Page 10 of The Scald Crow
“These are exquisite.” I traced one with my finger, a lover’s arch, a simple design of intertwined leaves.
“Thanks. This is where you’ll find me when I’m not in the pub.” Her words held notes of sadness.
“Are you managing the place on your own?” I recalled our numerous phone conversations. She had answered my calls day and night.
A stabbing pain pierced my brain, a wave of nausea threatening my vision. I threw my hand to my forehead, stilling the pulsing sensation.
“Yes and no. I have Orlaith, thank goodness. We’re one of the few pubs serving food. Well, until eight p.m. After that, all hell breaks loose.” She looked at the ceiling. “You’ve arrived at a quiet time. Most of the touristy shops are closed. They won’t open till after the long weekend. Some will open for Bealtaine.”
“Bealtaine? How do you celebrate? There aren’t many Celtic celebrations where I’m from.” My thoughts traveled to the hurling game Colm invited me to. Visions of him pounding through grass and mud in athletic shorts and a tight-fitting T-shirt danced through my mind.
“We celebrate all the pagan holidays—loads of craic. People take caravans out to the dunes. We have a bonfire on the strand. We love feast days. You’ll have to come.” She studied me.
“The strand? Umm, okay, sure.” My heart raced. What did I agree to? And why was everyone so friendly? I exhaled, releasing the tension in my shoulders. Stretching my wings, so they said. Was that my new mantra? God knew I needed one. I stared wistfully at the balcony. Behind those red doors were hotel rooms with a bed, a bathroom, and, hopefully, hot water.
“We don’t see many folks this time of year. What brings you to Ardara?” She glanced at me with curious eyes.
I had the distinct impression she considered my visit strange.
“I’ve inherited a property not far from here.” I chewed on the tip of my fingernail, wondering the same thing myself.
“You’re not just visiting, are you? You’re moving here?” Her forehead puckered into three distinct lines.
“Yes, I’m the sole beneficiary of Mr. Dermot Sweet’s estate. It seems we’re related somehow. I have an appointment in a couple of days with the lawyer.” What was I thinking? Moving away from the only home I’d ever known.
“Sweet? Calla Sweet. Jesus feckin’ Christ. No way. I didn’t put it together.” She planted her hands on her hips.
“You knew him?” I asked in a quick voice. Who were you, Dermot Sweet? And, for that matter, who was I?
One constant remained. My ability to see another’s death followed me here and raised its ugly head at the first opportunity. Colm’s confusion would by now have turned to grief.
“Dermot tipped the bottle from time to time. He was a nice man, though. He supplied the pub with honey.” She smiled.
“Honey? He was a beekeeper?” I held my breath, feeding my delusions with happy thoughts.
“Aye. He was very particular about his hives. It was like they were a part of him. I guess you could say he spoke to the bees. I do miss him, though. He made me smile.” She closed the lights and locked the door.
“I have no idea why he left his property to me. The lawyer had no idea.” I shook my head sideways. “It’s all very mysterious.”
“Well, I love a good mystery! Listen, you won’t need to buy a car. Dermot collected vintage cars and old trucks. You’ll be the proud owner of some prize-winning relics.” She led me to the staircase, rising to the second floor.
“Oh, cool.” The steel rungs rattled as I followed her along the catwalk.
“You’re in the Garden Suite,” she said, handing me the key. “Your stay comes with dinner daily, which we serve between five and eight p.m. For breakfast, I would suggest the East End Cafe. They serve a superb Irish breakfast.”
“Great, thanks.” I ran my thumb over the rectangular slab of driftwood emblazoned with a black horse. “Do you have any other guests?” I glanced at the welcome mats positioned before each door.
“No, not right now. Come down when you’re ready. Orlaith just cooked up a big pot of cockles. You won’t leave hungry, I promise you.” She laughed and walked away.
“Cockles?” I tilted my head at the unfamiliar word.
“Saltwater clams. We gather them when the tide is low. Oh, do you have any food allergies?” She peered over her shoulder.
“No,” I said, feeling glad. Saoirse wore her heart on her sleeve, and I would hate to disappoint.
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Saoirse
