An Early Wake Read Free

hers. She knew Mick, Bridget’s grandson, made sure it was kept up and paid for his gran’s phone so she could reach him in an emergency. Bridget was well into her eighties, but refused to consider moving in with Mick’s sister a few towns over. This townland—called Knockskagh, or “hawthorn hill”—was her home, and she wouldn’t be moved from it; she’d settled into the cottage when she married and had lived here all her adult life. Maura might have wondered if Bridget got lonely if she hadn’t seen the steady trickle of friends and relatives who stopped by to make sure the old woman was all right and to swap gossip and news. It was nice, knowing that people were looking out for you. Her gran had done a lot of looking out for the struggling Irish immigrants who’d arrived in Boston.
    “Ah!
Dia duit a Mhaire!
” Bridget opened the door with a broad smile.
    “Dia’s Muire duit, a Bride,”
Maura replied, with the little Irish she knew. Bridget had taught her a few phrases, like how to exchange a basic greeting.
    “Come in, come in,” Bridget said. “There’s a bit of a chill in the air, isn’t there?”
    “Definitely. I can’t stay long, but I was going crazy trying to sort out the finances for the pub and I thought some fresh air might help. Although I always like to see you.”
    “There’s tea on the stove and fresh scones in the tin, if yer hungry.”
    “Thanks.” Maura, long familiar with Bridget’s kitchen by now, helped herself. “Can I pour you a cup?”
    “That’d be grand, if it’s no trouble.”
    “No problem.” Maura filled two cups and carried them back to where Bridget now sat in front of a small fire. “Are you feeling the cold already?”
    Bridget sighed. “Don’t you be getting old, Maura—if it’s not one thing, it’s another. I can feel winter coming in my bones.”
    “Anything I can do?” Maura asked. She hated to think that Bridget might be failing. Since she’d lost her grandmother—the only relative she’d ever known—less than a year before, somehow she’d come to count on Bridget to take Gran’s place. It was because of Bridget that Maura had come to Leap in the first place, after she’d stumbled upon Bridget’s long correspondence with her gran.
    Bridget waved a dismissive hand at her. “Ah, don’t be minding me. I’m just a fussy aul woman. And don’t you be telling Mick that I’m complaining, either, or he’ll be after me again to move in with my granddaughter over to Bandon. Which would not suit me at all, for she’s got two loud children and little enough room as it is.”
    Maura knew Mick kept a close eye on his gran and would notice any decline in her condition on his own, so she wasn’t about to go tattling to him. She took a sip of her tea—strong, as always. “I’ve been trying to figure out if Sullivan’s is making any money. How did Old Mick manage?”
    “He didn’t ask for much. Many of his friends spent their time there of an evening. Not that they drank much. They could nurse a pint for hours, or so Mick used to say. They were there for the craic, not for the drink. God help the poor tourist who stuck his nose in while that crowd was in good form.”
    That wasn’t hard for Maura to imagine, especially since she’d made few physical changes since she’d taken over in the spring, afraid to drive away what patrons she had. Besides, she’d never been big on prettying up a place. She tried to imagine track lighting and new curtains in the pub and had to swallow a laugh, though she had at least managed to introduce a few new paintings, which had brightened some of the darker corners. The paintings were the works of Gillian Callanan, an artist who lived over the hill in an old creamery by the lake, at least during the summer. Maura hadn’t seen much of Gillian lately and wondered if she’d gone back to Dublin for the winter, as she had told Maura she usually did. Maura would miss her if she went, since Gillian was close to her