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“Christ on crutches, girlie, why are you acting like this is some shameful thing you’ve got to be hiding from everyone? Are you an artist or aren’t you?”

Cordelia bristled. “Yes,” she said firmly. “I am.”

Róisín slapped the spatula against the table. “That’s more like it. I’ve got a job for you and then we’ll hook Brigid up to the cart and head to Dún Aengus. It’s a tourist trap to be sure, but a rite of passage. It’s going to be a fine day for it too. I called Fiona earlier and she said her knee’s feeling grand. The sun’ll hold. Go on, eat up!”

The light in the kitchen was growing brighter. Cordelia ate quickly, wanting to be outside. She was glad to be off the subject of Niall – her ribs had gone oddly soft when Róisín brought him up.

After breakfast they walked to the house. Róisín kept up an endless stream of chatter, sometimes talking to Cordelia but sometimes talking to the grass, or a passing butterfly, or cursing one of the locals.

“Cian Byrne has taken over the Seaview, and you just know he’s going to ruin all its sparkle. Not that it’s a patch on O’Connor’s. Oh, get off with ya, damn bee, there’s pollinating to do in the garden back down the cottage.” She swatted at a bee floating past.

Cordelia found she couldn’t stop smiling. The sky was a brilliant blue, the air fragrant and sweet. The sun was so warm she wanted to reach up and hug it, or roll around in the grass like a dog. They reached the house and Róisín stomped around toward the back. The sun glinted off the ocean, Brigid was grazing in the paddock with the shed to one side, and it was such a perfect moment – the composition, the colors, the light slicing across the field. The whole scene was calling out to be remembered.

Cordelia reached into her pocket and pulled out her phone. She snapped a few quick photos, then caught the scent of lavender on the breeze and she hurried to catch up with Róisín.

There was a marvellous garden in the back, part vegetable, part wildflower, part herb. Róisín plucked a strawberry off a low plant bursting with red fruit and pointed at a bush with small yellow flowers.

“St John’s wort,” she said, popping the strawberry in her mouth. “Used to treat depression and anxiety. Niall could do with some of that, couldn’t he, poor lad.” Without waiting for Cordelia to respond, she walked up to another plant with larger yellow blossoms. “Evening primrose. Good for treating symptoms that come along with your monthlies. Not that I’ve got any need for that now.” She cackled. “But some of the girls still come asking for it. It can treat acne too. Those purple flowers there, that’s echinacea. Good to take when you’ve got a cold.”

“It’s a lovely garden,” Cordelia said, wondering what the point of all this was.

“I know that! I didn’t bring you here for compliments.”

“What did you – ”

But Róisín had disappeared through the back door to the house, returning with a sketchpad and a charcoal pencil.

“I haven’t got any paints yet,” she said. “But I’ve asked Alison to order some.” She thrust the pad and pencil into Cordelia’s hand.

“Um . . .” Cordelia stared down at them. “What exactly do you want me to do?”

“You’re an artist, aren’t you? Draw!” She waved her hand in the direction of the plants she’d named. “I’m making a book, you see,” she said proudly. “For meself and others who want to know about herbal remedies. But I can’t draw for shite.”

Cordelia opened her mouth to say she really wasn’t that kind of artist. But then Toby’s words came back to her, from before she flew to Ireland, when he was trying to convince her to leave her camera behind.

You used to make those cool charcoal sketches and do watercolors and stuff.

She did used to do that. She used to try all sorts of mediums.

“Well,” Róisín said, hands on her hips. “What are you waiting for?”

“Do you have a stool?” Cordelia asked.

Róisín grinned. “In the shed. I’ll fetch it.”

And so Cordelia spent her morning sitting on a three-legged stool, a horse grazing nearby, the warm June sun shining down on her back, a sketchpad in her hands for the first time since college. Her first attempt at the St John’s wort wasn’t very good, but the second was better. The third was perfect. Róisín puttered around her garden, sometimes talking to Cordelia, sometimes talking to the plants, sometimes talking to Brigid. The horse was a shaggy brown mare with a blaze like a sunburst and wise old eyes that seemed to understand every word the old woman uttered. Cordelia took off her cardigan and started on the echinacea.

By the time she got to the lavender, the sun was high overhead. Róisín made them tea and ham sandwiches, and they ate in her roomy kitchen with flowered wallpaper and a woodburning stove. She talked to Cordelia about the history of the island – the small settlements called clachans that had contained anywhere from two to fifteen houses and given the early settlers a sense of security during hard times.

“These islands were built by families sticking together,” Róisín said. “The bonds of those of us that live here year round are strong and old and deep. Some say it makes us stubborn. I don’t know about that.”

She then launched into tales of the sea, the danger of the surrounding waters, and the hardiness of those who fished them.

“My own husband died out on the Atlantic,” she said. “Storm came and swept his boat away. Never found him or his crew.”

“I’m so sorry,” Cordelia said.

“It was many years ago.” Róisín took a sip of tea. “But it’s kind of you to say.”