Chapter 10

Moira’s feet ached as she walked back to the guesthouse. She wanted nothing more than to stretch out on her bed in the room that had finally begun to feel a bit like home. With all the strength she could muster, she heaved open the Martins’ door. Had it always been this heavy? Bríd appeared in a flash with breathless news for her lodger.

“Yer chalet is ready for ye, peata! Yer man is waiting to show ye ’round. Come now, we’ll go have a wee peek and ye can take yer things over tomorrow. It’s a blessing to have it done so soon, so it is.”

Moira’s head spun. “My man? Who? What?” Surely she isn’t referring to Sean? I barely said two words about him.

Understanding dawned on Bríd’s face. “Sorry. That’s just what we say when we’re talkin’ about a lad without sayin’ his name. I meant nothing by it. I was talkin’ about the caretaker of the chalet.”

Moira nodded as if that all made sense. Her mind moved like molasses, her body ached, and the impulse to both laugh and cry vied for control. She fidgeted with her fingers and chewed her lip nervously but couldn’t help the smile that tipped the corner of her mouth as her mind stirred awake with anticipation.

Bríd’s arm entwined with Moira’s, and she whisked her out of the guesthouse.

Moira stood on the roadside gazing up at the tiny chalet. A neatly thatched roof slanted gently down over the tops of whitewashed walls. Two small square windows, trimmed in red, perched like eyes watching the goings-on down the street below. Between the two windows stood a bright red door, with the top half fully opened. She loved it instantly.

Behind her, Bríd was chattering on about one thing or another while fussily sweeping the path to the door with her foot. Once inside, Moira studied the room, falling more and more in love with her little home.

She walked over to a large wooden dresser and ran her fingers lightly over the open shelves on the top half, reveling in the roughness of the wood. A set of crockery, cream-colored with delicate blue flowers painted on the sides, sat proudly displayed.

Kneeling down, she opened the large doors that covered the two cabinets on the bottom of the dresser. Dust and years of musk wafted up, welcoming her to her new home. Moira imagined all the cups of tea and slices of hearty brown bread that would be shared with the friends she prayed the Lord would bring her.

To her left was a floor-level fireplace with a footed stack of turf waiting to be lit. Her eyes stopped on two tiny, three-legged creepie stools sitting near the hearth. She couldn’t imagine how anything that slight and rustic could ever be a comfortable place to sit, cook, and share company with a guest.

“Och! They’ve let the fire go out!” Bríd’s disgusted gasp interrupted Moira’s thoughts.

“That’s alright, Bríd. I imagine it wouldn’t be safe to leave a fire burning when I won’t be staying here until tomorrow anyway.”

“Sure, peata, don’t ya know that the soul goes out of the people of the house if the fire goes out?” Bríd bustled to the fireplace. “When we come tomorrow, I’ll show ya how to use the embers of today’s fire to light tomorrow’s.”

“I’d be . . . grateful,” Moira stammered.

“Never let yer fire go all the way out. That’s the way of the turf, ya know. Use every bit for as long as ya can. Sure, there’s fires here in Gweedore parish that have been burnin’ for a hundred years running.”

The old woman clicked her tongue in annoyance and worked quickly to remedy the situation. Moira looked on, eager to learn the ancient tradition, still not sure why Bríd was so upset by it.

With the fire properly lit, the ladies finished their inspection of the premises. Just beyond the fireplace, Moira pushed aside a thin curtain and stepped into a small room.

A large bed with tall oak posts and a wooden canopy draped with canvas the color of milky tea stood opposite a chest of drawers, a jug, and a basin for washing hands and face. Over the door hung a strange shape woven out of reeds.

“I never expected such a grand bed,” Moira said. “It’s absolutely lovely.”

“Grand’s got nothing to do with it.” The older woman chuckled. “Ya don’t want any creepy-crawlies landin’ on ya in the middle of the night, do ya?”

Moira stared at the woman blankly.

“Ye’ll find most families here in Ballymann have beds like these, though most don’t have the luxury of havin’ the bed all to themselves. When ya live in a t’atched house, ya live in a house with critters, damp, and drips. The canopy bed keeps ya cozy and clean—and critter free.” Bríd laughed.

Moira’s eyes stretched wide, and she inspected the roof carefully. Visions of beetles, fleas, and mites filled Moira’s mind, and she struggled to hide her dismay.

“Come on now, my girl. It’s getting late and you need a good dinner, a nice cuppa, and an early bedtime. After all, it’s a school night.”

Moira groaned and then chuckled as she walked with Bríd, arm in arm, out of the chalet and into the dusky evening heading for home—and tea.