Wellesley Wives (New England Trilogy) (43 page)

Mrs. Miller handed the pills to Sandra.

On that Monday night, their first night in Banagher, Sandra was forced to go down to have tea by herself, because Popsy was out cold. Mrs. Miller enlisted her to “help out a bit,” in the kitchen.

“The lads are always starving after a day down with the boats. I could do with a spare set of hands,” she said. “You help me here now and I’ll give you tea on the house.”

Sandra was thrilled with the distraction. She didn’t like sitting alone in a bar. In fact, she’d never done it, and she didn’t want to start now. There wasn’t a television in her room—not that she could have watched anyway with Popsy sound asleep, and she doubted that room service was included in their package.

Within an hour, Mrs. Miller had Sandra serving up mushroom soup and roast chicken to the guests she referred to as “the lads,” in rooms one through four.

“And which of you lads is the hero that saved her nibs above asleep earlier this afternoon?” Mrs. Miller enquired when she and Sandra were clearing away the soup dishes and putting out the heaping plates of roast chicken and baked potatoes. Two of the younger men pointed to the hunky guy she’d met on the stairs earlier.

“Yeah, Shane Maloney, and why doesn’t that surprise me?” Mrs. Miller asked. “You, Shane, I’d swear you have eyes at the back of your head.” She patted him maternally. “Good boy. You did well. She needs lookin’ after for a while. That’s what Sandra here is up to. You lads be nice to my lady guests, now. No funny business. You be proper gentlemen, you hear?”

They all mumbled a promise of sorts, except Shane Maloney, who maintained a stoic silence.

Later, when Sandra was helping to wash the dishes, she said, “The guy that saved Popsy—Shane, is it?”

Mrs. Miller looked at Sandra with suspicion. “What of him?”

“Well, he just seemed a little quiet.”

“That’s our Shane. He’s not a big talker.”

“But he is big.” Sandra laughed.

“And a fine-looking man he is, too. He’s widowed, you know. Like your friend.” Sandra got the point. She thought Shane and Popsy would be a good match.

“I’m single, too.”

“Widowed?”

“No, my husband walked out on me a few months ago.”

Mrs. Miller nodded sympathetically but Sandra got the feeling she felt widowhood trumped deserted wife. Then she remembered Mrs. Miller herself was a widow. Sandra chose to ignore her obvious preference for bereaved over busted up. “So, does Shane have a girlfriend?”

Sandra had made a promise to herself that if the opportunity presented itself in Ireland, she would find a little “distraction.” Not a new love or anything that complicated, just plain sex. The sooner she had sex with another man, the sooner she could start rebuilding her life after Jack. Seeing Shane on the stairs sure made her remember she was a red-blooded woman. But was he on the market?

“Shane? You’re barking up the wrong tree there, girl. Any of the other lads and they’d love to spend some time with you, I daresay, but Shane? I’ve never seen him with a woman in the fifteen years I’ve known him. He never got over the death of his wife, and I think he’s pretty set in his ways now.”

“Fifteen years? I thought he was a guest like us.”

Mrs. Miller shrugged. “Some guests stay longer than others,” she said. “He is a guest, but he moved in fifteen years ago and never moved out. It was his first summer in Banagher. I think he liked working with the boats. By the end of the season he reckoned he had nothing to go back to, so he stayed here to do any work that needed doing on the boats over the winter. That was a long time ago. He runs the whole show up there now.”

“Does he own the business?” Sandra asked, her hope rising. He would be even more attractive if he was rich, but Mrs. Miller shook her head.

“Lord, no. He just works on the boats off-season, but he’s like a son to me now. I give him the room and he does what I need about the house. There’s a lot of man’s work to do around here, and my John is gone twenty-three years now. Shane helps me out all the time. He’s a good boy.”

“I’m sorry you lost your husband.” Sandra noted that there seemed to be a lot of death in these parts.

Mrs. Miller nodded. “John’s long-gone now, but I still miss him sometimes. Your friend, she has a way to go. It’s a hard road, and if you don’t mind me saying, I think what she really needs is to stay busy.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, she would have walked herself into an early grave if it weren’t for Shane being there. She was obviously in some sort of a daydream or maybe even a living nightmare—God bless her. You should get her working; keep her mind moving. Then she won’t have time to think about her loss.”

“That’s why I brought her to Ireland. To get away from it all for a few days.”

Mrs. Miller seemed to think about this for a while. “That’s all well and good, escaping for a bit, but she still has nothing to fill her mind. She needs her brain to be occupied. Like I said, you both need to work. Leave me with that. I’ll have a think about it.”

Sandra was grateful to have somebody to confide in. “You know, when she came up to me this evening she had this crazy idea that maybe she was supposed to die. That her husband had made is so she’d hit by the crane so she could join him.”

Mrs. Miller didn’t seem to think this was crazy at all. “Well, if he did, a higher force put Shane in her path and brought her back to earth with a thud. She’s meant to be here, and so are you. It’s all part of His plan.” Mrs. Miller glanced up at the ceiling respectfully.

Sandra was not a big believer in “master plans,” but her companion seemed so convinced, she didn’t dare argue.

“Come on, so,” Mrs. Miller said. “Those boys will be ready for apple pie by now.”

The next day, Tuesday, Popsy suffered with her worst hangover in years but other than that the day seemed to fly by. They started the day by checking up on the volcano. Their cell phones didn’t work at all, but Popsy used a pay phone and managed to talk to Lily who assured her that all was well in Boston and promised she’d talk to Rosie.

With the day stretching in front of them, they took a long country walk, and by the time they got back, Mrs. Miller had a list of chores for them to do. She told them if they helped out enough, she would halve their boarding fee, which was kind of funny because they didn’t know what they were paying anyway but figured it couldn’t be that much.

Even though it was work, something neither woman was used to, they still enjoyed themselves. Sandra seemed to have an affinity for the bar. She quickly learned how to change a keg and run the glass washer. It was odd that Mrs. Miller had one of those and not a regular dishwasher. She learned how to work the till, but still had difficulty figuring out the euro coins.

It was all too funny because there was nobody actually in the pub. Life in The Boathouse was quiet and had a rhythm. The men went off in the morning and the ladies puttered about the house. Mrs. Miller tried to pique Sandra’s interest in cooking, too, but that hadn’t worked out so well. Her attention span just didn’t stretch that far, and Tuesday’s red pepper quiche wasn’t as good as usual.

Meanwhile, Mrs. Miller got Popsy into the garden. “You’ve come to me at a great time,
a gra
,” she said. Popsy remembered that
a gra
was Irish for ‘love.’ It was a term of endearment and often a maternal sort of pet name. She liked Mrs. Miller using it with her. “I’m behind on the work, truth be told. I got all the spring bulbs down in plenty of time last autumn, but I’ve done nothing about the seeds that should be in the soil these last three weeks. There’s spring cuttings to be taken, too,”

Popsy didn’t quite understand what she was supposed to do, nor could she make out all of Mrs. Miller’s words because the Kerry accent was so strong, but she was happy to watch the woman at work and copy what she did.

They started in the potting shed. Popsy thought the room was like a scene from a Harry Potter movie. It was small and musty but quite beautiful. A potting table stood under the small window that overlooked the river. The panes of glass were green around the corners. Terracotta pots of varying sizes were perched on dusty shelves in no particular order. In the corner stood a stack of different gardening tools—shovels, hoes, rakes and others she didn’t recognize. It was organized chaos and lovely to Popsy.

Mrs. Miller showed her how to mix the correct ratio of soil and vermiculite into clean trays and then dampen it down. Then she gave her an envelope of seeds. “I collected these from the penstemon last year. They’re mighty flowers. They love it here. Spread them thin over the soil, girl.”

Mrs. Miller dropped a few seeds onto the soil to show Popsy how it was done and then she took over. She’d never tried to sow seeds before. It was incredibly satisfying and all-absorbing. When she was happy the tiny seeds were settled and well spaced out, Mrs. Miller showed her how to cover the tray in plastic wrap to make it airtight.

“They need to fight for life. It’s hard work cracking out of that little seed you know,” she said. “Life is hard for all of us, but it’s worth it, and that’s the truth.” Mrs. Miller didn’t look up so Popsy wasn’t sure whether she was talking to the seedlings or herself, or to Popsy. It didn’t really matter.

When the seedlings were all settled, Mrs. Miller gave her a small jar of hormone rooting powder. “This helps the plant to make new roots,” she explained. “Mind it well, because it works on humans, too.” She winked.

Popsy was intrigued. What was Mrs. Miller saying? That she should put down new roots? Why was she telling her to do that?

Out came a set of terracotta pots that Mrs. Miller filled with a mixture of soils. “This is a different mix to what the seedlings want, mind you,” she said. “Seeds need a light, feathery soil for their tiny roots. Cuttings like something with a bit more substance, more grit.”

“Oh, okay,” Popsy said, a little surprised.

“Well, a baby takes a different bed to a full-grown person, don’t they?” she said as she examined one of the pots. “It’s the same with plants.” When she said it like that, it made perfect sense.

As soon as their pots were good to go, Mrs. Miller took her out into the garden, both of them armed with sharp scissors and garden gloves. She showed Popsy how to take a cutting from the lavender. Then she brought her over to the hydrangeas and dogwoods. With each plant, Mrs. Miller showed her how to take the cutting from the mother plant, dip it in rooting powder, and then punch a hole in the soil with her little finger to settle the tiny new plant into its new home.

“And these will grow into big new plants?” Popsy asked, enthralled.

“Only if we give them the right care. As of now, they’re very vulnerable. They’ve lost their support system. It will take time for them to become self-sufficient, but they will and what’s more, they’ll bloom beautifully, much like humans.” This time Popsy was pretty sure Mrs. Miller was referring to her, even though she hadn’t looked at her directly.

After the cuttings were settled, she learned how to wrap the little pots in airtight plastic bags to encourage the new growth, and then they put them in the heated glasshouse to keep them warm and get as much light as possible. The afternoon flew by.

Later on, Popsy and Sandra helped her serve up food for “the lads,” and then the three women ate together.

“So, I have you for as long as that volcano blows?” Mrs. Miller asked.

Popsy nodded. “Then it will be time to go home.”

“Well, doesn’t God work in mysterious ways?”

Popsy wasn’t so sure. She glanced over to where Shane sat with the men. They hadn’t spoken since he’d saved her life except for one time when she felt the need to thank him again. He seemed embarrassed and abruptly distant. She didn’t want to make him uncomfortable, and now she avoided him. Deep-down, she still didn’t know whether she was grateful he’d saved her life or if she hated him for it.

Popsy and Sandra were happy to fall into bed early on Tuesday night after all the fresh air, and Mrs. Miller had warned them that Wednesday night would be “late.” She said, “They come from all around for the Wednesday Karaoke Night.” It sounded like fun.

The following morning, Mrs. Miller said she’d already checked the news and all the airports were still closed, so Popsy phoned Lily again. She reassured them, again, that all was well, and she would stay in touch with Rosie.

Then she and Sandra went for their morning walk and afterward Sandra decided to go into town for a little exploration. Popsy was more than happy to stay in the garden with Mrs. Miller. Wednesday’s lesson was all about seed sorting. She learned all there was to know about how to harvest the seeds from the big daisy heads of the rudbeckia and black-eyed Susans. She got firsthand tutoring on the differences between annual and perennial sunflowers and the lovely lupines that threw up mighty spires of color in the early spring. Mrs. Miller was a great believer in seed soaking. Popsy learned a lot and loved it.

Later in the afternoon, she came to Popsy with a small bundle of envelopes labeled with the different seeds.

“Take these home with you when you go,
a gra
,” she said. “These flowers, when they bloom, will remind you of your time with us.” Popsy was so grateful she almost cried. Her days in the garden were the only time she felt relief from the pain of losing Peter. The seeds offered hope for the future—something she was lacking. She treasured the gift and promised to plant them with care when she got home.

For all of her time in Ireland, she’d managed to avoid thinking about her home. It wouldn’t be hers for much longer. The lawyers were talking to the banks. She had enough money, thanks to Peter, but the property portfolio was all going to go into the vortex of debt. Where would she go? Where would she live?

“Are you all right,
a gra
? Do you not like the seeds?”

“No. Yes. No, I love the seeds. I just don’t know where home is anymore,” she said honestly.

Mrs. Miller nodded with sympathy.

“Don’t think about that now,
a gra
. Go and get ready for the karaoke night. It’s a real bit of fun, now. Put something pretty on. It will give you a good laugh to see all of us doing our thing. It’s the highlight of my week. You’ll see.”