but just barely. “Sure,” Riley said. “I’ll be grand.”
8
NAN STOOD AT THE GATE to the old cemetery, running her hand over the ornate ironwork. She was always amazed at how, everywhere she looked, there was something beautiful to see. Even the lichen-covered Celtic crosses, their detail worn away by time, were like little monuments to the past.
She’d passed the cemetery several times on her way in and out of town and had always wanted to take a closer look. It was only now that she realized the importance of the place. Her father, Tiernan Findley, had been buried here. This was probably her last chance to visit him before she left.
The past few days had been an emotional roller coaster, full of tears and confusion, questions and doubts. But she’d survived it all, only a little bruised. And it had kept her mind off the real sadness-saying goodbye to Riley and Ireland.
They’d driven back to Kealkill and spent the morning with her grandfather, sharing a traditional Irish breakfast in Carey’s garden. They’d talked about her mother and she’d answered all the questions he hadn’t asked the day before. And when it was time to leave, Nan had felt her emotions well up inside of her, so quickly that she could barely say goodbye.
Standing in the cemetery now, she swallowed the lump in her throat. She’d see him again. In truth, her grandfather gave her the perfect excuse to come back to Ireland. Glancing both ways, Nan stepped through the graveyard gate.
A chilly breeze swirled around her, causing a shiver to run through her body and she pulled her sweater more tightly around her. From a tree on the other side of the wall, a flock of jackdaws cawed. An eerie feeling came over her and Nan nearly turned back, then decided she was being silly. She’d weathered all the other emotional storms that had come her way. What was she afraid of now?
As she began to wander among the stones, she read the names and the dates of death. Some of them were recent, one stone marking a grave that was still covered with dirt. “Aina M. Garrity,” she read from the stone. “Eighty-seven years old. A long life.” She’d died just a month before.
Nan moved to the older section of the cemetery. There were stones from the time of the famine, single stones marking large plots for multiple family members. The children’s stones broke her heart. They’d died from scarlet fever or typhus or any of the simple illnesses that were so easily cured today.
The Quinn family plot stood near the edge of the cemetery. “Rory Quinn,” she read. “Beloved wife, Brenna Rooney Quinn.” How were these people related to Riley? “Jack Quinn. Siobhan Quinn.” Siobhan had lived for eleven years without her husband beside her. Had she been lonely?
She found Tiernan’s grave nearby, the newer stone gleaming in the sun. Squatting down, she brushed away the grass to read the inscription. “Tiernan Findlay, born June 13, 1960. Died November 3, 1984.” The next words were in Gaelic.
The sound of a dog barking caught her attention and Nan stood up to see Riley’s brother, Danny, striding briskly down the road. Two black-and-white dogs raced ahead of him. He whistled for them and they came running back then sat at the gate and peered inside at her.
When Danny noticed her, he slowed his pace. “Keep an eye out,” he teased. “Aina Garrity has been haunting this place for the last month.”
Nan frowned. “The lady that died?”
He grinned and stopped at the gate. “She’s hanging about, waiting for the next funeral.”
“But she’s dead.”
“Her ghost can’t leave until someone else is buried.”
Nan slowly walked toward the gate, that same eerie feeling coming over her. Now she was spooked. Had Aina Garrity been watching her? Had the dead woman’s ghost been up in the trees with the crows?
“It’s a beautiful cemetery,” Nan said. “I was just admiring the stones.”
He grinned, reaching down to pat one of his dogs. “They are beautiful,” he said. “We Irish do death so well.”
“Can you read Gaelic? There’s an inscription on a stone. I’d like to know what it means.”
He stepped through the gate and followed her to Tiernan’s grave, the dogs scampering around his feet. Danny stood in front of the gravestone and stared at it, then glanced over at Nan. “Riley told us about your news.”
She nodded. “Do you know what it means?”
“Until we meet again.”
She drew a deep breath, then smiled. “That’s nice. I like that.”
“Are you through here? I was just walking into town. I have to open the pub for lunch.”
Nan nodded. “I told Riley I’d meet him there.” She took one last look at the gravestone, committing it to memory, then turned for the gate.
Danny held it open for her and she smiled and pointed to the beautiful work. “Did you do this? Riley said you’re a blacksmith.”
“I did,” Danny said. “It was one of the first projects I did. My ma said it would help my way into heaven.”
He closed the gate behind her and they strolled down the road side by side, the dogs bounding ahead of them both. “What did you mean about Aina Garrity?”
“I was just teasing. Silly Irish superstition,” he said.
“Tell me,” Nan said.
“Oh, where should I start? When someone dies, their ghost is required to stay at the churchyard and tend to the dead until the next corpse comes along. They’re supposed to carry water to Purgatory for the folks down there. When two people are buried on the same day, the families race to the cemetery to bury their loved one first so they get the express train to heaven.”
She giggled. “So Aina is stuck until another ghost shows up.”
Danny nodded. “That’s not the worst of it. Some of the older folks believe that a dead hand is a cure to all sickness.”
“Ew,” Nan said. “You have to eat a dead hand?”
“No,” Danny cried, shaking his head. “We’re not that macabre. If you’re ill, you just have to be touched by a dead hand. So all the sick relatives come to the wake so they can be touched by the dearly departed’s hand.”
Nan shuddered. “I felt like I was being watched in the churchyard.”
“If a ghost or an evil spirit chases you, they can’t follow you across water. So find a stream and jump over it.”
“Good to know,” Nan said with a laugh.
“Don’t worry. Aina can’t leave the cemetery, so you’re safe.”
“I saw some Quinns there.”
“My grandparents are buried there. Rory and Brenna Quinn. And Rory’s parents, Jack and Siobhan. Jack was shot during the Irish rebellion and Siobhan also worked for the cause. That was his fishing boat that you and Riley took to Bantry. And Rory was a pilot for the RAF during the second world war. The Quinns have always lived large.”
“Riley said you were an artist. Can I see your work?”
He grinned. “Sure. I have some things in my workshop. We can stop on our way to the pub if you’d like.”
“I would,” Nan said.
They strolled along in the warm noonday sun, watching the dogs run ahead of them. Danny was as charming as Riley, amusing her with a complete education of Irish superstition. By the time they reached his workshop, she could only wonder how the Quinn boys had remained single for as long as they had.
She followed Danny around the back of cottage to what looked like a small barn. He pulled a large door open and Nan stepped into the dimly lit interior. Ornate ironwork hung from the old timber beams and along one wall, large swaths of canvas hid his sculptures. Danny pulled them off one by one, revealing wildly imaginative work. Nan stared in awe at his sculptures.
“This is incredible,” she murmured, walking from piece to piece.
