That was all he needed.
Soon he was back at the hotel. He went to his room. Got the package Pierce had given him and tipped the contents into a small plastic glass. And as the last light of the sun sunk off the western Irish Coast, Rowan Blake walked onto the green of the 18th hole of the hotel’s golf course. The whole of the Atlantic seemed to be stretched in front of him, with rows of waves breaking far out. He stood for a few moments, filling his lungs with the sea air blowing in across the water. Then, with the cup in his hand, his arm stretched its full length, he angled it just so, and like a boy with a kite, he ran the circle of the green, scattering the ashes to the wind.
“Now, Burdy,” Rowan said, letting his head fall back and looking up into the sky, “keep an eye on her.”
The ashes lifted on the air like they were floating feathers.
* * *
Rose bounded across the stage and down the stairs. She was laughing and pulling Conor’s wooly hat down his face.
“Well?” she asked her mother.
“Wonderful,” Iris said, and hugged her. “Stunning. Fab, as Tess would say. Really, honey … it was pure magic. I wish I had recorded it.”
“Not to worry, Iris, we’ll give you a private performance. And now that we have a trio—” Rose elbowed him.
“Just saying,” Conor said, glancing at Iris, who smiled ever so slightly. “So … Tubridy’s?”
“Morrisey’s,” Rose said. “Mum?”
“Be there in a minute,” Iris said. “You two go.” Rose gave a look that meant she understood her mother was waiting for Hector. “And tell Tess I’ll see her there.”
* * *
Iris sat down again in the front row and looked up at the stage, at the piano and the centerpiece and the flowers. Her flowers, the white cosmos shone and the petals of the poppies held even though she hadn’t singed them.
The audience had all gone, the auditorium was as quiet as it had been loud. She waited. He would be out in a moment. Iris was left with the sense of completion and a satisfying feeling of the resolution of a cycle. Life moves on. With all she was already experiencing, she thought of the word, the feeling, the miracle of grace. And, she felt that feeling that can’t be explained in words, that feeling that makes you take a breath but lets you know that in its long, slow, easy exhale somehow something has been healed.
Then, out of the wings, eyes down and stepping quietly, Hector Sherr appeared on the stage. He stood a moment and looked down at Iris. Then he bowed to her. He pulled back the stool. He sat again at the piano, and once more, for Iris Bowen, he began to play.
About the Author
CHRISTINE BREEN was born in New York and educated in Boston and Dublin, where she received an MA in Irish Literature. She is an artist, homeopath, gardener, and mother of two children. She lives in Kiltumper, Ireland, with her husband, the novelist Niall Williams, in the cottage where her grandfather was born. Her Name Is Rose is her first novel. Visit her Web site at www.christinebreen.info, or sign up for email updates here.
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Epigraph
Part I
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Part II
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Part III
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
HER NAME IS ROSE. Copyright © 2015 by Christine Breen. All rights reserved. Interior illustrations by Christine Breen. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.stmartins.com
Cover designed by Kerri Resnick
Cover illustrations © shutterstock.com
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The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
ISBN 978-1-250-05421-0 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-4668-5723-0 (e-book)
e-ISBN 9781466857230
First Edition: April 2015