Her Name Is Rose by Christine Breen Page A

a slight lift, as if she were delicately floating.
    â€œI’m afraid I’ve drunk more than my share,” Grace said, sitting down. “Ever since Bob died I’ve had trouble sleeping, although I don’t know why. He was such a snorer! Now I find a few small glasses help me sleep.” She paused, sinking further into Bob’s chair. “Sometimes he slept in this room, when he had to get up early. So as not to wake me.”
    The memory of it took her away into a quietness that Iris welcomed. She calculated what time it must be in Ireland. After midnight. She looked over the travel brochures on the desk and fingered Kerry’s map of the South End. She glanced at Grace, who seemed like she might fall asleep at any moment. Then Billy appeared, and seeing that Grace looked about to doze, knocked sharply on the open door.
    â€œYou’re wanted downstairs, Mrs. Hale.” He looked at Iris with a knowing smile.
    â€œWhat? What?” Grace stirred.
    â€œDownstairs. Hector.”
    â€œRight,” she said, rising quickly. “I’ll be there in a minute.” She straightened up, looked in the mirror, then turned to Iris and said, “Well, that was perfectly lovely.” At the door she paused. “How lovely to meet you.”
    *   *   *
    The sun through the thin curtains woke Iris at nine. It was later than she’d intended, but she’d slept poorly in the early part of the morning and dozed off and on all night. Her eyes opened on the map of the South End that lay on the desk beside the bed. St. Botolph Street was marked in blue ink. She was dying for a cup of tea. She looked around the room again. Not like Ireland, she thought. No kettle in sight. She might ask Billy for one. She showered quickly and dressed in the only “nice” outfit she’d packed, a periwinkle blue linen sleeveless that Tess had bought with her one day.
    â€œGet something Rose would be surprised to see you in,” Tess had said. “Instead of those ratty blue jeans and Luke’s old shirt.” They’d chosen the linen dress because it was the kind of thing she could dress up or down, with heels or sandals. She chose the black sandals. She hadn’t worn a dress in so long, she felt uncomfortable in it. She’d folded it carefully between tissue paper but that hadn’t prevented it wrinkling. Oh, hell. She tugged at it as best she could. Looking at herself in the mirror now as she was ready to go downstairs, she felt acutely like an imposter. (What does one wear when meeting the woman who birthed your child?) She sat down on the edge of the bed and took off the sandals and put on the heels. She wanted to look smart meeting Hilary Barrett. She wanted to look like she’d measured up to the mother Hilary had probably hoped for when she gave her baby over to the adoption agency all those years ago. She tried to think about what she was wearing that day, but she couldn’t remember.
    Would Hilary remember her?
    In the breakfast room another guest was already sitting, a tanned man in a Hawaiian-like shirt, who sat in the corner by himself. He looked to be in his mid-forties. Iris sat down near the window at the only other table for two. She’d prepared a friendly smile to offer as she passed, but he didn’t look up. His straight back was leaned forward, his head fixed over the table. His unfinished plate had been pushed aside. He was writing something. He mustn’t have heard her, she thought. Then a sound, like a low humming, haphazard in rhythm, reached her and she looked over. It was coming from him. A low music somewhere inside him was humming and he was moving his head to its rhythm.
    â€œGood morning, Mrs. Bowen.” Billy had startled her and she looked up. He’d come in without her noticing. “Mrs. Hale says she hopes you slept well.”
    â€œYou can tell her, thank you, yes,” she said in a quiet voice. She kept