thirty-eight

Merrit rinsed out empty teacups and placed them in the dishwasher. A fine coat of rain misted the windows. Without the wind, the countryside appeared sodden but soft. A riot of new vegetation had sprouted over the last week of spring weather. When the sun made an appearance, the land sparkled, the greens so vibrant they appeared artificially enhanced.

Unfortunately, all Merrit saw was Fox Cottage marring her view. Off limits now and with crime scene bunting across the door. No more painting, and no more secret rendezvous for Nathan and Annie either. This disheartened Merrit. They were good together.

Liam had sensed a connection between them that Merrit had missed. She wouldn’t have paired them up, and once again, she had to wonder about her fitness for the role of matchmaker. Something eluded her, staring out windows, focusing on crime scene tape instead of the glorious vista beyond it. She shook her head against the image of the bloodied sleán and turned off the running faucet.

Voices rose from the living room. Mrs. O’Brien called out a final reminder about their meeting tomorrow—time was running out!—to talk about the cake dance, Easter egg hunt, and a puppet show for the children. “And Merrit,” she said as an afterthought.

Her cue. Merrit dried her hands and returned to the living room. Twenty women stood and sat around the room. Most of them already wore their rain gear and clutched their purses, eager to be gone, she suspected. Mrs. O’Brien got things done, sure, but in the most disagreeable and bossy manner possible.

“Merrit,” Mrs. O’Brien said over the chatter, “we’ll provide you with your own station near the center of the pavilion.”

“God, no.” The room went quiet. “I’d prefer to sit at one of the tables and people can come talk to me as they wish.”

“That won’t do. Whether we like it or not, you’ll follow in Liam’s footsteps. There’s tradition to follow. You’ll have a seating area—”

“But I’m not Liam. I don’t need a dog-and-pony show.”

As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Merrit longed to suck them back up.

“Dog-and-pony show?” Mrs. O’Brien said. “If you think so little of our customs you can always return to California.”

At last, she’d spoken the words aloud. Merrit could handle words spoken aloud; it was the unspoken that wore her down. Maybe she did belong back in California, away from blood-streaked turf cutters and gravel dunes and cancer and expectations.

“I’ll ask Liam what he thinks about a station,” Merrit said, “but I refuse to make a speech. And no banners either.”

Mrs. O’Brien’s lip curled. Merrit held her ground for an extra beat, doing her best to smile, before retreating to the kitchen again. As soon as she left the room, the chatter rose. Merrit perched on a stool and waited them out. It didn’t take long for the house to empty, a mass exodus of the scandalized.

Where was the juicy Irish slang when she needed it? “Crap,” she said into the silence. “Shoot, bugger, dammit.”

For Liam’s sake, she’d have to apologize to Mrs. O’Brien, try to explain that she hadn’t belittled the custom, only its showiness. The distinction would be lost on Mrs. O’Brien though. “Double crap.”

A whoosh of cold air set the kitchen swing door to creaking, and a moment later Zoe’s voice called out a hello. She bounced into the kitchen wearing her signature cobalts and winter whites and butterfly accessories. Merrit would have groaned, but she didn’t feel up to reacting to the sparkling creature.

“I missed the festival meeting.” She filled the teakettle and set it on the burner. “Since I’m here, I can help with Liam.”

“Annie’s been keeping him company,” Merrit said.

The swing door opened again. “Is it safe to come out now?” Annie said. Merrit could swear her smile dimmed when she saw Zoe, but her tone remained friendly as she said, “You survived the meeting, too.”

“I arrived too late to become ensnared,” Zoe said.

“How’s Nathan’s toe this morning?”

Zoe looked at Annie with a quizzical expression.

“He popped around my place in the middle of the night for me to take a look at it.”

Zoe’s expression brightened. “I thought I heard him. I imagined him sneaking out like a naughty teenager to see his girlfriend. Looks like he was!”

“He’s too accident-prone,” Annie said. “I’m concerned.”

Merrit studied them, the two women in Nathan’s life. Zoe was quite tall, taller than either she or Annie. Whereas she shone bright and new, Annie had a mellowed and burnished solidity about her. A beauty that comes with age, like some antiques. A little worn, some scratches and dents, but all the better for them.

Zoe had found the tea bags. She poured tea and handed cups around. “I’ve never thought of him as accident-prone before. He’s the world’s worst sleeper, though, crashing around in the dark. I’ve told him it’s okay to sleep with the lights on.” She shrugged. “He does what he wants. I’m not going to change him after all this time.”

Merrit knew better than anyone that no one was perfect. Not fathers, not daughters. Watching Zoe blow on her tea with her perfect lips on that perfect face, she realized that she and Zoe had more in common than moving to Lisfenora to find their lost fathers. Like Merrit, Zoe needed to adjust her expectations about her father. She didn’t appear disillusioned the way Merrit had been when she realized Liam wasn’t the paternal type. But still, she wondered if changing Nathan wasn’t what drove Zoe. Change him into the perfect father.

“Would Liam like tea?” Zoe said.

Merrit led the way to his bedroom and knocked on his door. “Can we come in?”

A groggy mumble in response. Liam rolled over and struggled to sit up. He patted down the fluff of hair around his scalp. Merrit placed an extra pillow behind his back. His skin had a greyish tint and he huffed with short labored breaths.

“Are you in pain?” Merrit said.

“No. A slight cold, I think. What happened with Mrs. O’Brien?”

“I offended her. Don’t worry, I’ll set my ego aside and apologize.”

Liam smiled. “She’ll like that.”

Zoe sat on the edge of the bed and handed Liam his tea. He cradled the cup in both hands.

“You,” he said to Zoe. “I’ve been meaning to chat with you.”

He set the tea aside and shuffled through a pile of papers near his elbow. “I managed to print this article out all on my own.” He pointed to the laptop sitting at the end of his bed. “You made me curious, lassie, about healing.”

Zoe sat up straighter, if that was possible. Liam handed the printed article to Zoe. “There’s a long tradition of folk healing in Ireland.”

“I didn’t know that,” Zoe said. “In England, it’s associated with the crazy Bible thumpers—the faith healers.”

“Healing?” Annie said.

“Oh,” Zoe said. “I’ve an interest, that’s all.” She smiled but with a pout thrown in. “I wish you hadn’t brought it up, Liam.”

“How could I not be curious? My folk tradition, matchmaking, is of the same ilk.” He glanced pointedly at Merrit. “A charmed talent.”

“Let’s not go that far,” Merrit said. “It’s a tradition, sure, but there’s nothing charmed or mystical about it.”

“You say that, you, who are charmed for it—”

“I’m not charmed for anything,” Merrit said.

Liam raised his voice. “—and by the same token, why can’t Zoe be charmed for healing?”

The cancer must have gone to his brain. Granted, Liam was uncanny with his matches, uncanny in a way that begged for a rational explanation, but matchmaking was one thing, healing quite another.

Annie peered over Zoe’s shoulder. “I remember reading this article in the Irish Times. Only in Ireland would a reputable newspaper tout healing as a bona fide phenomenon. Despite the usual charlatans. May I?”

Zoe passed the sheet of paper back to Annie.

“Yes, yes,” Annie said, scanning the text. “They call it ‘the cure,’ and it’s all quite secret, and at least here in Ireland, it’s a tradition from before the time of Christianity, handed down through families.” She tapped the page. “It’s taboo for healers to profit from helping others.”

“Eh, lassie,” Liam addressed Zoe, “what’s your story? Are you a charlatan or are you a keeper of the cure?”

Zoe clasped her hands together and gazed down at her lap. “I learned a long time ago not to talk about it. My dad doesn’t like it. The truth is, I’ve never tried to analyze it or learn about it.”

Liam nodded. “Quite right. If something is, it just is. What more is there to know?”

“Just is?” Merrit said. “Even if we believe in charmed talents, there’s a learning curve. Look at me trying to learn matchmaking. I wouldn’t call me a natural.”

“You haven’t given matchmaking a chance, and you know it,” Liam countered.

“That’s not true.”

“It is true.” Liam directed more questions to Zoe. “Answer this, lassie, how did you learn to be a healer? What was your learning curve? When did you discover that you could heal?”

Zoe blinked rapidly. Wordless. That was a first. She wrapped and unwrapped a curl around her finger. “I never said I was a healer.”

Liam snorted. “Your little display with Bijou? Of course you did. Unless you faked the blood on the glass and gave Bijou a pinch to make her yelp. But why would you do that?”

Zoe resettled her scarf around her neck. “I’m happy to be part of a tradition, but I prefer not to analyze it. It’s not that big a deal.”

Annie observed Zoe with an attentive eye. “In the article it says healers are seventh sons of seventh sons,” she said. “That’s the lore of it, anyhow.”

“I don’t know anything about that,” Zoe said.

Annie excused herself with a comment that she must get on with her day. Taking her cue, Zoe stood and aimed an indulgent smile in Liam’s direction. “You old pisser, you know you want me to lay my hands on you. All you have to do is ask.”

She departed in a swirl of cobalt and white, calling to Annie to wait up for her. At the window, Merrit observed Annie pointing toward her hiking route across the pastures and along the Burren Way. Zoe opened the passenger-side door and Annie accepted the lift.

As soon as the taillights faded into the grey day, Merrit turned on Liam. “You truly believe Zoe is a healer?”

Liam settled himself under a blanket, contented as one of Elder Joe’s roosting chickens. “The world would be a more interesting place if she were.”