"But then he left the country. Perhaps he forgot about it," she said.
"No. He didn't forget. And all of the papers about Andrew were kept by Patrick, just in case. Apparently they were never needed. Andrew died ignobly enough on his own. But the clerk inside was right."
"About what?"
"The reason it was never picked up. There was no longer any use for it. But maybe . . ."
"Maybe what?" She bit her lip, thinking of all the hopes and dreams shared by a long-ago pair of lovers. They wanted only the simplest of things from their lives: each other and a family and a home. Yet they had been denied such things.
"Maybe we can use the dishes, you and I. Perhaps that's why all of this has happened." He turned her toward him, staring down into her face. "I want to marry you, Maura, as soon as possible. I don't believe we should wait to know each other, for we know each other better than we could in a hundred lifetimes."
All she could do is nod, knowing how right he was and how very right they were together.
"Is that a yes?" Again she nodded.
"And will you always be this obedient to your husband?"
With her mouth still opened in mute surprise, her expression still one of shock, she shook her head.
"Good! Now, let's go back and claim the baby's things. We have a wedding to plan."
Later at a pub in the Temple Bar district, the clerk was finishing his second pint and ordered a third when a cluster of his friends entered.
"Have I a tale to tell to you boy-os." He wiped the foam from his upper lip. "It's about an American, an Irishman, and how they were brought together by a two-hundred-year-old baby set handed to them by yours truly . . ."
epilogue
Jimmy O'Neil looked both ways before crossing the street to the Merrion Square house. Clutched against his black jacket was a bottle, the outline clearly visible even beneath the crumpled brown paper bag wrapping. A young woman walked past with a small terrier without glancing at him.
"And what are you looking at, young miss, and you with a poky little dog like that?"
The young woman kept walking at a brisker pace, uncertain what the strange little man had just said, but certain that his tone was accusatory in nature.
He paused behind a green cylinder mailbox, peeking out when he felt the coast was satisfactorily clear. Just as he was about to make his final break, a cluster of children led by a nun passed.
A few stragglers didn't move fast enough for his pleasure. Raising his hand to the smallest one, he hissed, "Get on with ye, little snapper! And mind you, don't you be looking at my bottle!"
The child burst into tears and ran ahead to catch up with his class.
Content at last, he raced to the gate of number eighty-nine and a half, one of the most splendid homes on the block. They had fixed it up grand, they had, with the garden and the polished brass and the red door. Herself had done most of the work while himself spent time at the factory, making it again a pride to enter altogether.
Now the orders were coming in from all over, from Europe and America, even from Japan, although Jimmy couldn't imagine what anyone from Japan would do with a great Irish cupboard, or a scumble-painted chest-on-chest, and they with no shoes at all and tiny cups that would fall through the slats.
Just last week they began making Waterford car beds, snug domed beds that resembled gypsy caravans. Americans were wild for them, especially with the quilts the ladies were making.
All in all, the past eighteen months had been grand. Maiden Works had never seen higher profits, and now that the Byrnes had managed to buy out the Germans, times had never been better. Even Kermit MacGee had missed but one day of work in well over a year, and that had been because of a boil on his back. Shame.
Jimmy climbed up the steps, admiring the fine bootscrape, and a little pot of mums on either side of the door. Those pots had been another of herself's ideas, little flower pots painted by local children.
They couldn't make them fast enough at the factory, that was for sure.
The doorbell had a fine ring to it. The Byrnes had restored the original chimes, taking away the electronic buzz that had been there before. He was about to ring again when the door flew open.
"Jimmy! Come on in!" Donal Byrne held the door wide open.
A fine-looking lad, Jimmy thought as he entered, glancing up at the chandelier. He could recall the first time they met, a serious young man with no joy whatsoever. It seemed impossible that this was the same man, a lad with a quick smile and easy charm. It was indeed an honor to work with such a man.
"I brought you a little something in honor of the occasion." Jimmy handed him the bottle.
Donal pulled down a corner of the bag. "Thank you. Let's see, a scotch bottle, filled with a clear speckled liquid, with a gin bottle top. Jimmy! You shouldn't have—this is your best poteen!"
"It's that indeed. The finest I have yet to make. Stay away from that rat poison MacGee brews up. That's why it's illegal entirely, inferior stuff like that. Do you remember old Maddie Bowen?"
"The blind woman with the limp?"
"She had neither until she took a single swallow of MacGee's poteen. Deadly stuff, that. I gag at the notion."
"Well, thank you, Jimmy. I'm sure Maura and I will enjoy this." Donal watched as a clump of an unidentifiable substance swirled from the bottom of the bottle, then settled heavily against the side. "And how is herself?"
"She's grand, Jimmy. Just grand. She was a real trouper—it was sixteen hours, you know."
"Bless her altogether. And the little one? What's its name?"
"Katherine. But we're calling her Kitty. She looks just like her mother, absolutely lovely."
"Is she fair or dark?"
"Fair, I think. There's so little hair on her head at the moment, it's hard to judge."
"A drop of this"—Jimmy tapped the bottle—"and she'll have enough hair to wrap about the cradle twice in no time."
"I'll keep that in mind. And Jimmy, tell the boys that the cradle is brilliant. I've never seen a baby sleep so well."
"A drop or two of this"—again he tapped the bottle, nodding sagely—"and we will all sleep like innocent babes. I'm back to work now. Twelve more orders this morning, Mr. Byrne. One was for a dozen dressers in all styles, Galway, Ulster, Wexford— imagine! Oh, and a store in California, America, wants to carry nothing but items from Maiden Works. Pity, he seemed such a nice fellow on the telephone, and he living in a place about to break into the ocean altogether with the next earthquake. Well, give herself my best."
Before Donal could invite Jimmy in for a taste of the poteen, he was gone, hobbling down the street, his fine head of hair gleaming white.
He closed the door, giving the bottle another look. The rumor in the factory was that Jimmy used rats in
his poteen barrel for flavor and to speed up the fermentation process.
One of the men from work had filled the holy water dishes in his house with the poteen, frantic to get rid of the telltale bottle before his wife could find it, but unable to pour a drop of it down the drain. His wife had dipped her fingers into one of the dishes, and, after making the sign of the cross and noticing the peculiar aroma, proclaimed the event a miracle.
Donal smiled and put the bottle on a table. Upstairs in the third floor bedroom, his own miracle was waiting for him.
Picking up the flower arrangement that had just arrived, he made sure she would be able to read the card. It was from the entire staff of Finnegan's Freeze-Dried, the company she had sold just over a year ago. Peter Jones was now the head of it, and with the addition of dried fruits and a line of health drinks, the company was expanding with such speed, it had been featured in a Business Week cover story.
Nobody had been more thrilled at their success than Maura. Although some of the ideas that had propelled them to such success had been hers, vetoed by her father years before, she refused to accept any credit. Never had she complained or bemoaned that the company was no longer hers.
"This is where my life is now," she had said. "This is where my present and future are, here in Ireland with you, not back in Wisconsin."
She was indeed a wonder, his Maura.
He entered their bedroom softly, watching her as she slept. Somehow he couldn't watch her enough, as if he was never able to get his fill of her, of the mere sight of his wife. In her sleep she stirred, and he leaned over and brushed a strand of hair from her face. She stretched her arms over her head and opened her eyes, and Donal simply watched her movements with pure joy.
"Was that Jimmy O'Neil?"
"It was, indeed. And here are some flowers from Peter Jones and company. May I sit on the bed?"
"Of course." She patted the spot next to her. "They're beautiful, aren't they?" She inhaled the fragrance of the bouquet as he set them on the table next to her.
In a single movement he settled on the bed and leaned down to kiss her. Her hand cupped his shoulder, and she sighed.
"How are you feeling?" he asked. All of her color had returned, her cheeks bright with health.
"Wonderful." She smiled, propping herself up on one elbow. "And how are you feeling?"
"I'm not the one who just had a child. Is she still asleep?"
"Mmm. She's really so good, Donal. Other babies fret and cry, but Kitty is an absolute wonder. Look over at her—she even smiles in her sleep."
"Biddy Macguillicuddy said it's gas."
"And what does she know?" Maura giggled.
He glanced over at the cradle where the infant slept, her mouth moving in a content sucking motion even in her slumber. "Isn't she amazing," he whispered.
Maura just stared at her husband, at the expression of love on his face. Never in her wildest dreams could she have imagined such happiness. There were moments when she literally shook herself, wondering if Donal was real or just a blissful dream, a fantasy conjured in her mind and heart.
But he took her hand, his heart filled with such warmth. His hands had become hardened with the work at the factory—he had insisted on learning how to make the furniture himself. And he was good. Jimmy O'Neil himself had said he would hire Donal, had Donal not been his boss.
"Are you baking bread?" She only just noticed the fragrance of Donal's soda bread.
He nodded, still staring at his daughter.
"How wonderful that she'll grow up eating homemade bread." Maura raised his hand to her lips and kissed his palm.
Slowly he turned to face her. "My love." His voice was low. "I never imagined life could hold such joy. You have given me so much."
Again their lips met, and she slipped her hand behind his head to draw him closer to her. She always wanted him closer, ever closer.
He pulled away. "I believe I am in the middle of burning two perfectly fine loaves of bread." He grinned.
She sniffed, then returned the smile. "I've always loved burned bread. Sort of Cajun—blackened soda bread."
"I'll have to give Nino the recipe."
"I'm sure he already has it," she replied.
Donal stood. "I'll be right back. Where was that fire extinguisher again?"
"Behind the kitchen door—right where you put it after the last time." He began to leave. "Donal?" Pausing at the door, he turned. "Yes?" Even in that single word, he managed to infuse a bounty of love. For a moment she simply blinked, relishing the very presence of him.
"Do you think we'll ever see them again?"
He did not need to ask who she was talking about. "Why? Do you miss them?"
"Not exactly." Sitting up fully, she began to twirl a piece of hair. "I just want to know how they are, what they are feeling. But you didn't answer my question. Do you think Kitty and Fitz will ever come back?"
He leaned against the frame of the door. "Well, I don't know if they have ever really left us."
"Have you seen them?"
"No. But I feel them, every day I feel them. It's a softness, like a gentle rain that is more of a mist— hardly noticeable, but there just the same."
"I feel them as well sometimes. Not Patrick or Andrew, not them. But at times I look at you, and I see Fitz in your eyes."
He took a deep breath. "Once that thought angered me. I wasn't sure if you loved me or a ghost. And now I realize that somehow I see Kitty in you. Not all the time, just certain moments. And it feels right, as if that is how it should be."
"Perhaps they have given us the happiness they longed for. Do you think that is possible?"
"Absolutely." He was about to continue when he frowned. "Do you smell smoke?"
"The bread!"
"Christ! I forgot!" Before he turned to rescue the bread, he stopped. "Oh, are you up to having Charles and Evie drop by this evening?"
"Fine, great—Donal, the bread . . ." and Donal darted down the stairs.
Maura leaned against the down pillows and closed her eyes, marveling how on earth she could have ever thought Ireland was anything less than magical.
Judith O'Brien, Maiden Voyage
(Series: # )
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