“Sure, and if it isn’t Ellen Cameron, turned out in the rain to welcome the Rose!”
She spun at the thick brogue, at the mention of her name. And stood, open-mouthed, to stare into a familiar face.
It was David Clare.
Eight
“It’s you!”
“I’ll not deny it.”
“You’re here—”
“In the flesh.”
“I...”
She stood openmouthed while he shook his head solemnly. “I’ve had unusual welcomes before,” he said, “but this seems sure to be the strangest. It’s me, and I’m here, as you’ve observed. It’s both of us, actually, and we’re both here. Thee and me. We’re both cold and wet, too, as far as that goes. At least I am, and you certainly look cold and wet. And lovely, incidentally. Hello, Ellen.”
“But...” She caught her breath and swallowed. “What are you doing here?”
“Getting colder and wetter. By the minute. And waiting to see the Rose of Tralee dazzle us all with her beauty. See that one? A double-barreled skyrocket. I love fireworks, don’t you?”
“I—”
“A friend of mine lost the tip of his third finger to a cannon cracker once. We didn’t have a very safe-and-sane Fourth of July that year. But I still love fireworks. I’m incorrigible.” He studied her. “You somehow seem less than delighted to see me.”
“That’s not true!”
“Oh?”
“You just startled me,” she said. She managed a smile. It was one thing to keep running across faces that looked familiar. It was another thing entirely to meet someone when you were not expecting to. “You took me by surprise,” she said at length. “I never dreamed you would turn up in Dingle.”
“Neither did I.”
“When did you get here?”
“Less than an hour ago. I got off the bus and found a room — no mean feat, by the way — and decided to find you. And I thought to myself, now where would Ellen Cameron be on a rainy night? Out in the rain, I decided instantly. It seems I was right.”
“Why did you come to Dingle?”
“I could say that the thought of the folk festival exerted a powerful magnetism that would not be denied. Or that it occurred to me that a visit to this particular part of the Gaeltacht might be in order before I head for Connemara.” He lowered his eyes. “I could say either of those things, but neither one had much to do with my coming. I decided that I wanted to see you again, Ellen. I don’t know whether I would have climbed the highest mountain or swum the deepest river — I’m not the world’s greatest swimmer, as a matter of fact — but I was at least up to a bumpy bus ride from Dublin to Dingle.” He looked down into her eyes. “You’re cold and wet and more beautiful than ever,” he said. “I’m glad I came, Ellen.”
His hand found hers. They stood together in the rain, hand in hand, as the Rose of Tralee’s barge drew ever closer to the pier. The fireworks committee gave vent to an absolute orgy of skyrockets, anxious lest the Rose arrive before the last incendiary device had been properly exploded. Members of the crowd commented in delight upon the various rockets, groaning aloud when an occasional one proved to be a dud, shrieking with joy when an especially effective specimen burst into a riot of color overhead.
“They’ll have to end with the American flag,” David mused. “They always did back home.”
“Silly. Do you think they make fireworks that explode into an Irish flag?”
“Probably not a great demand for that sort of thing. Say, look at that one! Sparks just missed the barge. Be a shame if the Rose got her eyebrows singed, wouldn’t it?”
“You’re a madman.”
“No doubt of it. See those old fellows over there? They’re jumping up and down every time a good one goes off. I’ll bet they tossed a few real bombs in their youth. Shall we go, or do you really want to see the Rose?”
“I saw her in Tralee, but I’m not moving. This is too much fun.”
“Rain and all?”
“Rain and all.”
The barge docked, and the Rose accepted a bouquet of flowers — roses, of course — from one of the town dignitaries. Flashbulbs popped, and cheers came up from the crowd in waves. The band blared forth with “The Rose of Tralee.” Ellen felt suddenly giddy, almost as she had felt the night at O’Donoghue’s. But that time she had drunk oceans of stout, and tonight she had had nothing at all to drink. She was drunk on the cold salt air, on the rain, on the joy of the evening, on the presence, unexpected and deliciously welcome, of David.
The Rose entered one of the waiting cars, and each of the runners-up took a seat in another vehicle. Slowly the procession of cars moved out from the harbor and headed up Strand Street. A wave of people followed in its wake.
“You’ve seen the Rose,” David said.
“I know. Wasn’t she pretty?”
“Lovely. It’s a pity you didn’t have an ancestor from County Kerry. You’d walk away with it.”
She flushed. “Oh, stop it!”
“You would. Ellen Cameron, the Rose of Tralee.”
“Sure, and get off with your blarney!”
“Ah, and it’s a good Irish tongue they’ve tucked in your pretty head! Did you learn to talk that way on your trip? Come on, let’s find someplace where we can sit down and get out of the rain. There’s a pub just up the street that looks decent.”
“You’ve been here less than an hour and already you’ve picked out a pub?”
“We Clares don’t waste time. First things first — that’s what it says on the family crest. But in Latin, needless to say.”
“Needless to say.”
They shared a table in the snug, the little back room of the pub. The barman brought them pints of stout, and they sipped the dark brew slowly and talked without pause. She told him everything about her trip through the Irish countryside. This, she thought, was what she had been missing. All along she had been storing up impressions and reactions and had had no one to share them with. Now she let everything pour out, and he listened to every word, fascinated.
“It sounds as though you had a grand time, Ellen.”
“I did. Oh, I did!”
“And got a lot out of it.”
“I used up all my tapes and bought more and used them up too. I’m fresh out now. And I’ve learned, oh, I don’t know how many songs. I won’t be able to use all of them, but—”
“I don’t just mean music. I mean — oh, the perspective a person gets on a trip like yours. The sense of the country. Even a sense of self.”
She nodded. “Yes. I know what you mean.”
“That could turn out to be even more valuable than the songs.”
“I think it will.”
He took her hand in his, and their eyes met. She held his glance for a moment, then lowered her eyes. She thought of the way she had told herself over and over again that she would never seen him again, that she had been no more to him than a pleasant companion for a few days and evenings in Dublin, a break from a dull September. But now she knew that she had meant more to him than that. He had come all the way from Dublin just to see her. She thought back to that morning, remembering how she had very nearly gone directly to Shannon, bypassing Dingle completely. Her landlady’s words had changed her mind for her, and if she hadn’t listened to the woman, if she hadn’t come to Dingle according to plan, she might never have seen David again.
She shivered at the thought. What a horrid joke that would have been! She might have spent the rest of her life remembering him, wondering what ever had happened to him, never knowing that he had cared for her as much as she cared for him. The road not taken, she thought.
“Penny,” he said.
She looked at him, puzzled.