The bungalow was spotless, though the air was chilled and smelled of sea and wet stone, as if the windows had been open only minutes before. James had been true to his word; he showed her how to work the thermostat, made certain the refrigerator was plugged in, handed her the keys, and closed the door behind him. The sound of his voice, the smart click of his shoes on the tile floor, and the scent of his cologne lingered. It seemed to Annie she didn’t breathe until she heard the heavy purr of the Mercedes recede up the drive.
Keeping in motion would help set her body to Irish time, but Annie longed to curl up on that sofa in the sunny extension of the kitchen, where floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the cove. There was a soft, down-filled duvet folded neatly at one end of the sofa, tea and biscuits in the cupboard, and she’d started a Kate Atkinson novel on the plane. Work could wait, couldn’t it? James would be back at six-thirty to pick her up for dinner in Castletownbere. She had hours to unpack and sift through her notes.
She stepped onto the patio that wrapped around the back end of the house, forming a balcony where the cliff dropped toward the cove. The aspect of the narrow peninsula was such that sunrises would pour in from the continent and sunsets would bleed away to North America; the house would remain suffused with light as long as the sun hung in the sky. Accustomed though she was to Seattle’s breathtaking views, her heart still soared at the vast expanse of water smashing into the broad toes of rock. With no mountain ranges to break the horizon, the sky was massive and in constant flux. The sharp, briny air revived her. Annie shook out her hair and let the wind snap it around her face.
The same wind that snarled her hair delivered the voice in a tendril of sound. It was a rush of tide swirling in eddies of sand and stone. It was the whoosh of birds’ wings banking just over her head. It was a woman’s voice, emanating from deep in her throat and cascading to Annie’s ears.
Mór mo phian, it whispered—a surge of round vowels and soft consonants, one hardly distinct from the other. Annie pulled her hair back from her ear, and the voice rushed again, closer:
Mór mo phian.
She turned to see the same man who had watched her arrival just a short while ago. He was tall, not as tall as James, but easily over six feet, and stockier. His head was covered by a blue knit hat, his age indeterminable from this distance. Thirty? Fifty? He wore an outfit not unlike the shepherd they’d passed on the road to Ballycaróg, but his boots were serious hiking gear. He stopped, she stared, the voice disappeared. Spooked, she reentered the house and watched from the shadows.
A mismatched pair of dogs tore down the path that led over a slight rise, and their joyful presence reassured her. The blue heeler clearly knew her master; she spun in paroxysms of delight as he approached. The man walked on, out of view.
After she scrubbed the travel grime from her skin in a hot shower, Annie curled on the sofa under the down blanket in the glassed-in room beyond the kitchen and unpacked her camera equipment. With a map of the Beara Peninsula spread in front of her and a collection of camera lenses nestled in the blanket’s folds, her chin fell and her breath slowed. She slept, and the wind whispered.
~
The voice stayed with her through dinner that evening, holding her hands in check when they longed to grasp one of the dewy pint glasses filled with molasses-rich ale posed like satellites on the table, or the burnished bronze whiskies emitting a rich, sweet-grass decay that concluded the meal. As she spoke of interest groups and community meetings, of job fairs and corporate sponsorships, she imagined that rich and steady voice was her own. Voices around the table rose and fell with stories and local politics as the assembled group expressed their combined hopes and expectations for the economic development the mine would bring to their constituents and businesses.
Just when she felt the evening might get away from her, when holding up her end would be made all the more tolerable if she could just soothe her raw nerves with a whiskey balm, the man sitting to her left, Des Pattwell—one of the local regional council members—spoke softly in her ear. “You look like you’re wanting your pillow, so.”
“I’ve never been able to sleep on planes,” she said. “It feels like the hours I lost over the Atlantic were drained out of me.”
“I live just out of Ballycaróg. I’d be happy to give you a ride back when you’re ready.” He hadn’t had anything stronger than a Club Orange soda with dinner, she noticed. Relieved by the offer, she let him announce their leave-taking, gathering the last of her energy for handshakes and promises to meet again soon.
James waited with her outside the restaurant while Des brought the car around. A soft rain fell, and they stood under the vinyl awning, the glow from the windows reflecting off the shallow puddles forming in the street.
“I’ve booked us a guided hike of Beara tomorrow. I should have thought to wait a day, until you’ve had a chance to rest. I can cancel and reschedule—”
Annie was shaking her head before James finished his thought. “No, that sounds perfect. Fresh air and exercise are the best antidote to jet lag. Just—” She stubbed a mental toe. How to get away, alone, to make it to the AA meeting by six o’clock? “I’d like tomorrow evening to myself. I need to sort through what was said tonight as I consider how best to present this to the community.” Safe enough.
“No worries. I’ll have you in Ballycaróg by teatime. Really, I could take you to the Beara Way on my own, but this guide is supposedly an expert on the peninsula. It’ll be a good local history and geography lesson for us both.”
A trim white subcompact pulled up to the curb, and James opened the passenger door. He bid a good night to Des, then stood aside for Annie. “Hope you get a good night’s rest.”
“I will, thanks. What time tomorrow?”
“Ten-thirty.”
Annie nodded and shifted toward the space of the open door. A hand pressed lightly against her shoulder, a familiar touch that lingered a moment too long. “I’m glad you’re here, Annie. It’s good to see you again.”
A brief nod of her head, an invisible brush that just lifted the corners of her mouth. “I’ll see you in the morning.” She folded herself into the waiting seat. James brought the door to the frame, and it shut with a firm but muted thump. It wasn’t until the car pulled away that she thought to wonder what he meant by again.