Authors: Christine Breen
Her Name Is Rose (33 page)
Then she felt a hand touch her shoulder.
“Mrs. Bowen?”
“Yes. What?” Iris, startled, opened her eyes and looked up.
“I'm sorry to disturb you.” It was the man in the white shirt.
“That's all right.” She stood, still holding the flowers Hector had given Rose.
“I just wanted to say ⦠um ⦠she ⦠your daughter, Rose, is really terrific. And so ⦠so ⦠beautiful.”
“Yes. She really is,” Iris said, the after-music still echoing in her.
“She plays brilliantly. You must be very proud.”
“Yes, I am. Thank you. Very proud. But she's done it all herself.” It wasn't the first time a stranger had come to share their appreciation of Rose's talent. But there was something about him. Was it his eyes? Had she met him before? “You gave her the coin?”
“Yes ⦠for luck.”
“That was so nice. But are you sure? I mean, it'sâ”
“It belonged to someone very special. It was my grandfather's. He died recently and Iâ”
“Oh ⦠I'm sorry for your loss.” For one moment, Iris thought the man was going to cry.
“His name was Burdy.” He looked down at the program he was holding. “He always wanted me to come to Ireland. I think he hoped one day I'dâ”
His eyes glanced up quickly at the empty stage, and came back again to Iris's. Suddenly all his features broadened, as if caught by surprise. Iris waited, expecting he was going to say more.
“I was just remembering something someone said to me a long time ago, which I had forgotten until now. âYou will go to Ireland and find a girl and it will change your life.'” He stood quite still as if he needed to so the meaning of the words he'd just voiced could sink in.
“And?” Iris said, watching his face slowly relax as if it was a bud, untightening. A poppy shedding its shell ready to unfurl.
“Yes. Well. Here I am.”
“I mean ⦠have you found her?”
“I have. Yes.” He paused. “I
have
found her.”
Iris waited for him to continue, to finish the trebled prediction, but he didn't. She wondered if she should perhaps ask him, but something in the way he spoke, and looked, made her feel the answer was,
Yes, his life would change.
“Won't you stay and meet Rose? She'll be out in a minute.”
“No, no.” He glanced at the stage once more, and made to move, but didn't. “But maybe some other time.” It took him another long moment. Then he looked directly at her. The smile he smiled was bittersweet and his eyes seemed ready to tear again. He offered his hand and Iris took it. “Will you tell Rose I wish her all the luck in the world. And ⦠even though she never met him, I know h ⦠I mean ⦠I know my grandfather, Burdy, is looking out for her. Andâ”
Iris looked at him searchingly. She could see there was a whole story in him, but before he could continue, and before she could find out what it was, his phone rang. He let go of her hand and looked at the number. Then he looked at her and said, “It's been my great pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Bowen. I
hope
our paths cross again.” His phone was still ringing. “Good-bye.”
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
Rowan Blake walked down the aisle of the auditorium, out through the open double doors of the hall, and into the beginnings of evening twilight.
Then he answered his phone.
“Pierce. Hello ⦠yes ⦠it's all good.⦠Yes. I did. She's all right.⦠No. No, I didn't.⦠But I'm fine. It was the right thing.⦠I'm happy. Really, it's okay. I'm okay. And Pierce, she's soooo beautiful.” Rowan told Pierce to tell his mother he'd be home the day after tomorrow. Or, maybe the day after that.
He walked along the street of parked cars and a few tractors. It seemed as if the whole audience from the concert had decamped en masse to the village pubs. The festival hadn't ended with the concert, Rowan thought. People were out on the street, leaning against the walls, sitting on chairs taken from inside, drinking pints and half glasses, lingering and chatting, enjoying themselves. He delighted in their celebration. It had a kind of pureness. A kind of organic, grassroots simplicity. And although he felt as far away from his life in Manhattan as he'd ever felt before, their optimistic voices filled him with the nearness he'd hoped for.
This is where Rose is from. This is her home, he thought. And she's fine. She's better than fine, she's great.
That was all he needed.
Soon he was back at the hotel. He went to his room. Got the package Pierce had given him and tipped the contents into a small plastic glass. And as the last light of the sun sunk off the western Irish Coast, Rowan Blake walked onto the green of the 18th hole of the hotel's golf course. The whole of the Atlantic seemed to be stretched in front of him, with rows of waves breaking far out. He stood for a few moments, filling his lungs with the sea air blowing in across the water. Then, with the cup in his hand, his arm stretched its full length, he angled it just so, and like a boy with a kite, he ran the circle of the green, scattering the ashes to the wind.
“Now, Burdy,” Rowan said, letting his head fall back and looking up into the sky, “keep an eye on her.”
The ashes lifted on the air like they were floating feathers.
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
Rose bounded across the stage and down the stairs. She was laughing and pulling Conor's wooly hat down his face.
“Well?” she asked her mother.
“Wonderful,” Iris said, and hugged her. “Stunning. Fab, as Tess would say. Really, honey ⦠it was pure magic. I wish I had recorded it.”
“Not to worry, Iris, we'll give you a private performance. And now that we have a trioâ” Rose elbowed him.
“Just saying,” Conor said, glancing at Iris, who smiled ever so slightly. “So ⦠Tubridy's?”
“Morrisey's,” Rose said. “Mum?”
“Be there in a minute,” Iris said. “You two go.” Rose gave a look that meant she understood her mother was waiting for Hector. “And tell Tess I'll see her there.”
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
Iris sat down again in the front row and looked up at the stage, at the piano and the centerpiece and the flowers. Her flowers, the white cosmos shone and the petals of the poppies held even though she hadn't singed them.
The audience had all gone, the auditorium was as quiet as it had been loud. She waited. He would be out in a moment. Iris was left with the sense of completion and a satisfying feeling of the resolution of a cycle. Life moves on. With all she was already experiencing, she thought of the word, the feeling, the miracle of
grace.
And, she felt that feeling that can't be explained in words, that feeling that makes you take a breath but lets you know that in its long, slow, easy exhale somehow something has been healed.
Then, out of the wings, eyes down and stepping quietly, Hector Sherr appeared on the stage. He stood a moment and looked down at Iris. Then he bowed to her. He pulled back the stool. He sat again at the piano, and once more, for Iris Bowen, he began to play.
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CHRISTINE BREEN
was born in New York and educated in Boston and Dublin, where she received an MA in Irish Literature. She is an artist, homeopath, gardener, and mother of two children. She lives in Kiltumper, Ireland, with her husband, the novelist Niall Williams, in the cottage where her grandfather was born.
Her Name Is Rose
is her first novel. Visit her Web site at
www.christinebreen.info
, or sign up for email updates
here
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Contents
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This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.
HER
NAME
IS
ROSE
. Copyright © 2015 by Christine Breen. All rights reserved. Interior illustrations by Christine Breen. For information, address St. Martin's Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
Cover designed by Kerri Resnick
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shutterstock.com
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The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
ISBN 978-1-250-05421-0 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-4668-5723-0 (e-book)
e-ISBN 9781466857230
First Edition: April 2015