She took her time on Henry Street, pausing in front of galleries and craft shops, absorbing the landscapes painted in oils or sketched with pastels, the carved and polished woodworks, the pottery in shapes and colors of the hills, clouds, ocean, and rocks of the west of Ireland. She kept an eye out for Daniel, half in anticipation, half in dread. Their sudden intimacy in the pub, that cozy space as ripe for confession as any curtained booth in a church, had shaken her. As if conjured from her faulty conscience, he’d appeared to save her from herself. She’d gone into that pub to flirt with those bottles displayed in tiers behind the bar, to see how far she could take herself to the edge, an exquisite torture of willpower, like penitents whipping their bare backs, thinking their blood and pain would cleanse their sins. She hadn’t wanted to be rescued. She’d wanted a drink.
Annie had made her decision to bolt from Kenmare when a window display stole all thought. Mesmerized, she drifted the few steps forward, brushing her hands against the glass. Framed photographs held aloft by wire floated on the other side: seascapes bursting with waves of power and profundity; forests deep with secrets and soft with moss, sunlight filtering through evergreens; panoramic landscapes that caught the coaxing blush of sunrise and bittersweet glow of sunset and every tempest and dance of the clouds that towered or drifted across the Irish sky. The work spoke of the magic and art of the creative process—that seamless communication between the eyes, the heart, and the hands. It pulled at Annie like the sight of a familiar face she couldn’t place. It had been so long … would she recognize that feeling if it came her way again? She felt the cool weight of the Leica in her hands, the narrowing of her mind’s focus down to thoughts of aperture and exposure, the meditative state of her brain as it entered the scene before her. Annie broke away and stepped back, not surprised to see that she was standing in front of the Vaughan Gallery. She floated inside, collecting a brochure from the young man seated on a stool at the counter.
The work belonged to Grainne Petitt, a landscape photographer who lived just outside the village. Each framed print mounted throughout the whitewashed space held Annie spellbound for long moments before releasing her to the next. She stepped back to study the compositions, seeing the landscapes as she would through her camera’s lens, imagining the patience required to anticipate and wait for just the right play of light and shadow. She smelled the decomposing leaves on the forest floor, sensed the shifts in the light and the wind, the feathery touch of meadow wildflowers as they brushed their fingers across her bare calves. Seeing Grainne’s work was like finishing an earlier, interrupted thought—her state of heart had traveled full circle, from the despair she’d felt at the bar back to the balance of acceptance and a measure of peace.
A doorway opened into another display area, and she passed through into the adjoining room, expecting to see more photographs. This space, too, was bright white, with poured concrete floors, but it was an exhibit in the making; only a few pieces of glinting, glowing metalwork were mounted.
Annie started to step away, but a sculpture on the far wall pulled her further into the room. At least three feet in diameter, the piece glowed with the light of setting suns and rising moons. Dozens of circles cut from copper, bronze, and chrome formed spheres within spheres, each shining in its own glorious universe.
She approached it as she had the photographs, and the present fell away until she could see only the vision in front of her, offering itself to her imagination. But unlike the photographs, which showed a familiar world at its most evocative, this piece was of the world, made from its elements, its meaning left to be divined by the beholder. Annie was drawn to its warmth, how it seemed to move as the light shifted, radiating heat, vibrating with secret music. Her hand raised of its own volition, but she pulled it back at the last moment, before her fingers connected with the living work of art before her.