The Lace Makers of Glenmara - By Heather Barbieri Page 0,3
to get out of here,” she’d told Ella. Not just the shop—the city, the state, the entire country. To Ireland. Land of her ancestors, land of the green, of rainbows and magic and pots of gold.
She and her mother had intended to go together, but her mother’s cancer had accelerated, taking her before they made the trip; she made Kate promise to travel on her own, left her a small inheritance to finance the venture. Then Kate and Ethan meant to visit, as part of a European tour, which Kate had thought of as their future honeymoon, and Ethan, she now realized, probably hadn’t.
There she was, halfway around the world, heading down this potholed, split-lipped road that went God only knew where. Trying to forget the way Ethan’s hair stuck up in the morning, the way he made her coffee and burned the toast, the way his eyes held so many colors—flecks of green and gold and brown and blue. She’d never seen eyes like that before, had been seduced by them the first time he’d asked her a question in a college literature class seven years ago. They had been studying Thomas Hardy that term. Had that been a bad sign? They were friends in the beginning. She watched him date a succession of people, waiting to be chosen, waiting for the night she and Ethan would drink too much, fall into bed, and become inseparable.
She’d be more careful next time. She’d only date men who chose her first, when they were sober and sure. She’d only date men with solid, reliable eyes, eyes that had settled on being one color, say brown. Yes, brown. If she ever trusted herself enough to date again.
Bells. There on that Irish road, she heard bells. Had she frozen to death? Were they rung by angels? Fairies? The wedding jester, returned to mock her? Or was it a beast of a man wielding chains, who would murder her in the ditch, the news of which would eventually reach Ethan, plunging him into paroxysms of guilt?
No, she wasn’t famous enough to rate the media coverage, though she’d dreamed of being known for her designs, once; she would be a footnote on the Seattle Post-Intelligencer obituary page, “Local aspiring fashion designer dies on lonely Irish lane.”
She shrank into the bushes, waiting for whatever it was to pass or put her out of her misery.
A horse snorted, hoofbeats plodded. A wagon appeared, painted with exuberant flowers, an ode to Peter Max in mod red, yellow, and green, canvas stretched over the top. A stocky traveler held the reins to the portliest equine she had ever seen. The man and his colorful cart looked as if they’d stepped out of a fairy tale or the Beatles film Yellow Submarine.
She stared at him through the leaves in surprise, and he, at her. “Haven’t washed away yet, have you?” he asked.
She shook her head. The branches showered her with water, drops pattering on her hood in hollow applause.
“Where are you headed?” He wore a canvas coat, vest, jeans, and, rather incongruously, brand-new sneakers, his skin tanned as cognac and heavily lined. There was a natural openness in his face she rarely encountered at home.
“Someplace dry,” she replied with a half smile, dipping her chin slightly.
“You won’t find it standing there—though those leaves are rather becoming on you.”
She fingered a length of honeysuckle vine. “The arboreal look is very in this season.” She felt her cheeks begin to color.
“Is it now? You’re giving the wearing of the green a whole new meaning.” He tipped the rain from the brim of his hat. “Would you like a lift?”
She brushed the lichen from her jacket, hesitating. Instinct told her to trust him. Besides, she had to consider her options, her present situation. There was nothing but the road and the sheep and the drip-drip-drip of rain. And then there was him, offering her what could be a pleasant alternative. Perhaps it was time to take a chance. He looked harmless enough.
“Can’t stay out in this weather, that’s for certain,” he continued. “You’ll catch your death.”
She imagined herself expiring in a field like a tragic heroine in a Victorian novel. “Or drown.” She held out her hand, palm up, catching raindrops, letting them fall.
“Come on then.” He patted the seat beside him. “Hop up. I could use the company.”
Chapter 2
William the Traveler
In all his days of wandering, William the Traveler had never seen a face so wistful, hope and sadness intermingling. Her skin