At the airport there was no phone service. Here, too, her old phone said “no service,” but yet her battery was half-full. She walked around the room with it held out as if to catch signals. Then suddenly, like a pulsing in her heart, she thought of Rose in London. Was it wrong she hadn’t told her? Of course it was. But I’ll be back in a couple of days. But I still should have told her something. And ruin her practicing for her master class? No. No. This was right. This is what a mother does. Get it done. And get back. Carry on. Make no fuss. You don’t want to ruin everything. Rose would be in her own world practicing like mad anyway. She had an important master class next week. She wouldn’t be in touch. She was like that. She needed her own space and she’d be coming home soon for a short holiday anyway. Best to say nothing. Just get it done. I’ll buy a phone card, she thought, and phone Tess and the clinic.

There was a knock at the door and Iris opened it to see Grace—now in a cream muumuu with a thick leather belt girdling her waist. On her wrist was a square, gold bangle. “Toasted chicken sandwich with lettuce. Potato chips. A pot of tea. And a half bottle of red. How’s that? Nice, right?” She laid the tray down on the desk.

“Very nice.” There was no sign of lemonade.

“And just what the doctor ordered,” Grace said, stepping backward to the door and lingering there. She straightened her belt and looked at Iris a moment. Iris wasn’t sure if she was expected to taste the famous chicken sandwich right then and there. Grace didn’t stir.

“Will you join me in a glass?” Iris said at last. She didn’t really know why she’d said it; she was tired and hungry and needed to gather herself for the morning’s mission of tracking down Hilary. But then it seemed inviting Grace in was the right thing to do, and Iris liked to do things that were right. Because here was a woman like herself, although a decade older. Widows in arms. A sort of ally, Iris thought.

“Well, yes, that might be fun!” Grace’s eyes broadened. “Yes! I’ll be right back,” she said and scooted down the stairs. Moments later, with a second glass and a full bottle in her hands, Grace reappeared. “Here we go.” She unscrewed the top and poured the glasses. “You save this one for later.” She placed the unopened half bottle on the bureau, then pulled the chair around from the desk and settled, somewhat ungracefully, down onto it. She sat only a moment. “Grace Hale, where are your manners?” She popped up. “You sit here. You have your supper at the desk … and…” She hesitated. “I’ll sit there.” She indicated the leather armchair and thumped down again, dislodging a cushion embroidered with a tennis ball and racket.

Iris angled the chair at the desk and sat facing Grace. She began to eat the sandwich, but thinking now—what unusual accommodation Kerry the redhead from the information kiosk had booked her.

“This was Bob’s chair.” Grace said quietly, and she picked up the cushion that had fallen, hugged it for a moment, then tucked it back behind her. “Five years and I’m still getting used to his not being here.” She looked at Iris. “Do you know what I mean?” But before Iris could answer that yes, she did know, she did understand, that her Luke was gone, too, Grace went on. “Bob was in investments. What I don’t know about derivatives and hedge funds, and options and futures!” She laughed and patted her knee with her free hand in a manly way as if Bob’s gestures came with inhabiting his chair. In between quick swallows of wine she told Iris how Bob would come home in the evenings and spill out all the office politics and whatnot and how she listened to him like it was the most important thing in the world. How on weekends they played tennis together in the park and, having no children themselves, they had traveled to see their nieces and nephews. Before he died they’d taken a cruise to Alaska and seen the bear and the salmon.

“Bob was my world,” she said, and turned toward the open door, and Iris got the feeling Grace expected Bob would somehow appear. When Iris had finished her sandwich and emptied her glass, Grace sprung up and refilled it.

“I’ll take this away,” she said and removed the tray to the hallway. “The tea’s cold, I’m afraid. Would you like another?”

“No. That’s fine. Wine’s good.” Iris felt a slight lift, as if she were delicately floating.

“I’m afraid I’ve drunk more than my share,” Grace said, sitting down. “Ever since Bob died I’ve had trouble sleeping, although I don’t know why. He was such a snorer! Now I find a few small glasses help me sleep.” She paused, sinking further into Bob’s chair. “Sometimes he slept in this room, when he had to get up early. So as not to wake me.”

The memory of it took her away into a quietness that Iris welcomed. She calculated what time it must be in Ireland. After midnight. She looked over the travel brochures on the desk and fingered Kerry’s map of the South End. She glanced at Grace, who seemed like she might fall asleep at any moment. Then Billy appeared, and seeing that Grace looked about to doze, knocked sharply on the open door.

“You’re wanted downstairs, Mrs. Hale.” He looked at Iris with a knowing smile.

“What? What?” Grace stirred.

“Downstairs. Hector.”

“Right,” she said, rising quickly. “I’ll be there in a minute.” She straightened up, looked in the mirror, then turned to Iris and said, “Well, that was perfectly lovely.” At the door she paused. “How lovely to meet you.”

*   *   *

The sun through the thin curtains woke Iris at nine. It was later than she’d intended, but she’d slept poorly in the early part of the morning and dozed off and on all night. Her eyes opened on the map of the South End that lay on the desk beside the bed. St. Botolph Street was marked in blue ink. She was dying for a cup of tea. She looked around the room again. Not like Ireland, she thought. No kettle in sight. She might ask Billy for one. She showered quickly and dressed in the only “nice” outfit she’d packed, a periwinkle blue linen sleeveless that Tess had bought with her one day.

“Get something Rose would be surprised to see you in,” Tess had said. “Instead of those ratty blue jeans and Luke’s old shirt.” They’d chosen the linen dress because it was the kind of thing she could dress up or down, with heels or sandals. She chose the black sandals. She hadn’t worn a dress in so long, she felt uncomfortable in it. She’d folded it carefully between tissue paper but that hadn’t prevented it wrinkling. Oh, hell. She tugged at it as best she could. Looking at herself in the mirror now as she was ready to go downstairs, she felt acutely like an imposter. (What does one wear when meeting the woman who birthed your child?) She sat down on the edge of the bed and took off the sandals and put on the heels. She wanted to look smart meeting Hilary Barrett. She wanted to look like she’d measured up to the mother Hilary had probably hoped for when she gave her baby over to the adoption agency all those years ago. She tried to think about what she was wearing that day, but she couldn’t remember.

Would Hilary remember her?

In the breakfast room another guest was already sitting, a tanned man in a Hawaiian-like shirt, who sat in the corner by himself. He looked to be in his mid-forties. Iris sat down near the window at the only other table for two. She’d prepared a friendly smile to offer as she passed, but he didn’t look up. His straight back was leaned forward, his head fixed over the table. His unfinished plate had been pushed aside. He was writing something. He mustn’t have heard her, she thought. Then a sound, like a low humming, haphazard in rhythm, reached her and she looked over. It was coming from him. A low music somewhere inside him was humming and he was moving his head to its rhythm.

“Good morning, Mrs. Bowen.” Billy had startled her and she looked up. He’d come in without her noticing. “Mrs. Hale says she hopes you slept well.”