Out the Summerhill Road: A Novel

Gaynor and Sarah

112 Out the Summerhill Road Gaynor and Sarah It’s hot in August and there’s talk of frying eggs on the sidewalk. When Betsy told me this, “And then do they eat them?” I asked her. My question tickled Betsy. She has a smoker’s laugh, deep and throaty, but surprisingly pleasant, coming from such a small woman. Now Betsy is quick to laugh. When I first came, it was a month before I saw her smile. I’d much rather see Betsy laugh than watch someone fry an egg on the sidewalk. Yuk. I’ll remember to say this to her. Anyway, it’s that hot today. I miss you. How was Cork? The usual higgledy peggly, I expect. I can imagine the two of you, holding hands and walking along the seashore. A second honeymoon. I like to think of it. Gaynor put the letter in the envelope and drove in Betsy’s old Cadillac to the post office. She stamped the letter, blessed it with a kiss, put it into the box and walked back to the car. Backing away from the curb, she saw the small, white house in the middle of a stand of great magnolias. Seen that way it looked fresh and clean, nestled among the dappled shade of the dark green leaves and with its dark green shutters against the white of the building. A sign, Library, was posted on a stick along the sidewalk. Back she went again, into the same parking place and walked across the street to the library. Stepping inside, she had to catch her breath. A feeling that she had been swept to County Kerry, wafted there by the smells of horse gear and lambs’ feed, was that strong. Taking into her body the smell, like that of the farm in Ireland, she walked across the room to a window that looked out on a golden field. Ay, here it was! The smell of the barley! Coming from the field! She found a chair by the window, sat in it and studied the room, where she sat—the Adam’s style moldings, the worn floors and the casement windows (the windows wide open Part 3: The ’60s • The Cold Springs Revolutions 113 despite the heat). And here she was, finally, in a library! Not since she had finished St. Mary’s College in Cork had she had the grand privilege of walking into a library and choosing a book to take home. She rose and walked among the shelves, savoring the titles. Thomas Jefferson: An Intimate History; Closing the Ring; Edith Wharton, A Biography; A Tale of Two Cities; Lady Chatterley’s Lover; A Primer of Book Collecting. How to choose? What to choose. She pulled a leather bound edition of A Tale of Two Cities from the shelf and ran her fingers across the gold embossed title. Leather. Here was the smell of horse gear. “What a beautiful book,” a woman said, looking over her shoulder. The woman was a sturdy, pretty woman with freckles scattered across her cheeks, straight blond hair that fell almost to her shoulders and with the prettiest blue eyes, uncannily pretty. Her blue-eyed gaze was so surprisingly direct it took Gaynor’s breath for a minute. Below the silky blue dress the woman wore, both her white sandals and her legs were splattered with mud. When she smiled, as she was smiling now, her face, with the wide smile and cozy freckles, took on the merriest expression Gaynor had seen in Cold Springs. “Are you checking out that book?” “I don’t have a library card, but I’ll be asking for one today,” Gaynor said. “If I could I’d spend the rest of the day here with the smell of barley and horse gear.” “Barley? Horse gear?” “The leather books smell like the horses’ gear on my da’s farm in Ireland. And the field out there, whatever it is, has the smell of lambs’ feed.” The woman put her hands on her hips. “Now I know who you are,” she said. “You’re Timothy Rogers’ Irish bride. Widow!” she corrected herself. “I’m Sarah. Sarah Carter.” “Gaynor,” she said and held out her hand. 114 Out the Summerhill Road “Yes, of course. Gaynor. I’m checking out a couple of murder mysteries. I’ll check out your book on my card. That is, if you...