A Woman's Heart

“Americans always get lost,” she said. “But then again, haven’t I known native Irishmen to have the same problem from time to time? Especially out here in the west.” She shot a look at the car—the only Mercedes in the Hertz inventory when he’d arrived—and then another, longer look up at him. “You’d be one of those movie folk,” she guessed.

Quinn decided there was no point in denying it. “Yes.” He prepared himself for the usual barrage of questions about the so-called fast life in Hollywood.

“I thought so.” That settled, and seeming less than impressed by his exalted status, she took the map from his hand, making a clucking sound with her tongue as she studied it.

“Ah, here’s your problem. You should have taken the second left at the roundabout right before you got to Mullaghmore.”

Quinn had suspected all along that one of the many roundabouts—the Irish answer to eliminating four-way stops—had been his downfall. “Could you tell me how to get back there?”

“That’s not difficult at all. The first thing you need to do is turn around and go back in the direction you just came from. Then keep driving until you see a sign pointing off to the right that says Ballybrennan.”

“Ballybrennan?” The name sounded like several he’d already passed by.

“Aye, Ballybrennan,” she repeated with a nod of her scarf-covered head. “Now, mind you don’t take that road—”

“I don’t?”

“Oh, no. You’ll be wanting to take the one that comes a wee bit after it. To Mary’s Well. You’ll not miss it. There’s a lovely statue of the Virgin standing right beside the sign. Follow that road straight through and you’ll be finding yourself in Castlelough in no time.”

Considering how many virgins he’d spotted, Quinn wasn’t certain the landmark was going to be a very big help, but didn’t quibble. “Thanks. You’ve been a great help.”

“’Twas no trouble at all,” she assured him with a nearly toothless grin. He was almost to the car again when she called out, “Of course, the sign might not say Mary’s Well, mind you.”

Biting back a flash of irritation, he slowly turned back toward her. Having always been a direct-speaking kind of guy, Quinn was beginning to realize that the land of his ancestors may prove more of a culture shock that he’d suspected.

“What might it say?” he asked mildly.

“It might be in Irish—Dabhac a Mhaire.”

He was having enough trouble untangling the woman’s thick west-country brogue. There was no way he was going to attempt to translate this incomprehensible language.

Quinn had known that Castlelough was located in a Gaeltact area of the county, where, despite the penal laws enforced by the British government, the Irish language had never been allowed to die out. At the time, he’d thought it might add quaint color to his story. He’d never, until now, worried he might be unable to communicate with the natives.

Thanking her again, he climbed back in the car and headed off in the direction he’d come. Quinn considered it another near miracle when he found the turnoff. Although the rest of the directions weren’t quite as simple as the woman had promised—the road split into different directions a couple of times and he had to choose—he felt of flush of victory when he finally viewed the sign welcoming him to Castlelough.

Chapter Three

Weather the Storm

By the time Nora finished her weekly errands, forced at every step to listen to more talk about the movie people, the gathering gloom had darkened the sky over Castlelough, making her wish she’d insisted her father leave her the car. A stiff breeze from the Atlantic whipped her hair into a wild tangle that kept blowing across her eyes.

She could, of course, cycle over to The Irish Rose and retrieve the car, but that would leave him to walk or cycle home in the rain. Although her father often drove her to distraction, she’d never forgive herself if he came down with pneumonia.

“It’s only five kilometers,” she reminded herself optimistically. “If you hurry, you might get home before the rain starts.”

She was grateful Quinn Gallagher wasn’t expected to arrive until early this evening, which would give her time to fix a proper supper. She didn’t want anyone saying Nora Fitzpatrick wasn’t a good hostess.

Nora stuffed her purchases into waterproof canvas bags, then fit them into the wire baskets that hung on either side of the bicycle’s rear wheel. She’d barely begun to pedal down the road when the sky opened up. Ten minutes later she’d just about decided to take the children and emigrate to a sheep ranch in sunny west Australia—where her eldest brother Finn served as a parish priest—when the blare of a car horn almost made her crash into the stone edging the roadway.

Swearing beneath her breath, she moved closer to the shoulder, trying not to get bogged down in the thick mud.

Instead of passing, the car pulled up beside her. Rather than the compact usually seen on Irish roads, this was a huge whale of an American vehicle from the gilded era of excess chrome and overgrown tail fins. That alone would have made it unique in a country with such narrow winding roads and expensive petrol.

But what truly made it one-of-a-kind were the pink-cheeked cherubs and gilt-winged angels cavorting amidst the orange rust spots on the thirty-five-year-old lemon yellow body. And then there was the mural—depicting the Virgin Mary, arms outstretched and halo gleaming, riding a puffy white cloud to heaven—painted in bright primary colors on the hood.

Nora knew that inside the car a rosary blessed by Pope John XXIII himself hung from the rearview mirror; also, although the Vatican had repossessed his sainthood, a plastic statue of Saint Christopher continued to ride shotgun on the padded dashboard.

The enormous gas-guzzling Cadillac came to a stop with a protesting squeal of wet brakes; there was an electric hum as the passenger window slowly rolled down and a head as brightly red-gold as Nora’s popped out.

“’Tis only a fit day for fish, ducks and lake creatures,” Fionna Joyce declared. “Put your bicycle in the back, darling. And get yourself in out of the rain before you catch your death.”

After stowing her bicycle and groceries in the vast cavern of a trunk, Nora opened the angel-adorned door and settled into the tucked and pleated heavenly sky blue leather seat of her grandmother’s ancient miracle-mobile.

The heat blasting from the vents in the padded dash immediately began warming the chill from her bones. The Cadillac might be a ridiculous car for Ireland, or anywhere else for that matter, and it might be large enough for a family of four to live in, but Nora couldn’t fault its heater.

Fionna Joyce was a small wiry woman with a complexion ruddied by the suns of more than eighty summers and weathered by the winds that blew from coast to coast. Despite her age, her dark eyes were bright as a sparrow’s and her hair was a vivid red-gold.

“You should have dragged Brady from the pub and gotten him to drive you home,” Fionna said.

“It’s not that far,” Nora argued. “And I didn’t want to disturb him.”

Fionna sighed as she fingered the tiny crucifix with Jesus’s feet crossed modestly at the ankles that hung from a gold chain in the vee of her pink wool cardigan. The lapels of the heavy sweater were adorned with religious cameos.

“I dearly love my youngest son, but he’s an incurable dreamer. Just like his father before him.”

“And you’re not?” Nora’s smile took the sting of accusation from her words.

“Of course not!” Fionna seemed honestly shocked by the idea. “Women don’t have time to be dreamers, Nora. Shouldn’t you, of all people, know that?”

“Wouldn’t you consider your Bernadette crusade just a wee bit fanciful?”

“There’s nothing fanciful about getting dear Bernadette canonized, darling. And, heaven knows, don’t those redskirts in the Vatican owe us a saint after taking Saint Philomena away from us?” She paused. “And speaking of Bernadette, I have a line on a new tale.”

Fionna had been attempting to get Sister Bernadette Mary—a Sister of Mercy nun who’d worked tirelessly to bring about peace during the Anglo-Irish War for independence and had been killed by the Black and Tans for her efforts—declared a saint for the past decade. Since an important part of the juridical process was to document the candidate’s life, holy works and, most importantly, provide proof of at least two miracles, Fionna had been relentless in her search for evidence of a miraculous event done in the young woman’s name.

Nora had begun to worry that such religious obsession might be a sign of senility. Then again, considering her own close conversational relationship with her long-dead mother, she decided perhaps all the Joyces were more than a little fanciful.

“How did your trip to Eniscorthy go?” she asked.

Fionna sighed. “I suppose it depends on whether or not the Holy Father would consider the curing of a mare’s colic a miracle.”

Nora repressed the smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. Fionna found nothing humorous about sainthood. “I’d suspect the owner was happy. But I doubt such an event would pull much weight with the bishop.”

“The only way that man would be impressed would be a modern-day repeat of the wine-at-the-wedding miracle. If Bernadette could make whiskey flow out of the bishop’s water tap, he’d recommend her before you could say Bushmills malt.”

Bishop McCarthy had steadfastly refused to pass along any of Fionna’s documents to the Vatican’s Congregation for the Cause of Saints. Nora knew her grandmother believed that such an unrelenting lack of cooperation was proof of the bishop’s sexism.

“It’s bad enough, in his mind, that the evidence is being compiled by a mere female, instead of a priest, as is usually done,” Fionna muttered. “It’s obvious he has no intention of adding another female saint to the religious roster.”