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  Through the cut glass, Mollie saw the outline of a woman’s figure, small, dressed in black with a colorful shawl around her head, the style worn on Inishmore a century ago. Mabry O’Farrell. She opened the door and stepped aside. “Come in. I was just about to have something to eat. Will you join me?”

  Mabry smiled. “Just like your da, a welcome like that. I’ve eaten, but a cup of tea will do nicely.”

  The kettle whistled. Mollie felt the old woman’s eyes on her as she scalded the pot, added tea leaves, and filled the water. Not until she carried the tray to the table and sat down across from her did Mabry speak.

  “Your da is in a bit of trouble, lass.” She held up her hand. “Don’t get up. It will be more time than we’ll take to finish our tea before he knows you again.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “This last week has been a difficult one for him.”

  “Really? That surprises me.”

  “Aye.” Mabry nodded her head. “To you and your mother and Sean and the children he’s been well enough. But he’s not strong, and the effort has taken the will out of him.”

  Mollie felt sick to her stomach. Her hand shook as she lifted the tea cup and sipped the cooling liquid. “What’s the matter with him?”

  “He drinks,” Mabry replied simply, “and when he starts he doesn’t stop.”

  Mollie stared into her cup. “Why are you telling me this?”

  “You’re his daughter, lass, the only child he has left. You can help him.”

  The toilet flushed upstairs, followed by the sound of footsteps and the gentle creaking of the mattress springs. Emma was back in bed. She’d slept nearly six hours already. Mollie hoped it was only jet lag and that her mother wasn’t slipping into a depression. She hadn’t called Ward yet for a completely selfish reason. She didn’t want him taking her mother home. “I didn’t need this right now,” Mollie said.

  “He has no one else.”

  Mollie shook her head. “He didn’t have me, either, not for twenty-eight years until I came back to find him.”

  “He had his reasons.”

  “Did he? Are there reasons enough to eliminate your child from your life?”

  “Your mother was the one who left,” Mabry reminded her.

  “People divorce each other, not their children.”

  “He needs you.”

  “So does everyone else. Besides, what am I supposed to do?”

  “You’re his daughter,” Mabry repeated.

  Tears boiled beneath Mollie’s eyelids. It was all too much, Ward eight thousand miles away, her mother behaving strangely, the sleepless nights and the guilt. Above all, the guilt, enough of it to burn a hole in her stomach. Her life had been so different from Danny’s. “There’s my mother,” she whispered, “and Caili and Marni and the baby and Sean—” She choked. “I can’t be everything to all of them.”

  Mabry’s eyes gentled. She reached over and squeezed Mollie’s hand. “Poor little lass. You’ve lost your chance to know your family, haven’t you?”

  She didn’t know the half of it. But maybe she didn’t have to. The understanding in the old woman’s voice undid her, and the dam of pain gathering in Mollie’s chest broke. Burying her face in her arms, she wept. Mabry was beside her, comforting arms gathering her close, a soothing voice murmuring words she didn’t understand, erasing the worst of the ache, leveling the mountain of responsibility until the path seemed smoother again. Laughing shakily, Mollie lifted her head. Pulling a napkin from the holder in the middle of the table, she blew her nose. “I’m sorry.”

  Mabry smiled. “You’re a right one, Mollie Tierney.”

  “I still haven’t the slightest idea of how to go about rescuing my father.”

  “It will come to you.”

  “When?”

  “Don’t be a stranger to him, Mollie. Include him in your life and in his grandchildren’s lives. Sean won’t think of that.”

  “This is going to take time, isn’t it?”

  Mabry smiled approvingly. “Clever lass.”

  Somehow it was natural to say what was on her mind. “What about my mother?”

  “She’ll come about. Emma Tìerney has spirit. That’s plain to all who know her.”

  Mollie wondered if Mabry had her mother mixed up with someone else. Emma was kind and loving and generous, a perfect wife and gentle parent. But rarely did she have a strong opinion on anything. If Mabry was right, somewhere in the last twenty-eight years, her mother had undergone a complete personality change. Who was the real Emma Reddington, and how did Mollie go about finding her now when she needed her desperately?

  Mollie saw the crack of light beneath her mother’s bedroom door. “Mom,” she called out, knocking softly. “Are you awake?”

  “Come in, Mollie. I’m not sleeping.”

  Mollie opened the door. Emma was sitting up in bed, holding a book against her chest. She smiled and patted the space beside her.

  Sighing gratefully, Mollie stretched out beside her mother.

  Emma smoothed her daughter’s hair back away from her cheek. “What’s on your mind?”

  “I was thinking about the men I’ve dated,” she began.

  “Anyone in particular?”

  “Garrett Michaels. A year ago I was convinced that he was the one.”

  “And now?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Any particular reason?”

  Mollie rubbed the back of her neck. She could picture Garrett in his starkly modern study, portable phone attached to his ear, hair and nails perfectly groomed, a creamy cashmere sweater knotted around his shoulders, Armani loafers and slacks that broke at the tip of the shoe, slacks that had never come off a rack. What had she ever seen in him? He’d known her for four years, but he was a stranger. “His dreams were different from mine. They made me nervous. He wanted money, nice cars, a boat, early retirement.”

  “What’s your dream, Mollie?”

  She rubbed her arms. Tired wasn’t the right word for the ache in her neck and the heavy weight of her eyelids. “I don’t have a dream,” she said slowly. “I’ve never had one.”

  “Does that bother you?”

  She nodded. “It bothers me that I don’t want anything enough to fight and sweat and sacrifice for it. I want that. I need to know I want something that much.”

  Emma leaned over and kissed her daughter’s cheek. “I wouldn’t worry too much. Maybe you just haven’t found it yet.”

  “Is that a polite way of telling me I’m being overly serious?”

  “In a way.”

  Mollie laughed and sat up. “I think I’ll go to bed.”

  “Good night, love.”

  “Good night.”

  Emma turned out the light and stared at the ceiling. Garrett Michaels had never impressed her. He was too smooth, too manicured, and too sure of Mollie. A man like that needed a full bath every morning and night and a valet to manage his luggage. His sweaters alone cost what a fisherman on Inishmore earned in a week. Not that money alone damned a man. Ward had money. The difference was in what he did with it.

  Living in an island community with the real world an hour’s boat ride away made one realize how connected everyone was to others around him. John Murphy couldn’t sink his boat without a dozen men losing their living. Reilley’s fishmarket, Tierney’s sweater mill, and O’Flaherty’s pub were affected right along with them. When the weather was bad and the ferry down, if a family needed milk or flour, someone was always there to lend a hand. The bank was only open on Wednesdays, but when the rain came sideways in sheets as sharp and thick as glass and those who lived on the far side of the island had no cash and couldn’t manage the journey, there were places set at fuller tables, and no man or woman ever went without a pint when the urge came over them.

  Patrick had never needed money. He couldn’t understand a man who worked only for the house and cars it would bring him. And a boat, for Christ’s sake. Emma couldn’t help smiling. She cou
ld still hear his voice. Everyone had a boat. Why did a man need money for a boat? As for retirement, in those long-ago days, Patrick couldn’t imagine not working, not facing the day with a sense of purpose, sharing a mug of tea with the fishermen, elated when the catch was good, matter-of-fact when it was not.

  Garrett Michaels couldn’t be more than thirty, and already he was wishing his life away.

  It was her daughter who puzzled her. What was Mollie looking for, this girl who had never wanted for anything, a girl lovely enough to make a man look up from the table where he was eating and stop chewing? What was missing in her world of wealth and luxury and sophistication that turned out a woman like Mollie who longed for something more but couldn’t name it?

  CHAPTER 10

  Patrick Tierney didn’t answer the first time Mollie knocked, or the second. The door was unlocked. She opened it and stepped into the kitchen. Everything looked the same, neat, well cared for, the rag rug on the floor, counters clear, appliances in place. She smelled the turf and walked into the sitting room. Someone had recently stoked the fire. Square pieces of peat glowed cheerily, taking the chill from the air. No one here, either.

  Mollie hesitated. It was one thing to walk into a man’s kitchen and living room, but invading his bedroom was something else. Still, she was here. Pitching her voice so she wouldn’t startle him from sleep, she called out, “Hello, is anyone here?”

  No answer. Gathering her nerve, she walked down the hall and peeked into the bedroom. He sat on the edge of the bed, legs apart, head in his hands. Mollie flushed and stepped back, away from the door. “I’m sorry,” she stammered from a safe place in the hallway. “I didn’t know, I thought—”

  Patrick appeared in the doorway, an unsteady Patrick who held on to the frame for support. “What did you think?”

  Mollie said nothing.

  “Why are you here, lass?”

  “I wanted to see if you were all right.”

  “I was right enough the last time you saw me.”

  “Mabry said—”

  With effort, Patrick removed his hand from the jamb. “Mabry is an interfering old woman.” Slowly, he moved past her. She followed him through the sitting room into the kitchen and watched his hands shake as he struck a match and held it to the pilot of a burner on the old cast-iron stove. The flame caught. He filled the kettle, sat down on the wooden bench beside the table, and stared at her. “You’re quiet this afternoon.” He looked out the window. “It is still afternoon, isn’t it?”

  “What’s the matter with you?” Mollie burst out. “You’ve never done this before. Why now?”

  He frowned, winced, and rubbed his temple. “Done what, lass? Can’t a man have a drink now and then?”

  In another minute Mollie would be in tears. She couldn’t deal with this. This wasn’t the reasonable man she thought was her father. “I’ll be going now. I just wanted to be sure you were all right.” Her voice cracked. She turned away toward the door.

  Suddenly he was beside her, vestiges of the Patrick Tierney she knew in his voice. “Don’t be losing sleep over me, lass. You’ve enough on your plate.”

  His gentleness undid her. Leaning against the door, the tears came, silently sliding down her face. She felt an awkward hand on her shoulder.

  “Please, don’t cry, Mollie.” He sounded desperate now. “It’s just a slip. One slip never buried a man. Don’t cry, love.”

  She breathed deeply and wiped her face with the back of her hand. He’d left her. Now he was back, tucking something soft and white into her curled palm, a handkerchief, monogrammed with the letters PT. Gratefully, she wiped her face, blew her nose, and turned to face him. The question needed asking. She had to know. “Do you slip often?”

  Behind his eyes she saw his mind sort through different answers, discarding them one by one. Minutes passed. Finally he shrugged. “We’ve no standard to measure by. To you, it might be often. I’ve cut back over the years.”

  “Are you an alcoholic?”

  The traces of a smile turned up the corners of his mouth. “You Americans, always wanting to label someone.”

  She persisted. “Do you drink when something bothers you?”

  “Aye, sometimes,” he admitted. “But I’ve been known to tip a pint or two to celebrate as well.”

  Questions crowded her brain, personal, demanding questions that transcended all semblance of good manners. Instinct told her to leave them, that no good would come of an unprepared interrogation of a man who’d shut her out of his life for twenty-eight years.

  She sighed and straightened her shoulders. “Come tomorrow for breakfast. The children will be there.”

  He hesitated. “What of your mother?”

  Mollie bit her lip. What would her mother say to the regular presence of Patrick Tierney in their lives? “I came here to get to know my family. You’re my family. She knows that.”

  He smiled, and the warmth of it wrapped around her heart. Emma would have to adjust.

  “Thank you,” he said. I’ll be there.”

  Desperate for a slice of normalcy, for people going about their ordinary lives on an ordinary Saturday, unfettered by tragedy, Mollie walked into town. Kathleen McVeigh stood on the front steps of her cafe, a broom in her hand, surveying the tide.

  Mollie managed a smile. “Are you open, Mrs. McVeigh?”

  The woman sighed. “Aye, lass, if you can call it that. I’ll go mad if I don’t stay busy.”

  “Is something wrong?”

  “The boats are past due. Not long,” she added hastily, “but long enough to make me anxious.” Wielding the broom like a wand, she shook it at Mollie. “You don’t need to hear all this. Come in, lass. I’ve soup this afternoon and fresh bread.” She waved at someone on the other side of the street. “Good afternoon, Sean,” she called out. “Your mother stopped by this mornin’ with the children. She tells me you’re in need of a meal. Come and keep Mollie company.”

  The band that squeezed Mollie’s chest whenever Sean O’Malley crossed her path began its familiar tightening. Attempting a smile, Mollie turned to greet him.

  “Hello, Mollie.”

  “Sean.”

  “Will you have a bite to eat with me?”

  “Where are Luke and the girls?”

  “With my mother. I’ve work yet to do.”

  Today was not a good day for pretense. Opening her mouth to say she couldn’t stay, she happened to glance at his hands, hanging loose and relaxed at his sides. Hands told a great deal about a person. Sean O’Malley was managing. Desperately, she wanted to know his secret. “What kind of soup is it, Mrs. McVeigh?”

  “Turnip leek with good-sized chunks of lamb.”

  Sean followed her into the restaurant. Mollie felt his hand move to her waist and lightly guide her to the small table near the window. Even without sunlight, the harsh winter beauty of the shoreline tore at her heart.

  “Lovely, isn’t it?”

  She nodded. “Spectacular.”

  Kathleen bustled back and forth with silver, bowls of steaming soup, rough warm bread, and rounds of dewy butter. “I’ve a bit of ale on hand if you prefer it,” she said when the meal was set before them.

  “Tea will do for me, Kathleen.” Sean nodded at Mollie. “What will you have, lass?”

  “The same.” She waited for Kathleen to move away, stirred her soup, lifted a spoonful to her lips, and set it down again. “You don’t drink much, do you?”

  “I’ve been known to tip a few now and then when the occasion warrants, but not when I’ve work to do.”

  “What kind of occasion?” She was finding it hard to look at him.

  Across the table she felt his eyes on her face, blue, measured.

  “Weddings, cruínnius,” he said casually, “a celebration where a toast is in order.”

  The scene at the cemetery came back to her. She’d cried in his arms. Surely she could ask him anything. “What about now? Do you feel like a drink now?”

  “I’v
e writing to do, Mollie,” he said patiently, as if he hadn’t explained once already. “I can’t risk an error, and alcohol relaxes a man’s mind.” He reached across the table and lifted her chin, forcing her to look at him. “What’s troubling you?”

  Her mouth worked. Why was it so hard to admit? He’d known Patrick Tierney forever. “My father—” She stopped.

  Kathleen returned with tea, took a shrewd, observing look at Mollie’s face, and wisely left them alone.

  Sean’s eyes narrowed. Taking over, he poured milk and added a spoonful of sugar to Mollie’s tea. “What has Patrick done now?”

  She shook her head, lifted the cup to her lips, and gulped the steaming brew. Her tongue burned. Hastily she lifted the ice water to her lips. In control once again, she said, “He’s done nothing wrong, really.”

  “You’re near tears. Come now, out with it.”

  Again she shook her head. Patrick was her father. She wouldn’t gossip behind his back.

  “Is he drinking again?”

  The sudden color in her cheeks betrayed her. She fixed her eyes on the sugar bowl. “Mabry told me the first day, but I didn’t believe it. There were no signs, until now.”

  Sean sighed. “There are so many things you don’t know, and most of it you wouldn’t understand, you with your American good sense and that air of entitlement all of you bring with you.”

  Hurt and anger warred within her. Anger won. “Why don’t you try telling me? Quite possibly my American mind will figure it out.”

  He grinned, and suddenly it was impossible to be angry anymore. “Don’t get your dander up. It was a compliment.” He nodded at her stew. “Finish up, and we’ll walk for a bit.”

  Leaving a five-punt note on the table, Sean called out a farewell to Kathleen and followed Mollie out the door. Tucking her hand in his arm, he led her past the bicycle rental shop, the convenience store that served as a post office, and the bank with the sign that said “Open on Wednesday,” to a narrow path that led straight toward the cliffs.