“Ah-hah,” Jimmy said. “Give me a minute. It’s a grand name. Let’s see.” Jimmy’s cherubic face puckered in concentration. “Nieve… Siobhan… Maeve… Cloissa… no, none of those. It’s-it’s-by God, I’ve got it! Finnuala! It means ‘the fair one,’ in Gaelic. And Maggie said the old girl’s known as Nuala.”

“At least that’s a start. I could kiss you, Jimmy,” Neil said fervently.

A look of alarm crossed Jimmy’s face. “Don’t you dare!” he said.

Maggie had not expected to sleep well, but wrapped as she was in the soft eiderdown quilt, her head burrowed in the goose-down pillows, she did not wake up until the phone rang at nine-thirty in the master bedroom.

Feeling clearheaded and refreshed for the first time in several days, she hurried to answer it, even taking note of the bright sunbeams that spilled into the room around the edges of the window shades.

It was Greta Shipley calling. Almost apologetically, she began, “Maggie, I wanted to thank you for yesterday. It meant so much to me. And please don’t agree to this unless it’s something you really want to do, but you mentioned that you wanted to collect the art supplies Nuala left here and, well… You see, we’re allowed to invite a guest for dinner on a rotating basis. I thought that if you don’t have any plans, you might consider joining me this evening.”

“I don’t have any plans at all, and I’d enjoy it very much,” Maggie said sincerely. Then a sudden thought flashed through her mind, a kind of mental picture. The cemetery. Mrs. Rhinelander’s grave. Or was it? Something had caught her attention there yesterday. But what? She’d have to go back. She thought it had been at Mrs. Rhinelander’s grave, but if she were wrong, she would have to revisit all the other ones they had gone to.

“Mrs. Shipley,” she said, “while I’m up here, I’m going to be taking some pictures around Newport for a project I’m working on. It may sound macabre, but St. Mary’s and Trinity have such a tranquil, old-world feeling about them, they’re perfect for my purposes. I know that some of the graves we left flowers on yesterday had beautiful vistas behind them. I’d like to go back there. Can you tell me which ones we visited?”

She hoped the hastily assembled excuse didn’t sound too lame. But I am working on a project, she thought.

Greta Shipley, however, did not seem to find Maggie’s request peculiar. “Oh, they are beautifully situated, aren’t they?” she agreed. “Certainly, I can tell you where we went. Have you got a pen and paper handy?”

“Right here.” Nuala had left a small writing pad and a pen next to the phone.

Three minutes later, Maggie had jotted down not only the names but specific directions to each plot. She knew she could locate the grave sites; now if she only knew what it was she hoped to find.

After hanging up, Maggie got out of bed, stretched, and decided on a quick shower to complete the wake-up process. A warm bath at night to put you to sleep, she thought, a cool shower to wake you up. I’m glad I wasn’t born four hundred years ago. She thought of the line she had read in a book about Queen Elizabeth I: “The Queen takes a bath once a month whether she needs it or no.”

The showerhead, obviously an addition to the beautiful claw-footed tub, provided a spray that was needle sharp and thoroughly satisfying. Wrapped in a chenille robe, her still-damp hair in a towel turban, Maggie went downstairs and fixed herself a light breakfast, which she carried back to her room to enjoy as she dressed.

Ruefully she realized that the casual clothes she had packed for the vacation with Nuala would not get her through her two-week stay here. This afternoon she would have to find a boutique or whatever and get herself an extra skirt or two and a couple of blouses or sweaters. She knew that dress at Latham Manor was a bit on the formal side, plus she had agreed to have dinner with Liam on Friday night, and that probably meant dressing up. Whenever she and Liam had been out to dinner in New York, he invariably chose fairly pricey restaurants.

Raising the shade, she opened the front window and felt the warm, gentle breeze that confirmed that after yesterday’s chilly dampness, Newport was experiencing picture-perfect early fall weather. There would be no need for a heavy jacket today, she decided. A white tee shirt, jeans, a pullover blue sweater and sneakers were what she picked to wear.

When she was dressed, Maggie stood for a moment in front of the mirror that hung over the bureau, studying herself. Her eyes no longer held traces of the tears she had wept for Nuala. They were clear again. Blue. Sapphire blue. That’s how Paul had described her eyes the night they met. It seemed a lifetime ago. She had been a bridesmaid at Kay Koehler’s wedding; he had been a groomsman.

The rehearsal dinner was at the Chevy Chase Country Club, in Maryland, near Washington. He had sat next to her. We talked to each other all night, Maggie thought, remembering. Then, after the wedding, we danced practically every dance. When he put his arms around me, I felt as though I had suddenly come home.

They were both only twenty-three at the time. He was attending the Air Force Academy, she, just finishing the master’s program at NYU.

Everyone said what a handsome couple we were, Maggie reminisced. A study in contrasts. Paul was so fair, with straight blond hair and ice-blue eyes, the Nordic look he said he had inherited from his Finnish grandmother. Me, the dark-haired Celt.

For five years after his death, she had kept her hair the way Paul liked it. Finally, last year, she had chopped off three inches; now it barely skimmed the collar line, but as a bonus the shorter length emphasized the bouncing natural curl. It also required a lot less fussing, and for Maggie that was paramount.

Paul also had liked the fact that she wore only mascara and almost-natural lipstick. Now, at least for festive occasions, she had a more sophisticated supply of makeup.

Why am I thinking about all this now? Maggie asked herself, as she prepared to leave for the morning. It was almost as though she were telling Nuala all about this, she realized. These were all the things that had happened in the years since they had seen each other, things she wanted to talk about with her. Nuala was widowed young. She would have understood.

Now, with a final silent prayer that Nuala would use her influence with her favorite saints so that Maggie might understand just why she was being compelled to go to the cemeteries, she picked up her breakfast tray and carried it back downstairs to the kitchen.

Three minutes later, after checking the contents of her shoulder bag, double locking the door, and getting her Nikon and camera equipment out of the car trunk, she was on her way to the cemeteries.