The Parting Glass. Emilie Richards
into two of the others.
“Good morning,” she called to Nora. “What a beautiful day.”
“It is that,” Nora said. “And herself’s having a bit of a lie-in this morning.”
Peggy came to attention. Irene was usually bathed, dressed and waiting for Nora before she arrived. “She’s not feeling worse, is she?”
“No worse than usual, if that’s what you mean. Only tired. Hip’s bothering her a bit, and she didn’t sleep as well as she might have.”
Peggy had made sure Irene took all her medicine before retiring, so she knew that couldn’t be the problem. Irene had gladly agreed to let her take control of all health matters, and Peggy had drawn a chart to make sure every pill was taken on time.
“She may need more anti-inflammatories,” Peggy said. “I’ll talk to Dr. O’Malley.”
“She takes a barrel of pills as it is.” Nora was somewhere in her fifties, silver-haired and thin as the rushes in Irene’s meadows. She was widowed—claiming that widowhood was an improvement over what had come before—but she had three adored sons who lived in the county and six grandchildren, so she never lacked for family.
“She takes quite a few,” Peggy agreed, “but not too many. Dr. O’Malley’s a careful man.”
“He was the best doctor in Mayo, and that’s a fact. My family went to him, from granny on down. And we were all better for it.”
Peggy tilted her head in question. “Was?”
“Surely you know he doesn’t practice anymore?”
Peggy had a forlorn vision of a medical license suspended and wondered if Irene was in such good hands after all. “I didn’t know. Why in the world?”
“I’d tell you if I had time for a cup of tea and a chat, but there’s none this morning. He’s on his way, and I promised Irene I’d bring her a tray in bed.”
“Of course. I’m sorry. I’ll ask Irene….” She looked up from fastening a snap on Kieran’s shirt. “Is it okay to ask her?”
“Oh, she’ll be happy to tell you, I’m sure.”
“I’ll make Kieran’s breakfast.”
“All done, and yours as well.”
Peggy thanked her, and Nora gave her a warm smile. “You’re not what I expected, you know.”
“I’m not?”
“We only see the telly. What do we know?”
Peggy hated to think her countrymen were represented worldwide by “Survivor” and “The Simpsons.” “I’m afraid if you were expecting glamour or excitement, you picked the wrong girl.”
“I hoped for good manners and a warm heart and got them both.”
Peggy was touched. “You and Irene are wonderful. I couldn’t be luckier.”
“Enough of this, I’ve got work to do.” Nora headed for the kitchen.
Peggy joined her there as soon as she could drag Kieran away from a window overlooking the road. The window was low enough that he could see over the ledge, and the view of endless stone walls lined with wind-tortured evergreens, blackthorn and fuschia always seemed to fascinate him. She’d found him there many times in the past week and wondered exactly what he saw.
“There’s porridge and bacon, and I made coffee the way you like it,” Nora said, passing back and forth between the stove and the tiny refrigerator.
“I love the way you take care of me, but I worry we’re too much work.”
“Not at all. I’d have cooked the same, only less.”
Peggy installed Kieran at the table. Before their arrival Irene had borrowed baby furniture from families in the parish, never having needed any herself. The high chair nestled perfectly against an old pine table, scrubbed in its time by generations of Tierney women.
She fixed oatmeal for her son with honey and lots of fresh, sweet milk straight from a neighbor’s dairy. She was particularly careful about Kieran’s diet, foregoing all sweets and processed foods, since some people felt they were a particular problem for autistic children. She cut him a thick slice of the brown soda bread Nora had brought with her that morning from the village grocery, and thought of Megan and the bread she made for lunches at the Whiskey Island Saloon, lunches her sister wouldn’t be serving again until the renovation was completed.
Nora dried her hands on a tea towel. “I hear the doctor’s car. I’ll just go and let him in.”
Peggy finished fixing breakfast for Kieran, who was beginning to whine and pound the table. “I’m almost done, kiddo,” she said. “Good food for a good boy.” She set the plate with bread in front of him, the same plastic plate he had used at home. He ate the bread with his fingers and ignored the spoon she set beside the bowl of oatmeal.
Peggy made a note to herself to introduce holding the spoon during Kieran’s “school time” that morning. In the meantime, she spooned oatmeal into his mouth whenever he would let her.
A piece of bread hit the floor, and she stooped to pick it up and carry it to the trash container under the sink. When she straightened, Finn was standing in the doorway.
“He loses more than he eats,” Finn said.
“Does he look malnourished to you, Doctor?”
“Finn. Nora tells me you have advice for me?”
Peggy realized he was talking about the anti-inflammatories. “Not advice. I’m not that presumptuous. I did have a question, though. Irene’s hip has been giving her fits.”
“She refused surgery when it was an option. It’s not an option now.”
Peggy knew that much. She also knew Finn wanted to cut the conversation short. He was always curt with her, but by the same token, he was always warm and reassuring with Irene, a completely different man. She forgave him a lot because of that.
“Is there anything else we can do for the pain? Increase her anti-inflammatories? She won’t tell you she’s hurting.”
His expression softened. “But I know.”
“And there’s nothing you can do?”
“Her medication is a careful balance. She’s reached that unenviable stage when one need overshadows another, and hard choices have to be made.”
Peggy felt just a glimmer of the excitement that had highlighted each moment of her brief med school career. This was what she had studied so hard for. The choices. The careful balancing of priorities. The ability to alleviate pain and change lives for the better. “I know it’s difficult,” she said. “Quantity vs. quality of life.”
“It’s rarely that simple.”
“I thought you’d want to know,” she said. “I’m not trying to step on your toes.”
“I do, you’re right. Thank you.”
She studied him. During her week in Ireland she had come to the conclusion that Finn was one of the handsomest men she’d ever meet. He was tall and lithe, but not too thin. His black hair was curly and just a little too long. She liked it that way. It gave him a brooding, Byronesque appearance that wasn’t belied by the man himself. He had strong bones and dark brows sheltering eyes that took in everything but gave little in return.
The few men who had briefly shared her life—including Phil—had been stark opposites. Open, friendly faces, stores of small talk so that she didn’t have to work when she was with them. She didn’t like to guess thoughts or feelings. She’d never had the inclination or the leisure to try.
This man was different. Perhaps it was the relative peace of life here, the additional