Inside the shed her hands were shaking as she made final adjustments. What the … Hector? Here in Ashwood? Had he seen her garden? Talked with Rose? She tried to concentrate on the arrangement, but the flowers kept falling sideways. She placed a long red rose in the center and the arrangement held.

“Mum?” Rose was on the path. “Mum? Conor’s van is back. All fixed. We’re going to get a bite to eat in Doonbeg. Is it okay if we see you there? Conor needs to meet someone.”

“Of course.”

“You’re okay?” Rose waited.

“Sure … you’re home. That’s all I need. And … I get to hear you play tonight.”

Rose only half smiled. She turned and followed Conor, but had only taken a few steps when she came back to her mother. “Do you think he’d mind?”

Iris was holding the centerpiece in both hands. The large faces of the poppies obscured her own face. “Who? Mind what?”

“You know! Dadda?”

Iris’s face flushed.

“Would he mind me…?”

“Oh!” Iris said, realizing Rose wasn’t asking if Luke would mind about Hector.

“Would he mind me playing ‘Over the Rainbow’?”

Iris lowered the centerpiece. “I think he’d be happy.”

“And you?”

“Me? It’s wonderful.” She put the centerpiece on the wooden table under the porch and then her arm around Rose and led her out to where Conor was looking at his repaired van, like it was a temperamental friend he’d now forgiven.

“All right, then, ready for road?” he said. “’Bye, Mrs. Bowen.”

“I think you can call me Iris.”

Rose kissed her mother and whispered, “You’re not off the hook yet. I want to hear all about Mr. Hector Sherr.”

Iris waved her hand at her daughter. “Go!”

Along the path back to the house she picked up Cicero and brought him inside. She decided against making a supper just for herself and instead got some crackers and some cheese from the refrigerator. She cut a few slices for the cat.

“Is he a nice man?” she asked Cicero. “Hmmm? Isn’t he?” Waiting for the kettle to boil, she ran her hands over the cat’s back. She hadn’t gardened in two weeks and noticed her fingers were beginning to look, well, normal. The chapped edges of her forefingers were softening. Even her nails were growing. Her wedding ring clinked against the cat’s collar and, all of a sudden, she remembered the dream of Luke smiling and walking out of the sea toward her. He was carrying a box. It was an open box.

She had just enough time to wash her hair, so she grabbed some shampoo from the cupboard and washed in the sink. The lather released a scent of apples and cinnamon. Then with toweled-up hair, she sat and finished the blog post that had been gathering in her mind.

Sea change. Rainy summer is in full swing, but nothing can dampen the turning of the world. It goes on with or without you—the seasons and the garden and the very music of life itself. You’d think the rain might have a slowing-down effect. Even hope it will. But nothing can deter the steady passage of summer into autumn. The cuckoo flies south. The baby swallows leave the roof beams. The purple moor grass turns orange.

Neither wind nor rain nor sun nor gray skies can hold back the changing seasons. So perhaps they change in us, too. The thing your slow, redheaded gardener realized in her garden today was not to resist. The garden teaches trust. Accept the change.

Cry out: Onward, hail and olé.

And celebrate.

At seven o’clock Iris drove westward toward the sea. She was running late and so drove fast, constantly glancing sideways to mind the old black watering can doddering in the backseat. She should never have filled it with water. The rain had shifted east and the sky showed blue between parting clouds. Sunlight shone out beyond Spanish Point. In midsummer dusk didn’t fall until eleven. This was her country at its best.

Iris had decided not to tell Rose about Hilary, at least not yet. There was no need now. Iris wasn’t going to die. Not yet, anyway, thank God. She had reacted out of fear. Fear that Rose would be alone, and unable to manage without her. Tess was right. You can’t prepare for every eventuality. Rose had her own life to live and, judging by recent events, she was doing pretty damn well on her own. Hadn’t she managed her master class? Hadn’t she landed herself into a promising-looking relationship with Conor? In fact, she was blooming before Iris’s eyes. Blooming in a way that proved, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that all the nurturing, nourishing, wiping away tears, encouraging, consoling, challenging, and battling at times, all the guiding, supporting, parenting, and mothering—yes, real mothering—had given Rose the best possible circumstances in which to flourish.

In time, life was going to take her daughter away from Ashwood, probably before Iris was ready. That was one eventuality she could prepare for—and she would, and somehow it would be fine. Sonia McGowan, too, had been right. It was up to Rose to ask questions if she wanted to know about her birth mother. That’s the way it works. And even though there was no indication of a birth father, it would still be Rose’s decision to initiate the process of tracing information about her birth parents. Her natural parents.

It was ironic, but in discovering that Hilary was dead, Iris felt anchored to Rose in a way she hadn’t before. That was natural.

The fact was, hard as it was to take, Iris had lost her mate. And the truth was, she was learning, albeit slowly, that she had to get on without him. As for her promise to Luke, she had tried to find Hilary. The journey had taken her though a season of melancholia. A new season was emerging. It wasn’t exactly an epiphany, but Iris acknowledged, today, she hadn’t been able to see grief as a process that takes its own time. Waves come and go. And wash over you.

Allow grief to be a badge of courage, an inspiration, a transformative sea change—Luke was saying in the dream. Honor what is best. See it in me. In yourself. In Rose. That is my gift to you.

*   *   *

Fifteen minutes later she arrived at the Doonbeg Community Center. Cars were arriving and parking every which way as was the custom in that part of the world. She pulled over as near to the front door as she could and got out and eased the centerpiece from the backseat. Inside the foyer, a small crowd had gathered and stood admiring a children’s art competition on the walls, the theme being jazz. There were drawings of wild-haired drummers, and yellow saxophones, and crazy crooked pianos. One blue guitar had won first prize.

“There you are!”

“A bit late, sorry, Tess.”

“No bother, pet.” She stood back. “You look nice.”

“Have you seen Rose?”

“Inside. Bring the flowers and we’ll put them on stage.” Tess started through the double doors in the hall, then stopped and said, “You really do look nice.”

Iris blushed. She knew she had made an effort. And that was something new. But was it so noticeable? She followed Tess, snaking through the rows of chairs and up the stairs to the somewhat-bare stage. A drum set was arranged against a black curtain in the corner. Tess looked around for a place to put the flowers. “The piano will have to do. There’s nothing else. I’ll find something to put under it. Sean will have my head if I scratch the new piano. I’ll be right back.” Tess was wearing a sleeveless summer dress with a crazy patchwork pattern of flamboyant colors, some Spanish label she was fond of. Iris hated it. Tess knew that and knew, too, Iris preferred her flamboyant colors to be in the garden.

Iris stood on the empty stage holding the flowers, feeling somewhat conspicuous. She’d missed last year’s concert and the one before that because of Luke. And now she realized there were a dozen people she hadn’t seen in two years. Marjorie O’Neill was waving to her. Una Brew and Mary O’Dea, school friends of Rose’s, were signaling: Is Rose here? Was Iris obliged to approach them all and redeem herself? Apologize for her absence? Maybe later. Musicians nodded as they ambled up onstage and passed by on the way to the dressing rooms. A young man with a black baseball cap unpacked a bass in the corner.