meticulously, turning her sketch of an Apache breastplate into her own vision. It was sweaty work, and viciously exacting. Bleeding color into color, shape into shape as she wanted required hundreds of trips to the glory hole. But here, at least, she could be patient.
White-hot flames licked through open furnace doors, blasting out heat. The exhaust fan hummed like an engine to keep the fumes coating the glass— and not her lungs—to an iridescent hue. For two days she worked with chemicals, mixing and experimenting like a mad scientist until she'd perfected the colors she desired. Copper for the deep turquoise, iron for the rich golden yellow, manganese for a royal, bluish purple. The red, the true ruby she wanted, had given her trouble, as it did any glass artist. She was working with that now, sandwiching that section between two layers of clear glass. She'd used copper again, with reducing agents in the melt to ensure a pure color. Though it was poisonous, and potentially dangerous even under controlled conditions, she'd chosen sodium cyanide. Even with this the casing was necessary to prevent the red from going livery.
The first gather of the new section was blown, rotated, then carefully trailed from the iron. She used long tweezers to draw the molten, taffylike glass into a subtly feathery shape. Sweat dripped down onto the cotton bandanna she'd tied around her brow as she worked the second gather, repeated the procedure. Again and again, she went to the glory hole to reheat, not only to keep the glass hot, but to ensure against thermal strains that could break any vessel— and the heart of the artist.
To prevent searing her hands, she dripped water over the pipe. Only the tip needed to be kept hot. She wanted the wall of the breastplate thin enough so that light could seep and be refracted through it. This required additional trips for heating and careful patient work with tools for flattening and for adding the slight curve she envisioned. Hours after she'd blown the first gather, she placed the vessel in the annealing oven and struck the pontil. It wasn't until she'd set both temperature and time that she felt the cramps in her hands, the knots in her shoulders and neck. And the emptiness in her belly. No scraping out of a can tonight, she decided. She would celebrate with a meal and a pint at the pub.
Maggie didn't ask herself why, after pining for solitude, she now hurried toward company. She'd been home for three days and had spoken to no one but Brianna. And then only briefly and angrily. Maggie was sorry for it now, sorry that she hadn't tried harder to understand Brianna's position. Her sister was always in the middle, the unlucky second child of a flawed marriage. Instead of leaping for her sister's throat, she should have taken her oversolicitousness toward their mother in stride. And she should have told Brianna what she'd learned from Christine Sweeney. It would be interesting to gauge Brianna's reaction to the news of their mother's past. But that would have to wait. She wanted an undemanding hour with people she knew, over a hotmeal and a cold beer. It would take her mind off the work that had been driving her for days, and off the fact that she'd yet to hear from Rogan.
Because the evening was fine and she wanted to work out the worst of her kinks, she straddled her bicycle and began the three-mile trek into the village. The long days of summer had begun. The sun was brilliant and pleasantly warm, keeping many of the farmers out in their fields long after their supper was over. The curving narrow road was flanked on both sides by high hedgerows that provided no shoulder and gave Maggie the impression of riding down a long, sweet-smelling tunnel. She passed a car, gave the driver a wave and felt the breeze of its passing flutter her jeans. Pedaling hard, more for the fun than because she was in a hurry, she burst out of the tunnel of hedges into the sheer breathless beauty of the valley.
The sun dashed off the tin roof of a hay barn and dazzled her eyes. The road was smoother now, if no wider, but she slowed, simply to enjoy the evening breeze and the lingering sunlight. She caught the scent of honeysuckle, of hay, of sweet mown grass. Her mood, which had been manic and restless since her return, began to mellow. She passed houses with clothes drying on the line and children playing in the yard, and the ruins of Castles, majestic still with their gray stones and legends of ghostly inhabitants, a testament to a way of life that still lingered.
She took a curve, caught the bright flash that was Hhe river flowing through high grass and turned away from it toward the village. The houses were more plentiful now and stood closer together. Some of the newer ones made her sigh with disappointment. They were blocky and plain to her artist's eye, and usually drab in color. Only the gardens, lush and vivid, saved them from Ugliness. The long last curve took her into the village proper. She passed the butcher's, the chemist's, '0'Ryan's little food store and the tiny, neat hotel that had once belonged to her grandfather. Maggie paused to study the building a moment, trying to imagine her mother living there as a girl. A lovely girl, according to Christine Sweeney's report, with the voice of an angel. If it were true, why had there been so little music in the house? And why, Maggie wondered, had there never been a mention, a hint of Maeve's talent? She would ask, Maggie decided. And there was likely no place better than O'Malley's.
As she pulled her bike to the curb Maggie noticed a family of tourists wandering on foot, shooting videos and looking enormously pleased with themselves to be committing a quaint Irish village onto tape. The woman held the small, clever little camera and laughed as she focused on her husband and two children. Maggie must have stepped into the frame, for the woman lifted her hand and waved.
"Good evening, miss."
"And to you."
To her credit, Maggie didn't even snicker when the woman whispered to her husband, "Isn't her accent wonderful? Ask her about food, John. I'm dying to get more of her on tape."
"Ah . . . excuse me."
Tourism couldn't hurt the village, Maggie decided, and turned back to play the game.
"Can I help you with something this evening?"
"If you wouldn't mind. We were wondering about a place to eat in town. If you could recommend something."
"And sure I could do that." Because they looked so delighted with her, she layered a bit more west county into her speech. "Now, if you're after wanting something fancy, you couldn't do better but to drive along this road another, oh, fifteen minutes, and you could have the very king of meals at Dromoland Castle. It'll be hard on your wallet, but your taste ' buds will be in heaven."
"We're not dressed for a fancy meal," the woman put in.
"Actually, we were hoping for something simple right here in the village."
"If you're in the mood for a bit of pub grub"—she winked at the two children, who were eyeing her as if she'd stepped off a light-flashing UFO—"you'll find O'Malley's to your liking, I'm sure. His chips are as good as anyone's."
"That's means french fries," the woman translated. "We just arrived this morning, from America," she told Maggie. "I'm afraid we don't know much about the local customs. Are children permitted in the bars—pubs?"
This is Ireland. Children are welcome anywhere, anywhere a'tall. That's O'Malley's there." She gestured toward the low plastered block building with dark trim. "I'm going there meself. They'd be pleased to have you and your family for a meal."
"Thank you." The man beamed at her, the children stared and the woman had yet to take the camera from in front of her face. "We'll give it a try."
"Enjoy your meal, then, and the rest of your stay."
Maggie turned and sauntered down the sidewalk and into O'Malley's. It was dim, smoky and smelled of frying onions and beer.
"And how are you, Tim?" Maggie asked as she settled herself at the bar.
"And look who's dragged herself in." Tim grinned at her as he built a pint of Guinness.
"And how are you, Maggie?"
"I'm fit and hungry as a bear." She exchanged greetings with a couple at a postage-stamp-sized table behind her and at the two men who nursed pints at the bar. "Will you fix me one of your steak sandwiches, Tim, with a pile of chips, and I'll have a pint of Harp while I'm waiting."
The proprietor
stuck his head around the back of the bar and shouted out Maggie's order. "Well now, how was Dublin City?" he asked while he drew her a pint.
"I'll tell you." She propped her elbows on the bar and began to describe her trip for the patrons of the bar. While she talked the American family came in and settled at a table.
"Champagne and goose liver?" Tim shook his head. "Isn't that a wonder? And all those people come to see your glass. Your father'd be proud of you, Maggie girl. Proud as a peacock."
"I hope so." She sniffed deeply when Tim slid her plate in front other.
"But the truth is, I'd rather have your steak sandwich than a pound of goose liver."
He laughed heartily. "That's our girl."
"It turns out that the grandmother of the man who's managing things for me was a friend of my gran, Gran O'Reilly."
"You don't mean it?" With a sigh, Tim rubbed his belly. "Sure and it's a small world."
"It is," Maggie agreed, making it casual. "She's from Galway and knew Gran when they were girls. They wrote letters for years after Gran moved here, keeping up, you know?"
"That's fine. No friend like an old friend."
"Gran wrote her about the hotel and such, the family. Mentioned how it was my mother used to sing."
"Oh, that was a time ago." Remembering, Tim picked up a glass to polish. "Before you were born, to be sure. Fact is, now that I think of it, she sang here in this very pub one of the last times before she gave it up."
"Here? You had her sing here?"
"I did, yes. She had a sweet voice, did Maeve. Traveled all over the country. Hardly saw a bit of her for, oh, more than ten years, I'd say, then she came back to stay a time. It seems to me Missus O'Reilly was ailing. So I asked Maeve if maybe she'd like to sing an evening or two, not that we've as grand a place as some in Dublin and Cork and Donnegal where she'd performed."
"She performed? For ten years?"
"Oh well, I don't know as she made much of it at first. Anxious to be off and away was Maeve, as long as I remember. She wasn't happy making beds in a hotel in a village like ours, and let us know it." He winked to take the sting out of his words. "But she was doing well by the time she came back and sang here. Then she and Tom . . . well, they only had eyes for each other the moment he walked in and heard her singing."
"And after they married," Maggie said carefully, "she didn't sing any longer?"
"Didn't care to. Wouldn't talk of it. Fact is, it's been so long, till you brought it up, I'd nearly forgotten."
Maggie doubted her mother had forgotten, or could forget. How would she herself feel if some twist in her life demanded that she give up her art? she wondered. Angry, sad, resentful. She looked down at her hands, thought of how it would be if she couldn't use them again. What would she become if suddenly, just as she was about to make her mark, it was all taken away? If relinquishing her career wasn't an excuse for the bitter years that had passed with her mother, at least it was a reason. Maggie needed time to shift through it, to talk to Brianna. She toyed with her beer and began to put the pieces of the woman her mother had been together with the personality of the woman she'd become. How much of both, Maggie wondered, had Maeve passed on to her daughter?
"You're to eat that sandwich," Tim ordered as he slid another pint down the bar. "Not study it."
"I am." To prove her point, Maggie took a healthy bite. The pub was warm and comforting. Time enough tomorrow, she decided, to wipe the film off old dreams. "Will you get me another pint, Tim?"
"That I'll do," he said, then lifted a hand when the pub door opened again. "Well, it's a night for strangers. Where've you been, Murphy?"
"Why missing you, boy-o." Spotting Maggie, Murphy grinned and joined her at the bar. "I'm hoping I can sit by the celebrity."
"I suppose I can allow it," she returned. "This once, at any rate. So, Murphy, when are you going to court my sister?"
It was an old joke, but still made the pub patrons chuckle. Murphy sipped from Maggie's glass and sighed. "Now, darling, you know there's only room in my heart for you."
"I know you're a scoundrel." She took back her beer.
He was a wildly handsome man, trim and strong and weathered like an oak from the sun and wind. His dark hair curled around his collar, over his ears, and his eyes were as blue as the cobalt bottle in her shop. Not polished like Rogan, she thought. Rough as a Gypsy was Murphy, but with a heart as wide and sweet as the valley he loved. Maggie had never had a brother, but Murphy was the nearest to it.
"I'd marry you tomorrow," he claimed, sending the pub, except for the Americans who looked on avidly, into whoops of laughter. "If you'd have me."
"You can rest easy, then, for I won't be having the likes of you. But I'll kiss you and make you sorry for it"