What the Wind Knows(9)

“Maeve?” I realized suddenly I didn’t know her last name. “I’m so sorry. Deirdre didn’t tell me your full name. Can I call you Maeve?”

“I know you,” she said, her brow—already a topographic map of grooves and valleys—wrinkling even further.

“You do?”

“I do.”

I stuck out my hand in greeting. “Deirdre sent me.”

She didn’t take it but stepped back and waved me in. “What was your name, lass? Just because I know your face doesn’t mean I remember your name.” She turned and tottered away, clearly expecting me to follow. I did, shutting the door behind me, the smell of damp and dust and cat dander wafting around me.

“Anne Gallagher,” I said. “I’m Anne Gallagher. I suppose I’m on a roots trip of sorts. My grandfather was born here, in Dromahair. I would really like to find where his parents are buried.”

Maeve was heading for a small table set for tea tucked next to a pair of tall windows looking out on an overgrown garden, but when I said my name, she stopped abruptly as though she’d forgotten her destination entirely.

“Eoin,” she said.

“Yes! Eoin Gallagher was my grandfather.” My heart cantered giddily. I took a few steps, not certain if she wanted me to sit for tea or remain standing. She was perfectly still for several moments, her back to me, her small figure framed by the afternoon light and frozen in remembrance or forgetfulness, I didn’t know which. I waited for her to offer instruction or extend an invitation, hoping that she wouldn’t forget she’d let a stranger into her home. I cleared my throat gently.

“Maeve?”

“She said you’d come.”

“Deirdre? Yes. She also sent your book.” I dug it from my purse and took a few more steps.

“Not Deirdre, goose. Anne. Anne said you’d come. I need tea. We’ll have tea,” she muttered, moving once again. She sat at the table and looked at me expectantly. I debated making my excuses. I suddenly felt like I was caught in a Dickens novel, taking tea with Miss Havisham. I had no desire to eat ancient wedding cake and drink Earl Grey in dusty teacups.

“Oh. That’s very kind of you,” I hedged, setting the bad-boy billionaire book on the end table nearest me.

“Eoin never came back to Dromahair. Not many do. There’s a name for that, you know. They call it an Irish goodbye. But here you are,” Maeve said, still staring at me.

I couldn’t resist the lure of Eoin’s name. I set my bag down next to the chair across from her and slid into the seat. I tried not to look too closely at the little plate of cookies or the flowered plates and teacups. What I didn’t know wouldn’t hurt me.

“Will you pour?” she asked primly.

“Yes. Yes, I’d be glad to,” I stammered, trying to remember a moment when I’d felt more uncomfortably American. I mentally scrambled for the etiquette, trying to remember what came first.

“Strong or weak?” I asked.

“Strong.”

My hands shook as I held the little strainer over her cup and filled it three-quarters full. Eoin had always preferred tea. I could serve tea.

“Sugar, lemon, or milk?” I asked.

She sniffed. “Plain.”

I bit my lip to hide my gratitude, splashed a little tea in my own cup, and wished for wine.

She raised the tea to her lips and drank with disinterest, and I followed her lead.

“Did you know Eoin well?” I asked after we’d both set our saucers down.

“No. Not really. He was much younger than I. And a little scamp at that.”

Eoin was younger than Maeve? Eoin was just shy of eighty-six when he died. I tried to calculate what “much younger” might mean.

“I’m ninety-two,” Maeve supplied. “My mother lived to be one hundred and three. My grandmother was ninety-eight. My great-grandmother was so old, no one really knew exactly how old she was. We were glad to see the auld wan go.”

I hid my snort of laughter in a demure cough.

“Let me look at you,” she demanded, and I raised my eyes to hers obediently.

“I can’t believe it. You look just like her,” she marveled.

“Like Eoin’s mother?”

“Like Anne,” she agreed. “It’s uncanny.”

“I’ve seen pictures. The resemblance is strong. But I’m surprised you remember. You would have been a very little girl when she died.”

“No.” She shook her head. “Oh no. I knew her well.”

“I was told Declan and Anne Gallagher died in 1916. Eoin was raised by his grandmother, Brigid, Declan’s mother.”

“Nooo,” she disagreed, drawing out the word as she shook her head. “Anne came back. Not right away, mind you. I remember how folks talked about her after she returned. There were some rumors . . . speculation about where she’d been. But she came back.”

I stared at the old woman, stunned. “M-my grandfather didn’t tell me,” I stammered.

She considered this, nodding and drinking her tea, her eyes cast down, and I gulped my own, my heart racing from a sense of betrayal.

“Maybe I am confused,” she retracted softly. “Don’t let the ramblings of an old woman cause you to doubt.”