After a few moments, a tall woman, early forties with very short dark hair, opened the door.

“May I help you?”

Iris could barely breathe. “Are you Hilary Barrett?”

“Yes.”

Iris’s hand went out to steady herself against the nearest support, the upright of the little porch, which was just behind her. She nearly fell off the short step. The woman looked guardedly at her. “I wonder if I might speak with you.”

“If it’s about my yoga class, I’m not teaching from home anymore. Did the hotel send you? I’ve told them I’m not doing privates anymore.”

She doesn’t recognize me. But I don’t recognize her, either.

In a strange way, Iris was relieved that she could say she didn’t want a private class. “The hotel didn’t send me.”

“Oh. What then?”

“I wonder if I can come in.”

The woman had been standing behind a screen door so her face was visible only through a mesh, but Iris could see she was dressed in workout clothes, black, like her hair.

“It won’t take long.”

“You’re not a Jehovah’s Witness?”

“No. I’m not. I’m from Ireland and—”

“Are you looking for a place to stay? Is that what the hotel said? They’re always sending people here if they’re full. I used to do rooms during the Tanglewood concerts, but not anymore, I’m sorry. I’ve got to talk to them—”

“I’m sorry … Ms. Barrett, I don’t want a room, either. I just want to talk with you … to ask you … I want to tell you…” Iris faltered. This was hard. This was impossible. “May I please come in?”

Hilary Barrett opened the screen door then and came out and stood beside Iris. She’d closed her front door behind her. There was barely enough space under the small porch for the two women to stand. Iris could see the color of her eyes. They were brown like Rose’s but not quite the same almond shape. The woman squinted into the sun and put a hand up to shield her eyes. Her fingers were long like Rose’s but, unlike her daughter, she wore several silver rings. Was this the same woman she’d met in Dublin over twenty years ago? Iris couldn’t decide.

“What’s this about? You’re scaring me.”

“I really am sorry to disturb you,” said Iris and she looked quickly back to the car where Hector was no longer sitting. Where was he? She hadn’t heard the car door open or close. She felt dizzy. “This is awkward,” Iris said. “I’m not sure how to put this.”

“You’re Irish, you said?”

Iris pulled down on her shoulder bag for support and crossed one leg behind the other.

“I’ve always wanted to go to Ireland.”

“What?” Iris said quickly.

“I hear it’s really nice. The people are supposed to be real friendly.”

“You’ve … never been?” she stammered.

“No…” the woman replied with her head cocked slightly. “I’ve been to Europe. You know, Eurailing, college days. But…”

Iris shook her head. What was she saying? She’d never been to Ireland.

The woman waited for Iris to explain herself. She even smiled and looked around as if maybe this was a joke and someone was going to pop out from behind the car and shout something surprising.

Finally Iris said, “You’re not the real Hilary Barrett, then.”

“Excuse me?”

“I mean … you’re not the person I’m looking for.”

The woman said nothing.

“You never lived on St. Botolph Street in Boston?”

“Now look, this is getting weird. Either you tell me what you want, or—”

Iris made no sound, but her eyes teared and she looked helplessly around her.

“Iris?” Hector’s voice sounded from the sidewalk. He was standing on the driver’s side of the car.

“Is that your husband?” the woman asked.

Iris shook her head. “Sorry” was all she managed, then she turned and stumbled down toward the car.

Hilary Barrett peered after her, bewildered, and took a stance with her hands on her hips as if ready to adopt a Warriorlike yoga pose, then she started down the path toward the Jag, but Hector held out his hands like he was stopping traffic and motioned for her to stay. He went around to the passenger side and opened the door for Iris. When she sat in she collapsed forward. He came around to the driver’s side and sat in, too. Hilary Barrett stood where she was, midway down the path.

“She’s not … the Hilary Barrett I’m looking for,” Iris said, her breath choking on words between sobs.

“I know,” Hector said.

“What?” Iris turned to him.

“The one you’re looking for is dead.”

Twelve

Rowan lay on the night grass of the seventeenth green, his shoes off, his tie loose. Several hours after the mourners had departed the memorial service, Pierce had found him, the blue-flowered urn with Burdy’s ashes lying beside him. Above them, a crescent moon formed a triangle with Venus and Jupiter.

For a few moments, neither of them spoke. The bentgrass cushioned Pierce’s shoes as he rocked back and forth on the flawless green. “I thought I’d find you here. Burdy’s Last Stand, hey?” Pierce wasn’t the sort to lower his tall frame onto the now damp grass. Not usually. It was too awkward, but eventually, seeing that his brother showed no signs of getting up or even acknowledging his presence, he sat down beside Rowan.

After a few moments, Pierce indicated the urn. “Is he still there?”

“All there,” Rowan said.

With one arm resting on his bent knee, Pierce peered into the darkness, gauging his brother’s state of mind. Finally. “Come on, Ro. Get up.” His bother nudged him. “Time to go home. It’s nearly over.”

Rowan shifted his weight and turned to look at him. “Is it? Or just beginning?”

“Ah, brother,” said Pierce, “School of Life rulebook? Very deep.” He laughed lightly. “Come on now. Enough’s enough.” Pierce stood. He bent toward his brother with an outstretched arm. Rowan hesitated but Pierce kept his arm extended until his brother grabbed it and helped himself up. Rowan picked up the urn. The night air thrummed with crickets. Pierce stood for a moment on the green and pretended an air swing.

Rowan started walking away, and then, because there was no other way to shed the thing that was weighing him down, he turned back, and said, “She had a baby.”

Pierce stalled midswing. “What? Who?”

“Hilary.” Rowan stopped. “Hilary Barrett.” There were no lights along the fairway. They could barely see each other.

“What are you talking about?” Pierce seized hold of his brother’s arm. “Hilary?”

“Burdy’s old secretary told me.”

“That’s who that was? Peggy Dillon? I thought I recognized her. What did she say? Exactly?”

“She said she saw Hilary in Dublin. Pregnant.”

“God! When?”

“St. Patrick’s Day.”

“No, I mean what year?”

“The only year she was in Ireland. The year before she died. Do the math!”

Rowan walked away carrying the urn. The grass cooled his feet but his head was hot. Pierce went after him. “I don’t want to say this, but what makes you think it’s…?”

“It was six months after I broke off with her is why.”

“Still … it mightn’t—”

“Still. Nothing.” He put down the urn, swept his hands along the grass, then ran his wet fingers through his hair. Pierce waited and then they linked forward in the direction of Louise’s house, as if following an invisible ball. The moon had moved and was hidden by the trees bordering the fairway. The course was patterned in light and dark, white metal signs indicated the directions to tees and gleamed low in the grass.

All the lights were on when they reached the condo. Rowan hesitated. Pierce placed a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “You go in, Ro. I’ll walk back to the clubhouse and settle up.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“No,” he said firmly. “You need to go in to Mother.”

Rowan looked at him. “What have I done?” he said quietly.

The kitchen table was set for three, ready for morning. Louise, in a pink cotton bathrobe, the top of her hair in rollers and the remnants of five cigarette butts in the glass ashtray in front of her, gauged her son’s intoxication as he laid down the urn.