a teenage boy on harmonica and a young woman in her early twenties on a blue electric fiddle, began. By the end of the first verse Hector was humming. Dear God, he’s humming. And then he started singing, softly, though.

Iris knew the words, too. The facts of life …

Hector then put his hand on top of hers. He stopped singing.

She closed her eyes but faced slightly toward him, and she let her hand be covered until the end of the piece. Then she slipped it away to clap with the rest of the audience.

*   *   *

For Rose to perform in front of the local community was not in and of itself a challenge. She was used to playing in front of audiences. Iris watched the first duo leave the stage, then Conor and Rose appeared. They stood side by side. A cold sweat broke out on Iris’s forehead. The audience stopped clapping. An expectant hush hung in the air.

Conor bowed, lifted his fiddle up under his neck, and brought his bow to the strings. He began with the musical introduction, playing the way into the piece for Rose. She stood with her violin and bow hanging. She caught her mother’s eye and in a single flowing movement took a step back and lifted her violin. She rested it on her shoulder and settled her chin into the rest. Her bow arm still hung at her side but it was already moving in time. Then she lifted her bow and joined Conor.

There are some people in the world whose presence is such that when they stand before you, whether in conversation, or performance, or whatever, they are met with awe. Rose’s presence onstage commanded this attention. And she was beautiful. It wasn’t just Iris’s imagination that the audience hushed as she played. It was like there was always this secret part of her daughter that only achieved perfect expression through her playing. Her bow arm was flawlessly positioned. Her violin was held high and her elbow was angled exactly the way Andreas had taught her.

Iris felt her heart expand beneath her breast as if something was let go and there was more room in her, wide and free, and she felt like encompassing everything and everyone. The pink light coming through the windows. The raffle sellers paused in counting money. The children with their noisy snack wrappers. The blue guitar that won first prize (and the one that didn’t). The rapt countrymen. The coughers. The man in the white shirt. Her best friend, Tess. Conor. And the man beside her. Hector Sherr.

Sensing this easing in her, Hector started the quietest humming. Bluebirds fly … She turned to him, wanting to both smile and shush him.

Then the music weakened.

Onstage, Rose had lowered her bow. It was like she was frozen or dumbstruck, or had she lost the notes? The audience paused with her. Iris caught her breath. She knew that pose of Rose’s: At any moment she would burst. Tears streaming. Body shaking.

Hector turned to Iris. “What’s wrong?”

Iris kept her eyes on her daughter and opened them wider as if to say, It’s all right. Everything is all right. Conor continued playing but he, too, looked at Rose, his eyebrows raised questioningly and turned slightly away from the audience to face her. Rose was starting to shake.

“May I?” Hector asked.

“What?”

“I know this version.”

Iris didn’t know what to say. But now Hector Sherr was standing and in his long-legged stride was hopping up the steps two at a time. Within seconds he was seated at the piano with the watering can full of flowers on top. Conor had slowed the tune, pulled the melody into melancholy, but he had kept it going. He was waiting for her but Rose was riveted to her spot, looking down to her mother. Iris was nodding her head and mouthing the words all mothers know, and all have said, after every fall down and disappointment and heartbreak: It’s okay, honey. It’s okay. Everything is going to be okay. Go on …

And then Hector played. Joined right in with Conor.

At first Rose didn’t react. So Hector played a jazzy solo. Conor moved toward her and exaggerated his own playing, encouraging her to join in. And finally Rose shifted gears and came back to the moment, to herself. She returned to the melody. Even Iris’s centerpiece came alive, the lime flowers of lady’s mantle pulsing as Hector’s fingers beat the piano keys.

And by God, he could play. Conor grinned and Rose’s face relaxed. Troubles melt …

Tess didn’t miss a beat in reclaiming her seat. She put her arm around Iris. “It’s all good, you know. Luke would be happy. Happy for Rose. And for you, Iris.”

The sad, sweet, beautiful longing of “Over the Rainbow” continued to fill the hall. In it every single person in that audience found their own yearning, and for a time dared their dreams to come true.

And because Rose and Hector were real musicians, they knew when to accompany and when to solo. They had fun with the piece and the audience loved them. When Hector nodded, Conor stepped back, Rose stepped up, and like one of those bluebirds flying, her bow took flight and she was in the music.

When it was over, the audience rose in ovation with one long roar. It was the kind of big-game roar Iris was sure Hector had never quite heard before at a jazz concert. He stayed seated at the piano until Conor bowed and beckoned him. Then he came to stand, with that particular awkward shyness of his, beside Rose. He bowed to her and the audience applauded louder. Then he exited the stage, disappearing through the curtain and leaving Conor and Rose to bow once more.

A moment later all the musicians appeared onstage, but Hector wasn’t among them. They bowed and, after accepting more exuberant applause, returned to the dressing rooms behind the curtain.

“Oh my God, Iris. That was fab. Just fab! And what about that knight in the Hawaiian shirt riding in to save the day? I want to be introduced!”

Iris was too dazed to speak. She nodded and looked to Tess, her eyes wet.

“Ah, pet.” She gave Iris a quick hug. “It’s all okay. Hey, the doctor was right when she said there’s a lot going on in there! Ha! If she only knew! I’ve got to get going. I’ve got some bits and bobs to tidy up but I’ll see you in a moment. You’ll be okay. Oh, and the gang in the back are going to have a bit of a celebration. Sean bought some champagne, so don’t expect them to hurry straight out.”

Iris stayed where she had been sitting. The audience had emptied out to the still light evening. She closed her eyes, singing the words silently to herself.

Then she felt a hand touch her shoulder.

“Mrs. Bowen?”

“Yes. What?” Iris, startled, opened her eyes and looked up.

“I’m sorry to disturb you.” It was the man in the white shirt.

“That’s all right.” She stood, still holding the flowers Hector had given Rose.

“I just wanted to say … um … she … your daughter, Rose, is really terrific. And so … so … beautiful.”

“Yes. She really is,” Iris said, the after-music still echoing in her.

“She plays brilliantly. You must be very proud.”

“Yes, I am. Thank you. Very proud. But she’s done it all herself.” It wasn’t the first time a stranger had come to share their appreciation of Rose’s talent. But there was something about him. Was it his eyes? Had she met him before? “You gave her the coin?”

“Yes … for luck.”

“That was so nice. But are you sure? I mean, it’s—”

“It belonged to someone very special. It was my grandfather’s. He died recently and I—”

“Oh … I’m sorry for your loss.” For one moment, Iris thought the man was going to cry.

“His name was Burdy.” He looked down at the program he was holding. “He always wanted me to come to Ireland. I think he hoped one day I’d—”

His eyes glanced up quickly at the empty stage, and came back again to Iris’s. Suddenly all his features broadened, as if caught by surprise. Iris waited, expecting he was going to say more.

“I was just remembering something someone said to me a long time ago, which I had forgotten until now. ‘You will go to Ireland and find a girl and it will change your life.’” He stood quite still as if he needed to so the meaning of the words he’d just voiced could sink in.

“And?” Iris said, watching his face slowly relax as if it was a bud, untightening. A poppy shedding its shell ready to unfurl.

“Yes. Well. Here I am.”

“I mean … have you found her?”

“I have. Yes.” He paused. “I have found her.”