But she did. She did feel sorry for him. Maybe he, too, had lost his soul mate. And for a fleeting moment she opened her heart to allow in his sadness.

She looked into the corner of the garden where the sunlight had widened its netlike cast against the redbrick wall, catching every other leaf and flower bud in a dazzling glare, and now the tiny back garden glowed.

*   *   *

In midafternoon at Logan Airport, standing at the check-in counter, Grace hugged Iris and whispered, “Hector will be sorry you left without saying good-bye. What should I tell him?”

“Good-bye.”

“Good-bye?”

Iris nodded.

“That’s it? Nothing more?” Grace said.

“I can’t, Grace. I’m not ready.” Iris gathered her bag and shoulder bag. “Maybe…?”

“Maybe? Maybe what?”

Iris’s eyes welled up.

“Okay. Okay. It’s all right. I know what to tell him.” Grace reached her arms around Iris and held her for a moment. Iris let herself be held but had no strength to hold back. “Let me know how the appointment turns out. I’ll be anxious to know. Right?” Grace dropped her arms and took a step back. “In such a short time I feel like I know you. Will you come back? Will you bring Rose?”

Iris couldn’t speak. To speak would bring tears.

*   *   *

After she was through security, and her face washed of tears, she looked around for an Internet station and checked her e-mails. One from Tess and garden.ie and Higgledygarden.co.uk and three with unfamiliar addresses. She read Tess’s first, which told her Rose was doing well since her “big upset.”

Hurry up already and get home Iris! We miss you. And PS … What the hell? What are you doing? Missing your appointment? And PPS … no need to worry about Rosie. Take my word for it.

Iris wrote back that she was coming home on Flight EI345, arriving at 6:00 a.m., and would explain everything then. But not to tell Rose. And P.S., what did you mean, Take my word for it?

The e-mail from an R.E.B. surprised her. She hadn’t expected e-mails from blog readers so soon.

Dear Ms. Bowen,

I’m glad to have discovered your blog. As a landscape architect myself in the heart of NYC, your post on poppies brought a little green into my life.

Kindest regards,

R.E.B.

Delighted, she read the other two. One asked if Iris had ever tried to grow meconopsis. It’s like having a bit of the blue sky in your border. And the other was a city gardener asking: Can Icelandic poppies be grown in a window box? Such simple signposts, tokens, and yet it thrilled her. She was connected. Blog readers were a link to the world. She’d reply to them all next week and would copy her replies to Arthur Simmons.

A few hours later, she was sitting in an aisle seat in row 37 at the back of the plane near the toilets. When the beverage cart came, she ordered a gin and tonic and two of those plastic quarter bottles of wine to go with her chicken dinner. Her mind pitched back to the South End. Grace would be telling Hector that Iris had been recalled to the Breast Clinic for further tests. She pictured how his face would look. She was suddenly sorry for him. She felt like crying.

*   *   *

The next thing she knew a voice was saying, “The captain has switched on the seat belt sign. We’ll be landing in fifteen minutes. The weather in Shannon on this lovely June morning is blustery but the forecast is for sunny spells.” Iris looked out onto the clouds scattered across the blue and, below, a little green.

She switched on her phone at the luggage carousel; half a dozen messages beeped their arrival.

From Tess:

Welcome Back!!! Can’t b there 2 collect u. Sorry pet. Sendin taxi tho. C u later. x T ps Rose away at music event in London. WITH friend! As promised, didn’t tell her u were comin. She’ll b back in a few days.

A man holding a placard with her name on it smiled as she approached and he took her bag and said, “Welcome home.”

The captain’s weather report had been right, there were sunny spells. The sun beamed down on everything, on cattle in the fields, on hawthorn hedgerows, on fuchsia in full bloom. She fell quiet, grateful the driver sensed she didn’t want to talk. A little more than half an hour later she arrived home. When she stepped from the taxi, Cicero jumped from the rooftop of the low cabin. He didn’t seem to particularly notice she’d been gone five whole days. He gave her no welcome except to jump onto the table where the food was kept. Iris put down her bag and waited until the driver pulled away.

Neither did the garden look like it had missed her. It was in perfect order. Did anyone or anything need her?

Getting used to this being alone required a skill she still struggled to perfect. It was on the far side of the road, as if always just over there—the place she couldn’t get to, couldn’t reach. She had traveled some distance from the initial grief-pain of Luke’s death to where she was now—standing still in her garden, listening to the barn swallows’ chideep chideep—able to somewhat appreciate how far she’d come. This is my life. But she wanted more and it was up to her to get it.

She’d read a novel lately about a man whose wife comes back from the dead. She pops into his life in odd moments, then disappears. Something about unfinished business. One day she came and said, “It wasn’t up to you to make my life happy. It was up to me, but your loving helped.” Then poof! She was gone and returned no more.

Iris wished Luke would appear and tell her something. Tell her how to do it. Without his loving, living was the greatest challenge of her life.

She turned the key and went in.

In the kitchen, the poppies had been cleared away. In their place were two empty mugs.

*   *   *

Tess arrived in the late afternoon and, after hugging Iris a few times, walking around her in a circle and hugging her again, she said, “Poor pet.” She stood back and grabbed Iris by her shoulders.

“You ran off to Boston and missed the appointment.”

“I know.”

Tess shook her head, but smiled. “Here. Where’s the phone? I’ll ring and reschedule.”

“I’ve made it for Thursday morning.” Iris paused a moment. “Will you come with me?”

“Of course … but what about Rose?”

“I don’t know, Tess. She already has enough on her plate.”

“I’ll say,” Tess said.

It was an odd thing, but Iris didn’t read into it. “Plus,” Iris said, “I don’t know what her plans are. She’s probably still upset about that wretched master class.”

“Oh … I think she’s over that.”

Iris narrowed her eyes.

“You underestimate her—” Tess said.

“Tess?”

“I just mean, she’s more flexible than you realize. Do you think maybe, just maybe, you’re overprotective? Just a little? Just a teensy little bit? It’s only natural, but—”

“Would you like some tea, Dr. Tess, Medicine Woman?” Iris turned and went to the kitchen. Tess smiled and followed.

“So?”

“So?”

“Yes … So? Why did you disappear without a word? To America?”

Iris didn’t look up but poured the tea.

“Exciting undercover garden assignment?”

Iris looked at Tess, her eyes betraying her and welling up.

“Oh God. What? Iris? What’s wrong?”

When Iris finally told her story, the words burst like a sudden rain shower. “I made a promise to Luke. If anything happened to me I’d find Rose’s birth mother. I promised Luke. What if something bad happens? That’s why I went to Dublin. Then Boston. She was there, but—”

“She was there?”

“Yes. No … I mean she was there, but she’s not. She’s dead.”

“Easy, pet. Hold on.”

Iris explained about Hilary and how she’d taken the envelope at the Adoption Board and two days later flown to Boston. She told about 99 St. Botolph Street and the waiter. And the Mapparium. And Becket. “It was all for nothing. A big, fat, horrible, stupid mistake.”