“Conor!”

“It’s all right … he’s got it. Or he did have it, I mean.”

“What…?” Rose’s voice skirls an octave higher.

“Easy … It’s all right, Rosie.”

He calls her Rosie. It registers like harmonics in her head. Rosie.

“What do you mean … he had it?”

“Well … he had it, and now…” Conor pauses. “It’s like this, if you want it, you have to come back to Clare. It’s on its way home. I asked him to courier it back, back to the wesshhtt, as we say. Like an Irish boomerang. It should arrive by Friday.”

Rose is silent. Tears fall down her cheeks, slipping down her chin. She slumps to a chair.

“I’m sorry,” Conor says, feeling her upset, “it’s not funny.”

For a long moment neither of them speaks. Finally Conor asks, “Rosie, what’s going on?”

She can just about get the words out. “I’ll come home.” She falls silent then. The Canal Club below at the Pirate Castle is setting up for the trip to Little Venice farther down the canal. Life jackets adjusted, the group assembles and slips into colored canoes. As they paddle away, Rose thinks about the man who saved her violin. He’d have found Conor’s cards inside the velvet box in her case.

She whispers his name. “Conor?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you.”

*   *   *

On Saturday, Rose is in Heathrow about to board the midday flight to Shannon. She rings her mother, again, for the third time that day, but doesn’t get her. She leaves Iris two messages, on cell and home phones, then she texts her mother’s friend.

Hi Tess, Can’t reach Mum. Pls, PLS, can u pick me up @ SNN 4 2day? :-) xx Rosie

She briefly thinks of how she had stood Roger up, sees him sitting in The Engineer waiting for her. One part of her would have liked to have left him there forever, but in the end she had done the right thing and texted him to say she’d gone home to Ireland and she’d be in touch next week.

And PS … good luck with Victoria. And PPS … Trust in the universe, Roger.

She’d left him a smiley face. :)

When Rose walks through the arrival doors, Tess is there waiting. Two of her boys are with her, but the smile on Tess’s face isn’t in sync with her eyes.

“There’s Rosie! Hey, Rosie!” The boys run when they see her and she greets them each by bending to their height, letting go her bag, and hugging them gently. She says, “Thanks for picking me up!” Then, standing to face Tess with her back to the boys, who scramble to take her bag, she says, “Where’s Mum?”

“A bit of a mystery that, but listen, pet, don’t worry. I’m certain she’s fine.”

“What do you mean? Fine? Is she not at home?”

“No.”

Rose stops. “I don’t get it. Where is she?”

“I don’t know.” Tess puts her hand on Rose’s back and guides her forward. “But knowing your mother, she could be off visiting some garden in Dublin or up north for a few days, and has forgot her phone.”

Rose isn’t convinced.

“Don’t worry. I saw her on Monday night. She was fine.” They walk out into the windy parking lot of the airport. “Was she expecting you home?”

“No. She thinks I’ve been preparing for a master class with my tutor.”

“Oh. Right.” Tess gives her a doubtful look. “Well, then, I hope it’s going well.”

Rose precludes further conversation on the subject by turning to the boys and asking how their soccer training is going.

They reach the car and load up, boys in the back, suitcase in between, Rose in front. In a panic, Tess shouts, “Where’s your fiddle? Oh God, did you leave it on the plane?”

“No, no. I didn’t. It’s all right.”

Tess glances at Rose, her eyebrows raise, her mouth opens about to say something more but then stops. “O … kay.”

“It’s a long story,” Rose says.

“Fab. I love long stories. So, will I take you home, or do you want to stay with us?”

“Home, please. Okay?”

*   *   *

Driving from Shannon to Ashwood under the ceiling of the western sky, violet blue and cloudless, Rose looks to the hills, green and rolling and dotted white with sheep and brown with cattle. They’re all moving in one direction, like followers congregating. Clare is a place Rose realizes she misses only when she returns. Then it hits her. Home. She carries it deep inside and, like a singing bowl, it rings in her whole being once the western wind strokes her face.

When they pull into the drive, Cicero meets them. The cat seems hungry and meows loudly. Tess retrieves the hidden key under the blue pot and lets them all in. The boys run into the kitchen and out again and Tess switches on the heat. Even though it’s summer, a two-hundred-year-old cottage with three-foot-thick walls is cold when it’s been vacant for more than a day. Rose opens the window to feed the cat on the outside sill. The flowers in pots along the front of the house are wilting. What the hell? She’s looks with fear to Tess, who’s listening to a message from a missed call on her cell phone.

“A client, Rose, not your mum. Sorry, pet.”

“Tess?”

“I know … I know how it looks, but—”

“But nothing! She should have rung by now. I’ve left her half a dozen messages since Thursday.”

Rose walks toward the doors that lead to the garden.

“Where are you going?”

“Check the post. See how many days she’s been gone.”

In less than a minute Rose returns. “What’s this?” she asks. It’s an envelope with a Breast Clinic logo. “What’s going on, Tess?”

Tess is skilled at therapeutics and doesn’t rattle easily but now, as Rose watches, the face of her mother’s best friend reveals concern. In a firm voice, Tess tells her sons to get back into the car and wait for her there. “I’ll be along in a minute.” They obey and the women watch from the window as the boys run to the car, chasing but without fuss.

“It’s probably nothing. Probably just a routine letter suggesting your mum make an appointment for a mammogram.”

“Will we open it?”

“Um … I don’t know, really. It’s … it’s addressed to your mum—”

Rose tears the envelope and reads:

Dear Mrs. Bowen,

We would like to remind you of your follow-up appointment at Breast Clinic on 12 June. We were unable to reach you by telephone or e-mail to confirm. Please contact the department to reschedule if you were unable to attend. As stated in the previous letter, in the majority of cases, women have nothing to fear, but it is vital you undergo an ultrasound, results of which the consultant will discuss with you on the day. But nevertheless, it is important you attend in the event you need a biopsy procedure …

Rose stops reading and looks to Tess. “Did you know about this? Is Mum all right? The appointment was for yesterday. Look at the date.”

“I see.” Tess shakes her head. “The truth is, I don’t know. I mean, I did know she had a follow-up appointment.” Tess takes Rose by the arm and leads her to the sofa, the one that faces the back garden where an iron table and two chairs cast shadows in the fading light. “Sit down. Let’s talk this through.”

“Just tell me.” Rose’s lips tremble.

“Two weeks ago, Iris went for a routine mammogram.”

“Go on.”

“That’s it. She was called back for a follow-up. They sometimes do that. That’s all. From that letter it seems she didn’t confirm her follow-up—”

“Confirm her appointment? She missed her appointment!”

“I know. She missed it. But I trust her. Really, I don’t think there is anything to worry about. Something must have come up. I know your mum won’t ignore it.”

“Then, where is she?”

Tess looks backward through the kitchen window to where the boys are chasing the cat around the car. “Listen, pet, I’ll pop over home quickly and drop the boys. Then I’ll be straight back. I’ll bring some groceries.” Tess rises and places her hand on Rose’s and kisses the top of her head. “You’ll be all right till then?” Tess gives Rose one long look. “Okay?”