Hector turned to Iris. “What’s wrong?”

Iris kept her eyes on her daughter and opened them wider as if to say, It’s all right. Everything is all right. Conor continued playing but he, too, looked at Rose, his eyebrows raised questioningly and turned slightly away from the audience to face her. Rose was starting to shake.

“May I?” Hector asked.

“What?”

“I know this version.”

Iris didn’t know what to say. But now Hector Sherr was standing and in his long-legged stride was hopping up the steps two at a time. Within seconds he was seated at the piano with the watering can full of flowers on top. Conor had slowed the tune, pulled the melody into melancholy, but he had kept it going. He was waiting for her but Rose was riveted to her spot, looking down to her mother. Iris was nodding her head and mouthing the words all mothers know, and all have said, after every fall down and disappointment and heartbreak: It’s okay, honey. It’s okay. Everything is going to be okay. Go on …

And then Hector played. Joined right in with Conor.

At first Rose didn’t react. So Hector played a jazzy solo. Conor moved toward her and exaggerated his own playing, encouraging her to join in. And finally Rose shifted gears and came back to the moment, to herself. She returned to the melody. Even Iris’s centerpiece came alive, the lime flowers of lady’s mantle pulsing as Hector’s fingers beat the piano keys.

And by God, he could play. Conor grinned and Rose’s face relaxed. Troubles melt …

Tess didn’t miss a beat in reclaiming her seat. She put her arm around Iris. “It’s all good, you know. Luke would be happy. Happy for Rose. And for you, Iris.”

The sad, sweet, beautiful longing of “Over the Rainbow” continued to fill the hall. In it every single person in that audience found their own yearning, and for a time dared their dreams to come true.

And because Rose and Hector were real musicians, they knew when to accompany and when to solo. They had fun with the piece and the audience loved them. When Hector nodded, Conor stepped back, Rose stepped up, and like one of those bluebirds flying, her bow took flight and she was in the music.

When it was over, the audience rose in ovation with one long roar. It was the kind of big-game roar Iris was sure Hector had never quite heard before at a jazz concert. He stayed seated at the piano until Conor bowed and beckoned him. Then he came to stand, with that particular awkward shyness of his, beside Rose. He bowed to her and the audience applauded louder. Then he exited the stage, disappearing through the curtain and leaving Conor and Rose to bow once more.

A moment later all the musicians appeared onstage, but Hector wasn’t among them. They bowed and, after accepting more exuberant applause, returned to the dressing rooms behind the curtain.

“Oh my God, Iris. That was fab. Just fab! And what about that knight in the Hawaiian shirt riding in to save the day? I want to be introduced!”

Iris was too dazed to speak. She nodded and looked to Tess, her eyes wet.

“Ah, pet.” She gave Iris a quick hug. “It’s all okay. Hey, the doctor was right when she said there’s a lot going on in there! Ha! If she only knew! I’ve got to get going. I’ve got some bits and bobs to tidy up but I’ll see you in a moment. You’ll be okay. Oh, and the gang in the back are going to have a bit of a celebration. Sean bought some champagne, so don’t expect them to hurry straight out.”

Iris stayed where she had been sitting. The audience had emptied out to the still light evening. She closed her eyes, singing the words silently to herself.

Then she felt a hand touch her shoulder.

“Mrs. Bowen?”

“Yes. What?” Iris, startled, opened her eyes and looked up.

“I’m sorry to disturb you.” It was the man in the white shirt.

“That’s all right.” She stood, still holding the flowers Hector had given Rose.

“I just wanted to say … um … she … your daughter, Rose, is really terrific. And so … so … beautiful.”

“Yes. She really is,” Iris said, the after-music still echoing in her.

“She plays brilliantly. You must be very proud.”

“Yes, I am. Thank you. Very proud. But she’s done it all herself.” It wasn’t the first time a stranger had come to share their appreciation of Rose’s talent. But there was something about him. Was it his eyes? Had she met him before? “You gave her the coin?”

“Yes … for luck.”

“That was so nice. But are you sure? I mean, it’s—”

“It belonged to someone very special. It was my grandfather’s. He died recently and I—”

“Oh … I’m sorry for your loss.” For one moment, Iris thought the man was going to cry.

“His name was Burdy.” He looked down at the program he was holding. “He always wanted me to come to Ireland. I think he hoped one day I’d—”

His eyes glanced up quickly at the empty stage, and came back again to Iris’s. Suddenly all his features broadened, as if caught by surprise. Iris waited, expecting he was going to say more.

“I was just remembering something someone said to me a long time ago, which I had forgotten until now. ‘You will go to Ireland and find a girl and it will change your life.’” He stood quite still as if he needed to so the meaning of the words he’d just voiced could sink in.

“And?” Iris said, watching his face slowly relax as if it was a bud, untightening. A poppy shedding its shell ready to unfurl.

“Yes. Well. Here I am.”

“I mean … have you found her?”

“I have. Yes.” He paused. “I have found her.”

Iris waited for him to continue, to finish the trebled prediction, but he didn’t. She wondered if she should perhaps ask him, but something in the way he spoke, and looked, made her feel the answer was, Yes, his life would change.

“Won’t you stay and meet Rose? She’ll be out in a minute.”

“No, no.” He glanced at the stage once more, and made to move, but didn’t. “But maybe some other time.” It took him another long moment. Then he looked directly at her. The smile he smiled was bittersweet and his eyes seemed ready to tear again. He offered his hand and Iris took it. “Will you tell Rose I wish her all the luck in the world. And … even though she never met him, I know h … I mean … I know my grandfather, Burdy, is looking out for her. And—”

Iris looked at him searchingly. She could see there was a whole story in him, but before he could continue, and before she could find out what it was, his phone rang. He let go of her hand and looked at the number. Then he looked at her and said, “It’s been my great pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Bowen. I hope our paths cross again.” His phone was still ringing. “Good-bye.”

*   *   *

Rowan Blake walked down the aisle of the auditorium, out through the open double doors of the hall, and into the beginnings of evening twilight.

Then he answered his phone.

“Pierce. Hello … yes … it’s all good.… Yes. I did. She’s all right.… No. No, I didn’t.… But I’m fine. It was the right thing.… I’m happy. Really, it’s okay. I’m okay. And Pierce, she’s soooo beautiful.” Rowan told Pierce to tell his mother he’d be home the day after tomorrow. Or, maybe the day after that.

He walked along the street of parked cars and a few tractors. It seemed as if the whole audience from the concert had decamped en masse to the village pubs. The festival hadn’t ended with the concert, Rowan thought. People were out on the street, leaning against the walls, sitting on chairs taken from inside, drinking pints and half glasses, lingering and chatting, enjoying themselves. He delighted in their celebration. It had a kind of pureness. A kind of organic, grassroots simplicity. And although he felt as far away from his life in Manhattan as he’d ever felt before, their optimistic voices filled him with the nearness he’d hoped for.

This is where Rose is from. This is her home, he thought. And she’s fine. She’s better than fine, she’s great.