Spring was definitely in the air. Maggie could feel it pulse through her veins as the delicate fragrance of lilac washed through the kitchen. A basket of ironing sat on the floor next to the stove waiting to be done, but it would just have to wait. This morning was too glorious to waste inside, and that aside, she couldn’t wait to tell Gert her good news.
Little Maura sat on the kitchen floor, intent on stacking a pile of blocks, completely unaware of the change in seasons.
Maggie stooped down beside her, “Maura, let’s put the blocks away, sweetheart. Mama’s going to take you for a walk.”
She began piling the blocks into a small cardboard box. Maura, imitating her mother, managed to put a few in, too.
“We’ll stop by Auntie Gert’s house. Perhaps she’ll want to take a walk with us. Would you like that?” She scooped Maura up, giving her a big hug. The child squealed with delight.
Maggie pushed the pram to the corner and turned down Division Street, stopping along the tree–lined, cindered road to admire patches of violets, spring beauties, forget–me–nots, and jack–in–the–pulpit.
Maura, sitting upright in a pram she’d almost outgrown, her bonneted head tilted upward toward the budding trees, waved her arms at a pair of robins fluttering in the branches, intent on building a nest.
Maggie’s heart soared with joy at the beauty of it all. She had come to love this little island she now called home.
As she continued the walk toward Gert’s house, she recalled that day, three winters ago, when she and Tim had walked this same road, exhausted and cold, ending up on Gert and Hal’s doorstep. How blessed they had been to be taken in by two such wonderful people. Their generosity and hospitality knew no bounds. After recovering from the astonishing story Tim told, relating the events of a harrowing two–day adventure, the couple opened their hearts and home, offering them the spare bedroom that had once been their sons’.
Given Maggie’s condition, Gert would not allow her to lift a finger until she felt she had sufficiently recovered from exhaustion, and they then insisted the pair remain with them until some time after the baby was born. Hal, in the meantime, promised Tim employment at the quarry as soon as spring came and more workers would be needed.
With the help of Doctor Birch and Gert, Maura was born in Hal and Gert’s house on April 16, 1907, around the same time Tim began work at the quarry. With the money they had brought with them, they purchased a small vacant house on Spruce Street, a side road near Gert and Hal’s house on Division Street. It was just four rooms, but they were thrilled with the spaciousness of a house with more than one room.
Tim was completely happy doing the work he’d always done, doted on Maura, and adored Maggie. And Maggie, although quite busy with a new infant, could take all the dawdling time she wanted furnishing their new home. They had contacted Penelope, and all of their belongings had finally arrived at the end of May, with a promise from Penelope that they would visit as soon as Clifford’s broken leg healed. That promise was kept the following September, and it was an exhilarating reunion.
Now, at eighteen, very soon to be nineteen, Maggie was happy and content. Her only sorrow was for her brother, Jack, who had come to visit the summer after Maura was born. It had been a bittersweet reunion. Her heart ached as he told her of little Johnny’s death and the effect it had had on Martha. But seeing him, touching him, talking to him, and meeting her little niece, Patsy, for the first time had been quite a healing experience.
As she neared the little white cottage, she could see Gert busily sweeping the winter’s deposit of leaves from the corners of the front porch.
Gert looked up as Maggie walked past the picket fence and turned into the stone walk.
“Well, I declare, look who’s here! My favorite godchild.”
She dropped her broom and rushed down the steps, taking Maura in her arms, smothering her cheeks with kisses.
Maggie watched with pleasure as Maura clung to her Auntie Gert’s neck, then said, “We were just out for a walk on this beautiful day and wondered if you’d like to join us.”
“What a splendid idea,” Gert said, handing Maura back to her mother. “Just let me run in and get my shawl.”
Maggie watched as Gert raced into the house and marveled at her good fortune to have made two such similar friends as Gert Berning and Penelope Orwell. Both were about the same age, both were so giving, and both had opened their homes to her in a time of need.
Their walk took them north on Division Street toward the quarry that was located at the far northwestern end of the island. Most of the population was located at the south end of the island, east to west along Water Street and all the little side streets along its three–mile stretch of shoreline. Maggie had commented early on that Herron’s Point also had a Water Street and decided that the name must be indigenous to small towns facing water.
Division Street bisected the island for four miles from south to north. Altogether, there were 1,248 people on the island, most of whose livelihoods came from work at the limestone quarry. But there were some who found it profitable to farm large fields of grapes used to make wine on the mainland.
About halfway up Division Street, they paused.
“My goodness, would you look at that!” Gert exclaimed. “They’ve finally broken ground for the new school building.”
Most of the crew laying the stone block foundation were unfamiliar faces from the mainland, but little Georgie Hawker—that’s what Gert still called him from the days when he’d stop by as a young boy to see if she had any extra cookies she wouldn’t be needing—stood by a huge mound of dirt, shovel in hand, and gave a yell. “Hey, Miss Gert, how’s the world treating you?”
“Just fine, Georgie. And you?”
“The best,” he grinned. “The missus just had our second boy yesterday. Eight pounds, nine ounces.” His chest seemed to swell at the mention of it.
“Congratulations, young man. Seems we lost touch. Haven’t seen you for a while.”
“That’s ’cause I moved to Conneaut when I got married. But I’ll be working on the island till late summer, I imagine.”
“Will the school be opening this fall, do you think?”
“The good Lord willin’ and the weather man listenin’. That’s what the school board’s hoping.”
“Well, you take care, now. And give my best to Laurie and that little one, will you?”
“I sure will. But I still can’t get her to make those ginger cookies I used to love so much.”
“Stop by, and I’ll give you some.”
“I was hoping you’d say that. You’ll be seeing me soon. Maybe you can write down that recipe for Laura.” With that, he waved and turned to scoop a shovelful of dirt onto the wagon beside him.
“I’m so happy about the new school,” Maggie said as they continued their walk. “Maura will go there instead of that two–room schoolhouse on Berkley Road.”
“They had no choice but to build it. The population of young ones coming of school age is booming. There are about two hundred children of all ages ready to occupy it next fall, provided it’s done on time. But I’m told on Georgie’s good authority that it will be.”
“How in the world did that little school ever manage to accommodate so many children?” Maggie asked. “I know the high school children attend classes in the basement of Town Hall, but still.”
“Most children around here quit going to school after the third or fourth grade. A lot of the boys start working at the quarry before the age of twelve, and the girls stay home and help out. The ones who make it to high school are very few.”
Gert stooped to pick up a very shiny stone, buffed it on her skirt, and commented with a satisfied grin, “Perfect for the fish tank.”
As she slipped it into her dress pocket, she continued. “Seems there’s been a shift in attitude about education around here ever since that new teacher, Geoffrey Harper, came from Boston. He’s convinced many of the parents to keep the young ones in school. It’s him that has pushed for this new building. He says that the world out there is very competitive, and children should get at least an eighth–grade education to be able to compete. You know, Maggie, many of the youngsters here grow up and leave the island. Georgie is just one example. My two sons did the same. But at least they did get their eighth–grade diplomas. Working in a quarry is not for everybody.”
Maggie realized it hadn’t been much different where she’d come from. Hadn’t she quit school after the fourth grade? And hadn’t Tim started working at the quarry when he was twelve? Well, she would have better for her Maura.
As they approached a black, wrought–iron fence along the right side of the road, Gert said, “Do you mind if we stop at the cemetery? I want to go in and say hello to my two angels. And Hal’s mom and dad, too.”
“Oh, Gert! You never mentioned any other children, just Bobby and Tommy. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s been years since they’ve been gone. Little Elizabeth was just three months old when we found her dead in her crib. And baby Eleanor, who was quite sickly when she was born, managed to live two weeks. I was devastated each time, but Bobby and Tommy were still very young and needed me. It’s true, time is a great healer, but that doesn’t mean you ever forget. I come and visit them quite often. Just to say hello and tell them I love them.”
Maggie looked at her friend with admiration. She didn’t know what she would do if anything ever happened to Maura. The pain and grief her child’s conception had caused could never compare to the joy she had received from the moment she was born.
They stopped at the arched iron gate in the center of the fence. It stood wide open. Deciding to leave the pram there, Maggie lifted Maura out, and she and Gert each took one of her hands. Like a synchronized clock, they lifted her up and began to swing her back and forth as they walked down the pebbled walkway. Maura let out gleeful little yelps each time they lifted her.
For the most part, the gravestones on either side of the pathway were flat, set in the ground in neat, long rows. There was an occasional upright stone; these were of various shapes, but all seemed to be cut from limestone.
Directly ahead, at the back of the cemetery, was a white granite mausoleum with the name DARBY etched above the filigreed metal entrance. To the right and left of this structure, the headstones were quite large, varied in shape and color, and mostly of marble and granite. Another walkway ran parallel to the front of these, extending the width of the cemetery.
As they approached the mausoleum, Maggie decided that the intricate grillwork must be brass because of its long–neglected, dark green color. As she peeked inside the grill, she could smell the dank, pungent odor that filled the silent space untouched by sunlight. There were three tiers on either side, with four compartments on each one. Fourteen of these had brass plaques bearing the names of those entombed inside.
“Look at that, Gert! Ignatius Darby, born 1782, died 1836. Wife Agatha Darby, born 1794, died 1849. I didn’t realize the history of the Darbys on the island went back that far.”
“Oh my, yes,” Gert replied as she picked up Maura, giving Maggie the freedom to look around. “Old Ignatius was just twenty–four when he bought this island from the Connecticut Land Company, back East. That was in 1806. His father was in banking back in Connecticut, but Ignatius and his brother Marcus moved into the Cleveland area. After sailing the lake, fishing, he purchased the island and went courting his many friends and acquaintances to settle here.”
The appearance of a large dog brought an abrupt halt to the history lesson. Maura began to squirm to get down. “Homie, Homie,” she called at the familiar sight of the Cartwrights’ wayward dog.
Gert put her down as Homer bounced up to Maura, tail wagging, licking at her face. She squealed and clung to his neck to keep from falling. When a squirrel caught the dog’s attention, he was off into the trees, chasing it. Maggie and Gert both laughed at the expression on Maura’s face as she stood with open arms, bewildered and deserted.
Gert’s family plot was in the far left corner of the cemetery. Maggie felt it was a very intimate moment for Gert, and she didn’t want to intrude further, so she took Maura and walked along the rows of stones, reading the epitaphs, awestruck at the numbers of families, from infants to the aged, that had died within days of each other. Whole families wiped out. She knew it had to have been the influenza epidemic by the dates on the stones, for she had heard folks in Herron’s Point talking about how it had taken so many of their family members in the late 1800s.
There were stones that told of fishermen drowned in the lake, and graves of young men, some of them mere boys, killed in action during the Civil War. The inscriptions on some of the stones touched her deeply, and as Gert and she left the cemetery behind, she decided she would come back someday to spend more time here.
“Maggie, have you heard from your mam lately?” Gert asked.
“Funny you should ask. I got a letter from her just yesterday. She’s doing well and asked me to tell you what a fine person she thinks you are. You know, Gert, I can’t thank you enough for insisting I write her.”
“You have to admit you were pretty stubborn about it.”
“I know. But you were aware of all the circumstances. I really didn’t think she’d care what happened to me. It was Penelope that told her where I was. When I got that first letter from her, I was overwhelmed: begging my forgiveness and telling me how terribly she missed me and loved me. That was quite a shock. Mam was never given to big displays of emotion—unless she was angry, of course. We all knew to steer clear of her then. But this was a side of her I never would have expected.”
“She’s a pretty feisty lady, I admit.”
“Yes, and I must say I had difficulty accepting her apology. After the way she’d treated me, I was quite resentful. It took all your prodding to make me realize that those kinds of feelings are not healthy. And she is my mam, after all. When she came to visit last summer, I was so thrilled to see her holding Maura, cooing and crooning lullabies. She held her constantly—when she wasn’t cooking something, of course. The unbelievable part was the way she treated Tim. He could do no wrong. She couldn’t have treated him better if he was her own son. And she really took a liking to you. She said I could count myself fortunate to have met up with such a wonderful friend. I can’t thank you enough for making it all happen. Now, if I could just get my brother, Jack, and Mam to make their peace, everything would be perfect.”
Gert smiled. “Well, the two of us will have to get to work on her the next time she visits.”
“Oh, I don’t think it’s Mam that’s the problem now. Jack is the one. I wrote and told him in detail about Mam’s visit. His response was, ‘She’d better not find her way to my doorstep.’ I can’t say I blame him. He really made such an effort to reconcile with Mam in the beginning, but Mam forbid even the mention of his name. Then with the death of his son and the problems he’s been having with Martha, he’s really a very unhappy man. His one ray of sunshine is his daughter, Patricia, but he seems to worry about her so much. I think he’s afraid of losing her, too.”
“Hopefully time will heal all his hurts. Such a nice young man. I enjoyed him immensely when he was here with you. And I must say, he does resemble your mam in looks. Who do you take after, Maggie?”
“My da, so they tell me.”
“Well, there’s no question your mam and da must have been one handsome couple.”
“Thank you. I guess they were. My memory of my da is not so much what he looked like but the way he was. I was only five when he died, and I missed him desperately.”
Maggie looked down at Gert, so plain with her mousy brown hair and pale blue eyes.
Gert doesn’t realize what a beautiful person she is, Maggie thought. Always complimenting others and forgetting herself. She grows more so each time I see her. There are so many whose beauty fades with each meeting. Her beauty seems to grow and radiate from within.
Division Street ended at a long stretch of stony beach. Farther to the west, there was a large ship anchored at the long jetty that extended some two hundred feet into the lake.
Maggie and Gert stood watching the activity for a moment, and then Maggie turned to Gert. “My goodness, I almost forgot. I wanted you to be the first to know that Tim and I are expecting another baby.”
Gert threw her arms around Maggie. “Oh, my dear,” she said, “I’m so happy for you! And I’m sure this means a great deal to Tim. When will the big event take place?”
“Sometime in early October, I suspect.” Maggie’s face reflected an inner joy reserved only for expectant mothers, a joy that makes the plainest of women beautiful. In Maggie’s case, her beauty was simply magnified.
The two women turned for home.
Gert knew there were plans to be made and knitting to be done. This adopted family of hers was going to give her another grandchild to love.
Whispering Pines Cemetery was on Quarry Road. At one time, it had been set apart from the rest of the town, accessible by a short side road at the bottom of Frontier Street and separated from the lake by a shallow wooded area. Now it was sandwiched between the quarry and the town and surrounded on the northern side by new housing that had sprung up because of work at the quarry.
Brigid was a frequent visitor there. Father Charles Scanlon was buried under a large yellow birch tree. His stone was the very best polished, silver–gray granite with a slight pinkish cast. Brigid had seen to all the arrangements. His epitaph read: Charles Aloysius Scanlon, 1858–1906, Devoted Friend and Loving Spirit.
Brigid’s visits commonly brought her here on a Sunday, and she spent her time in conversation, just as she had on those many Sunday walks they’d had together. She generally began her reunion with her good friend by talking out loud, telling him of her week and the activities at Saint Michael’s. Then she would grow silent, as though listening for a response, or perhaps she was in prayer. Her visits frequently lasted an hour.
What had brought her here this particular Tuesday was the exceptional weather. She wanted to clean up the winter’s collection of leaves that clung in soggy clumps around his large stone and pull the pushy weeds that always seemed to crowd out the spring violets she had planted that very first spring. Brigid saw to it there were flowers for all seasons except winter.
She talked as she worked. “Saints preserve us, Chuck, ’tis a glorious day. And isn’t yer tree a picture—covered in green buds. I was wantin’ ta get here from the minute I awoke so I could share this day with yourself and me Patrick. Claire and the boarders didn’t seem ta take notice of today’s abundance, so busy with their lives they are. Although I shouldn’t be complainin’ about Claire, not with the way she keeps things runnin’ at the house.
“And did I mention that I wrote Maggie last week? I’m ferever grateful fer finally listenin’ to yer advice. But now ’tis Jack that weighs heavy on me mind. I must have been an idjit. What kind of mam throws her own son out like Monday’s wash water? But I wasn’t used to being thwarted. Not ever. It’s lately I’ve been rethinkin’ me ways. And now I realize that what yourself kept telling me is true. There is no problem fer which love is not the answer. And wasn’t it yer up and dyin’ on me that made me realize the patience you must have had with meself and me knowin’ ways. Fer this I have ta be thankin’ ya. Oh, now, would ya be lookin’ at that! The violets are lovely. Such a deep purple they are.”
Brigid stuffed the debris she had piled up beside her into a bag, got up, brushed off her skirt, and stood back to admire the beauty of the violet patch in front of Father Charles’ stone. She was overcome by a sense of silent peace as she walked over to tend to the grave of her husband, Patrick, and to say hello.
Holy Angels Cemetery was quite crowded as people thronged around the open grave of Gracia Mahoney. John Mahoney stooped to pick up the first handful of dirt to throw on the coffin, then stood to one side as the parade of mourners followed suit. He looked desolate, completely oblivious as the others slowly filed out of the cemetery to get into carriages or walk home.
One motorcar remained alongside the stretch of grass adjacent to the gravesite.
Liam and Fiona Harrigan stood at John’s side, but try as she might to be strong for his sake, Fiona wailed with sorrow. John threw his arms around her, joining in the wailing. “Sure and it wasn’t meant to be like this,” he moaned through his sobs. “It was meself that wanted to go first. What good is life fer me now?”
Liam joined the circle, stroking the backs of his beloved wife and brother–in–law. “Shoosh, shoosh, now,” he soothed, holding back his own tears. “Gracia wouldn’t want ta be hearin’ such things. I’m thinkin’ not. Sure and hasn’t she suffered enough without the two of you carryin’ on so? She’s finally at peace, now. And, oh, what a glorious day it must be fer her to finally be meetin’ up again with her precious son, Paddy.”
That thought seemed to have a calming effect on the two of them.
John pulled out a handkerchief, wiped his eyes, and blew his nose. “Ya best be getting’ back to the house, Fiona. Before long, half the town will be at the front door again, and your wains will be expectin’ directions as to how to feed them all. Liam can drive you back. I’ll just stay a wee bit longer. The walk back’ll do me good.”
Fiona reached up and kissed her brother–in–law on the cheek. “God bless ya, Johnny Mahoney.”
She continued weeping softly. Liam took her by the arm and led her to the car.