“The child? Nonsense,” Thomas rebuked. He lifted his chin skyward. “‘What could she have done, being what she is?’”
“Ack,” Jean scoffed. “Enough with your Yeats.”
“Besides,” he’d said. “This is on us all now.”
The leaving had been swift and stealth, by dark of night, away from eyes who would recognize the ruse afoot. On deck for air, as they had watched Ireland slip away at Fastnet Light, Thomas had held Faye close while Jean had stared as if some grim spell had been broken and the curse upon her was clear.
When they’d disembarked in America, the magnificent green woman and her torch welcoming them to this foreign place, Faye spoke little except her name, “Fiadh,” and her age, “I am ten.” Yet every time she said it, Jean let out a cry until she could not tolerate the name aloud.
“Call her anything. But not that. Not anymore.”
“Faye then,” Thomas said.
It was settled.
The men who came to the shop to buy flowers for wives and girlfriends would ask Faye to write endearments on the card.Honey,sweetheart,dearest,darling. She was no one’s dearest except maybe her father’s. She could tell when flowers were a romantic gesture because the men seemed eager for her approval. “What would you choose? What do you like?” She tried to keep those bouquets sweet and simple, to meet the shy gesture. But there were other types, too, sheepish, careless men who came in looking for a peace offering after a late-night bender or a missed anniversary. “Nothing’s too good for my gal,” they’d say. Or “Do you have something to get me out of the doghouse?” She was often able to upsell them, and Aldo would wink when she moved the offender off carnations onto something more exotic. Cads never wanted to keep a receipt as evidence and paid in cash since the woman who would receive the flowers often kept the checkbook. If Aldo wasn’t in the shop, Faye would overcharge by a dollar and stuff the bill into her pocket. She had heard the phrase “sin tax” and thought of the stolen money that way. She kept these dollar bills in a coffee can in her bedroom under the eaves in the house on the cove. Each time she added one, she counted them all, beads on a rosary.Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.She told herself that someday she might use the money to right wrongs, though she was never sure where one would begin to reconcile a past like hers. When she replaced the lid, she hoped the squirreling away might be enough to prove to some watching god that she was not all bad, that intention mattered even if no action came of it.
As far as she could recall, she’d never seen William Sullivan in the flower shop. But that would make sense, him being a widower. She’d heard the story of it, something about a young wife who’d died in childbirth alongwith the baby. That morning over breakfast, the blueberry pie she baked already out of the oven and cooling on the sill, her father had said William didn’t discuss that tragedy so there would be no bringing it up at dinner. “Leave the past in the past,” he’d said. “His and ours.”
Her mother had pushed away from the table with a sigh so deep it felt like the whole cottage sunk a foot into the ground. “Yes,” she’d said and climbed the stairs to her sewing room.
Now, Faye locked the door to the flower shop, the shabby bouquet wrapped and tucked into the crook of her arm. She hoped her mother wasn’t still doleful. Bad enough they were having dinner with a dour widower. They didn’t need to bring their own family ghosts.
That evening, Faye and her parents drove inland, the Buick turning and twisting past apple orchards and turnip fields, family farm stands where, in this buzzy, late-summer heat, they would sometimes stop for fresh produce and honey. The blueberry pie rested on her mother’s lap, its crusty sweetness slathering the air around them, thick as jam.
When they pulled into the long drive up to the house, a man stepped out from the porch shadow into the lowering sun, his hand visoring his eyes. This was a widower? His hair was high and red, and it swooped like a character’s in the funnies. He wore a white shirt, black pants, suspenders. When Jean opened the car door, he raised his hand in a casual wave and walked to greet them. He was tall, over six feet, with a trim waist and the muscular forearms and biceps of a man who, like her father, did not work with his arms by his sides.
Thomas extended his hand to the man. “Will, thanks for having us. I think you remember my wife, Jean?”
“Of course, yes ma’am. Thanks for coming.” His voice was higher than Faye might have guessed, almost nasally.
“Our pleasure,” Jean said. “So nice to be on a farm again.”
“And this is our Faye. Probably you haven’t seen her since she was a girl. All grown up now,” Thomas added.
Faye’s neck flushed to her cheekbones. The way he said it—“our Faye”—as if he were presenting her for judging at the county fair. “Papa,” she chided, trying to gather her wits. “Nice to see you.” Even to her own ear, her voice sounded weak and childish.
Now it was Jean’s turn. “Faye baked a pie.” She handed it to William, who put his nose to the crust and sniffed.
“My favorite. Well, and apple. Come fall, of course.”
“Yes, apple season,” Faye added awkwardly.
A musk of barn hay and manure stuck to the air like a sweaty shirt. Faye noticed sweet peas climbing a trellis by the porch. She snapped her fingers. The flowers. She practically skipped to the car to retrieve the bouquet. “These are for you. They’re from the shop where I work, but I see you have plenty you can cut yourself.”
“It’s only me here. I’m not much for picking flowers.” William grinned, ducked his head, a shy gesture, boyish even.
Faye, disarmed, smoothed her slacks then her hair before realizing she was preening.Ridiculous. You’re a child, and this is a man. Clearly a man.She tried to hand William the flowers when his hands were full with the pie. He made a quick attempt at juggling before Thomas rescued them. “How about we drop these off and you give the girls a tour? We can show them my handiwork on those window pulleys.”
“Good idea. After you,” he said to Faye, gesturing for her to head inside.
Faye rested the bouquet in her arms like a pageant queen and glanced over her shoulder. William was behind her, and her parents, side by side, behind him with their heads bowed. All she could think about was her shape as William saw it. She wished she’d worn a skirt like her mother had suggested. She could have worn something more flattering, been more thorough when she’d brushed and restyled her hair. Why was she thinking this way? Thinking about this man, thiswidower? In the kitchen she paused as William held the screen door for Thomas and Jean. Strapping. Was that the word? She might as well topple on the ground and writhe around right there, she was making such a fool of herself.
William set the pie on the table next to a metal napkin stand and salt and pepper shakers shaped like lighthouses. The kitchen was a mess, onion skins and potato peels on the counter, carrot tops dropped on the floor. Burned caramel of roasted vegetables scorched the air. “Irish stew,” William said. “I’m sure you have it all the time, but it was my mum’s favorite so we—well, my dad and me, when he was still alive—we make it when we can. The lamb’s from a neighbor, but the vegetables I grew myself. Carrots and potatoes are not so hard.”
Faye knew it must be killing her fastidious mother to see the untidy kitchen.
“Sorry about the mess. Should have had you come in through the front door proper.”
