The walls ended; the rain slackened; parting clouds liberated scraps of pale light. The hedges now were merely tumbled stones and August bloom twined with ivy, foxglove, scarlet creeper.
Aengus Malone had learned a certain dexterity on his mower; his skill at locating and backing into the previously overlooked pull-off had been brilliant. The lorry driver had given three blasts of his horn as a thumbs-up.
‘That was some scrape you bailed us out of,’ he said to Aengus. ‘Well done.’
‘It’s m’ lucky hat that done it.’ Aengus reached up and patted the thing. ‘Me oul’ mum give it to me.’
‘If it weren’t so dark,’ said Cynthia, ‘we might see a rainbow.’
‘There’s some as see rainbows at night, but those would be fairies.’
‘You believe in fairies?’
‘Ah, no, not a bit. But they’re there noneth’less.’
‘You’ve never seen one, then?’
‘If it’s fairies ye’re after, they’re said to be very numerous in Mayo.’
On a slope in a grove of ancient beeches, the dusky, formless shape of the lodge appeared, its windows luminous against a starless night.
His wife drew in her breath.
Broughadoon.
‘That would be candles burnin’,’ said Aengus. The Volvo rattled over a cattle grate. ‘Looks like th’ rain’s shut down your power.’
‘Stop,’ said Cynthia. ‘Please.’
Aengus braked; the motor idled.
‘It’s the most beautiful sight I’ve ever seen.’
She sat for a moment, bound in one of her spells, then opened the door. A pure and solemn air spilled in; his right foot slipped into his loafer.
She got out of the car and stood looking along the slope to the fishing lodge, at fog drifting among the cloistered beeches. ‘Listen,’ she said.
They listened.
‘Nothin’ much t’ hear,’ said Aengus.
Rain dripped from the shadowed trees, pattered on the roof of the car; a breeze stirred.
He watched as she got back in the car and closed the door and looked at him and smiled. Then she leaned to him and kissed him. Her faint scent of wisteria mingled with the Sligo air. He had never been so happy in his life.
As they drew up to the lodge, figures appeared on the stoop, silhouetted against the light from the open front door. Three barking dogs bounded onto the gravel and squared off with the Volvo.
There was a considerable shaking of hands with innkeepers Liam and Anna Conor, as the dogs ganged a-glee about their feet-two Labradors, and a Jack Russell dancing on its hind legs.
Anna, the striking-looking woman he’d known a decade earlier, gave him a hand-wringing that jimmied his teeth. He admired all over again her tousle of copper-colored hair and, without meaning to, blurted the sentiment aloud.
They were joined by a white-haired old man wearing a tie and cardigan and brandishing a walking stick. In the gabble of greetings, he decried their weather as ‘foul and infernal.’
Somewhere, thanks be to God, something was cooking. ‘Lamb,’ he said to his wife. He could devour a table leg.
He recognized the feeling he experienced on his wedding day nearly eight years ago-as if he’d lost the proper sense of things and stepped outside his body. He was a cannonball fired directly from the quiet desperation of a hired car into a domestic muddle of energy and good cheer.
They were herded through an entrance hall, its walls fairly crammed with fish mounted in glass cases, and into a sitting room lit by candles and an open fire. A half-finished jigsaw puzzle was spread on a table among a loose aggregation of sofas and wing chairs.
He felt at once the keen pleasure of the room: its book-lined walls and good pictures, the impression of ease.
In a corner, three men murmured over a card game by the light of a candle. A distinguished-looking fellow sat reading a newspaper by the firelight and stroking his white mustache; upon seeing them, he stood at once and buttoned his jacket.
‘Heads up, gentlemen…’ Anna lifted a small bell from the sofa table and pealed it. ‘Reverend Timothy Kav’na and Mrs. Kav’na of North Carolina, meet our anglers-Tom Snyder of Toronto, Hugh Finnegan of Maryland, and there’s Pete O’Malley. Pete’s a Dub who lived many years in Texas.’
‘O’Malley here.’ O’Malley stood, saluted. ‘Welcome.’ The other two pushed back their chairs, stood, raised a hand.
‘They’re with us every August since 1997,’ said Anna. ‘They’re after catching our dinner tomorrow.’
He gave the trio a thumbs-up. ‘Go, Terps,’ he said to Hugh Finnegan.
‘And there’s Seamus Doyle from up the hill at Catharmore, who visits most evenings with the Labs. Seamus is our master of assorted entertainments, chiefly checkers and jigsaw puzzles.’
Seamus of the white mustache crossed to them for another round of hand-shaking. ‘How long will you be in Ireland, Reverend?’
‘A couple of weeks.’
‘They say a couple of weeks makes a habit.’
‘We wouldn’t be against it. Not a bit.’
‘I spent a lot of years in the States. Always good to see someone from the oul’ country, as I call it.’
He surveyed the room and those in it-a whole universe of life and pluck at the end of a narrow road in the middle of nowhere.
Somehow, the two three-suiters, the umbrella, and the glasses case he’d left on the backseat got toted in by Liam. Then came Aengus, tailed by the two Labs, schlepping the carton of books, their carry-ons, a flashlight, and the box of raisins. Off they went across a sitting room carpet worn to the lining, and along a hall, where the lot of them vanished into the gloom. A young woman with a nose ring and cheek tattoo offered hot towels; the Jack Russell sat at his feet, looking up, a chewed shoe clenched in its jaws.
It was all a dazzle. After years of talking, planning, and idle speculation, they were here. He wanted to sprawl before the open fire like a lizard and lose consciousness.
Cynthia had stepped away to look at a painting he remembered-of men in curraghs spearing basking whales in the treacherous seas off Arranmore.
‘It’s good to have you back,’ said Anna. There was an honest country style about her garb of shirt, skirt, apron, and clogs.
‘It’s great to be back. The trip is my wife’s birthday present.’
‘’t is no surprise your wife is beautiful.’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Inside and out.’ He wasn’t likely to get over his pride in showing her off. That they were married at all still waked an astonishment in him. ‘We’re both needing a few days to unwind. There’s no better place to do it than here.’ The most excitement he could recall from his first visit was a wandering cow in the kitchen garden.
He wiped his hands with the towel and replaced it on the tray. ‘Many thanks,’ he said to the server, who cast a cool glance beyond his.
‘We’re so sorry about the power being out, but it happens often with the big rains.’ Anna turned and spoke to Cynthia. ‘I hope you don’t greatly mind candle power, Mrs. Kav’na.’
Cynthia came to them and slid her arm in his. ‘Not in the least. I love candle power.’
‘Such dreadful weather, it’s been raining for three weeks. I do apologize.’
‘Please call me Cynthia, and you needn’t apologize for anything at all. I love rain.’
The old man stumped up with his cane. ‘A villainous rain!’ he declared in a loud voice.
‘Meet my father, William Donavan, he’s our keeper of the fire at Broughadoon. The Kav’nas are from the States, Da. North Carolina.’
‘Rev’rend, missus, good evenin’ to you. We’re destroyed by th’ rain entirely.’ William removed a handkerchief from his vest pocket and gave his nose a fierce blowing.
He reckoned William a handsome man, even with a once-broken nose that had been badly set. The rope of an old scar crossed his left temple.
‘Now, now, Da, not entirely. But no one goes hungry,’ she assured them, ‘our Aga is fired by oil and there’s a lovely rack of lamb roasting for your dinner.’
‘I’m desperate with th’ hunger,’ said the old man.
‘Our own lamb,’ she said. ‘We hope you’ll approve. The dining room in thirty minutes, then, straight down the hall and to the right. Flashlights and chamber sticks on the book table.’
‘Chamber stick,’ said Cynthia, not knowing the term.
Anna laughed. ‘Something to stick a candle in and light the way to your bedchamber. Oh, and when you’re ready to retire, we’ll bring buckets of hot water so you can have a wash.’
A good-looking woman brimful of energy, just as he remembered. Ten years ago, she appeared to run the place virtually single-handed. He didn’t remember meeting William before, or Liam.
‘And what may I get you in the meanwhile?’ asked Anna. ‘Whiskey? Glass of wine? Cup of tea?’
‘A cup of tea,’ said his wife. ‘I’ll just find the powder room first.’
‘Ditto,’ he said.
‘Straight across there, next to the sheep painting. And behind the sofa there’s the honesty bar and a box for outgoing mail.’
Aengus arrived at his elbow. Something looked very different about their driver, though he couldn’t say what. A brown fellow, wrinkled as a dried apple.
‘Bang-up, Aengus. Thank you.’
‘Ah, well, we didn’ get drownded, so.’
Owing to the criminal diminution of the dollar, this would be no mean gratuity; he dug into his pocket and pressed more than a few euros into Aengus’s hand. He was in turn handed a business card troubled by age and a series of phone numbers crossed through in pencil.
‘You’ll have no vehicle a’tall ’til th’ cousins come. Best give us a shout if there’s need.’
‘What if you’re mowing?’
‘We’ll send a cousin of our own, we’ve thirty-odd, m’ brother an’ me.’
‘Thank you, Mr. Malone,’ said Cynthia. ‘Be safe out there. Not too much backin’ up, if you please.’
Aengus grinned, a sudden and remarkable sight, and hurried out.
‘You first.’ She nudged him toward the sheep painting.
‘Ladies first.’
‘What’s that smell?’
‘Turf. They’re burning turf. Takes some getting used to.’ He remembered how much he’d learned to like the pungent odor.
Liam bounded up. ‘Everything is in your room, Reverend. I hope you’ll be happy with us. Welcome again to Broughadoon.’
‘Thank you, we’re thrilled to be here.’
A lean, handsome Irish face, he thought, with intense blue eyes and hair graying at the temples. ‘I don’t believe we met when I visited a few years ago.’
‘I was helping rebuild the west wing of the oul’ place, and keepin’ my head down. There’s still work going on, I hope it won’t disturb you. Anyway, you’ll see more of me this trip, I’ll be givin’ a hand with dinner and cookin’ your breakfast.’
‘The full Irish breakfast I so fondly remember? ’
‘And skip the blood pudding, Anna says.’
‘Correct. My wife, however, is eager for the blood pudding!’
Liam laughed. ‘Is she Irish?’
‘Her maternal double-great-grandmother was from Connemara, but we know nothing about her except she was very cheerful-looking and played the fife.’
‘I expect you met the lorry coming in.’
‘I’ll say.’
‘Sorry about that. It was my wine wholesaler, he was held up by the storm and finally had to run for it. By the way, the delay of your cousin and his wife opened up the room they requested. Always the silver lining.’
‘Always,’ he agreed. ‘The books. I don’t recall seeing so many books last time, or paintings.’
‘My father’s library passed to me years ago; we finally got the shelves built last spring.’
‘Beautiful millwork on the shelves.’
‘Thanks.’
‘You did it?’
‘My da was a builder, I grew up with a hammer an’ saw. I wanted his books to have a good show. A few good pictures also passed to me, including a Barret you’ll see in the dining room-it’s a beauty in afternoon light. Anyway, books and pictures for me, and the house up the hill for my older brother, Paddy, thanks to God.’
‘Thanks to God!’ Sitting nearby with Seamus, William thumped his cane on the floor.
‘Refresh my memory. What’s the meaning of the name Broughadoon?’
‘From the Irish, both an dún-hut of the fort.’
‘This being the hut, and the fort being…?’
‘Catharmore-on th’ hill above.’
‘So. It’s a pleasure to see an open fire.’
‘Ireland’s gone modern, I’m afraid, though Anna and I try to keep some of the oul’ ways. Speakin’ of oul’ ways, sorry about the power, ’t is usually back on in no time.’
Through the open window, he glimpsed the taillights of the Volvo disappearing along the road. And there, on the antlers of a mounted deer head, hung Aengus’s hat, as shapeless off as it had been on.
‘Aengus Malone forgot his hat,’ he told Liam. He felt oddly remorseful.
‘So he did. We’ll leave it just there ’til he comes again.’
They had no plans for Aengus to come again, as they’d be traveling with Stirling Moss in the future. ‘A pity he left it,’ he said, ‘his old mum gave it to him.’
‘Aengus Malone forgot his hat,’ William announced to Seamus. ‘Leave it just there ’til he comes again.’
Seamus was filling his pipe. ‘Aye,’ he said, looking up and smiling. ‘Will do.’
On going in to dinner, he spied a large, well-thumbed book lying open on a table by the dining room door. Names lined the pages.
‘Want to sign the guest book?’ he asked Cynthia.
‘I’ll do it tomorrow; I’m famished.’
He couldn’t resist. Squinting in the dusky light of the candle sconces, he picked up the pen and made the inscription.
Timothy A. Kavanagh, Mitford, North Carolina.
There. His Irish name in an Irish book, on the heels of an Irish rainstorm. It was official.