Spellbound by Baker Jeanette

Author:Baker, Jeanette [Baker, Jeanette]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Published: 2014-06-15T04:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 16

Alice Duncan shifted the load of books she carried higher on her hip and smiled at Mollie seated at the large desk in front of the classroom, if one could call it a classroom anymore. It looked nothing like the room where Mary Ryan had taught for so many years. Slowly, over the weeks, the young American had converted what had once been an austere environment into a cozy room adorned with children’s writing and artwork. The desks were arranged in groupings of four around an overhead projector, and in the corner, surrounded by well-stacked bookshelves, sat a rocking chair, huge overstuffed pillows and a carpet remnant, a “reading corner,” she called it. “Don’t look so distraught, Mollie. We’ve the chicken pox every year.”

Mollie leaned her chin on her hand, a worried crease between her brows. “What if everyone gets them?”

“Most likely we’ll have an outbreak in the lower levels. Many of the older children have already had them. I’ve heard it’s better to get them when you’re young.” Alice changed the subject. “How is Sean holding up?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t seen him much. He comes to see the children and goes back again. Most of his time is spent at the beach.”

Alice nodded. “In an emergency like this, every man is necessary, especially islanders like Sean. He knows the way of things. Is your mother watching the wee ones, then?”

Mollie nodded.

Alice sat down at a student desk. “How is Emma?”

“Tired.”

“With three children to manage, I would expect that.”

“My mother is the only one who appears to be benefiting from the chicken pox,” Mollie observed.

“How so?”

“She’s busy and has no time to dwell on what she didn’t do for Danny.”

Alice lowered her eyes. “And Patrick?” she asked casually. “Is he well?”

“I suppose so. He keeps to himself.”

Alice absently drummed her fingers on the desk. Her thoughts were no longer in the present. Mollie continued to speak, and Alice nodded but she wasn’t listening. She’d perfected the pretense long ago when the island women, missing their men and with too many dark hours ahead, would draw out their conversation long beyond what was necessary to explain their purpose.

She was recalling the day she first met the black-haired, clear-eyed Irishman called Patrick Tierney. Thirty-five years ago no would describe him as a man who kept to himself. A storyteller perhaps, a man fond of books and quoting the great ones, a hardworking man with a wry wit, a ready wink, and a way about him that drew people in. He’d certainly drawn her in.

Alice had never considered herself impulsive or impressionable. She was sent to Inishmore because of her facility for the Irish language. Five teachers before her, young women from Dublin and Cork, had requested a transfer back home after only a year. The islanders wanted their children educated but maintained a suspicion of strangers and kept their distance. Loneliness and weather sent the teachers scurrying back to the mainland.

Alice was different. In every season Inishmore spoke to her.

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