The first voice to caress my infant ears rolled with such lyrical beauty that I am offended by other accents to this day. It soothed in its quicksilver fluidity, lacked hard edges, and whispered in promises so compelling it could turn the most resistant of souls into a willing adherent. I know now that sound travels queerly and can reach back through time. I often hear the voice of my Southern mother when I least expect it; it comes to me more as reminder than recollection, and carries truth along the lines of a template so firmly etched by her feminine hand that its imprint is resounding, guiding, indelible. There was a time in my youth when I resisted this influence in pursuit of my self-sufficiency, but life is an ironic circle, and the process of maturity tempers to the point where my mother’s voice has victoriously come back around. It calls from the shelter of a wrought iron and stucco portico in my mind’s eye, where she stands saturated with the scent of magnolia blossoms and shaded from the summer sun that filters through Memphis’ oppressive humidity. I can barely hear her calling over the late afternoon’s deafening chorus of cicadas, yet she is there as the voice of reason, rising up as the music of consciousness, whose lines are now so blurred I can no longer discern which is hers, or which is mine. But I measure my life from the parameters of her spectral inflection; I am thoroughly capable of standing in witness of myself as I walk out to meet life’s vagaries. It is a gift to be bestowed with a standard so certain it shines like a beacon from the otherworld in the darkest of hours. Because my mother’s Southern ways were never overt, she held firmly to the cultural aversion to histrionics and wielded the power of suggestion like a finely tuned instrument that only sought the high notes of beauty in this world. And so it is for myself and my Southern contemporaries. We are the scion of the last of the great Southern belles, the daughters of a confederacy of women so regal and refined they left an impact that reverberates through the ages, beckoning us to hold on tight enough, strong enough, fast enough to a way of being in the world they found safe in its civility, even as the world around us changes. And what’s funny to me is realizing that the shadow these grand dames cast was so weighty; there’s a part of me now that waits for permission to step into any one of their delicate shoes. But too many are gone now, and there will be no rite of passage, so I will stand tall and rely on this voice in my head that reaches through the veil of time to offer guidance; a place from which my mother calls softly, ceaselessly, unerringly, in a dance that has become a perfect circle.

Chapter Seven

The distance between Inverin and Clifden is approximately sixty kilometers. It’s a visually inspiring hour-long ride through undulating midlands with grass as soft as velvet, gray stone walls that split the landscape, and bubbling intermittent streams as you glide along a two-lane road that cuts through a terrain devoid of street markers, stop signs, or any other indication the area has been previously trodden. There is little suggestion of civilization anywhere in sight and it is a quiet, unobstructed journey through the heart of Connemara with nothing in store, save for the destination of Clifden.

Driving into Clifden, one is abruptly thrust into the center of a thriving village that hosts an annual, three-day music festival wherein every pub door is invitingly open with signs outside announcing which Irish traditional musicians will be playing within the standing-room-only venues. A rudimentary chalkboard sat on the sidewalk outside of Mannion’s Pub with “Welcome Liam Hennessey” sprawled across in large, eye-catching cursive.

I followed Liam into the middle of a waiting crowd, which parted ceremoniously as he made his way to the old man seated against the wall across from the bar. Wind-tossed and toothless, the man sat on a battered wooden chair, tuning a fiddle and nodding his greeting while Liam opened his accordion case and settled in beside him. When a flute player joined them, the crowd fell into an anticipatory hush, ready for the music to begin. I stationed myself in front of the bar, minding my own business, but that soon became short-lived.

“Are you here with Liam?” asked a middle-aged man who was standing too close to me.

“Yes.” I took a step back.

“She’s here with Liam,” the man announced, turning to the man beside him.

“Ah,” the second man gasped, “she is, so!”

“Where did you get that blond hair on your head?” The first man eyed me.

“I brought it with me from America,” I said.

“She’s from America!” The man turned to the other man, his eyes opened wide.

“America indeed!” The second man drew in his breath.

“All I want in the world is for me brother to come in and see me standing here talking to you,” said the first man. “I wouldn’t care if a pooka came for me after that. Will you have a pint? Get her a pint, Tom,” he directed.

“Tom, make that a half-pint,” I said, trying not to laugh. I looked over at an obviously amused Liam, who smiled and winked as if to say he knew what was happening.

I looked toward the door and noticed an unusually small woman walking in with what appeared to be members of her family due to their similarity in stature. I’d met her in Galway before: she was a musician named Deanna Rader who played guitar and sang anything from Irish traditional music to her own compositions. I’d heard her sing in her low, husky voice a few times before, and because she was a friend of Declan’s, I’d exchanged pleasantries with her a few times as well. From the looks of things, she was in Mannion’s with her father and two sisters. She came smiling to my side instantly.

“Well then, you’ve made your way out here now, have you?” She looked up at me.

“I came here with Liam,” I said, grateful to know someone in the crowd.

“I knew you must have. So, it’s the two of you now, is it?”

“Well, I don’t know if I’d put it that way,” I said, diverting the implication. I couldn’t recall if I’d seen Deanna while I was out with Liam, or if she asked this because she’d heard people talking.

“You’re a long way from home yourself,” I said. “Is this festival a big deal?”

“Oh God, yes. People look forward every year. Luckily my parents live in Letterfrack, just up the road. I’ve been spending the last couple of nights with them. We’ve all come ’round tonight for the craic.”

“Well, it’s nice to know someone here,” I said.

“My sister came out to sing tonight. Would you mind asking Liam if she could give us a song?”

“Sure,” I said. “I’ll ask him when they take a break.”

“They probably won’t do that, so you’d be waiting for ages,” Deanna said. “You’ll just have to lean over and ask, like.”

“When?” I asked.

“How about now?” she said.

“Right now?”

“If it wouldn’t be too much trouble,” she smiled sweetly.

I looked over at the musicians, who were in full swing. There was no way I was going to butt in, even though Deanna kept standing there looking up at me expectantly. Just then, a man at the bar stepped forward enthusiastically. He leaned into the musicians circle, grabbed Liam by the arm, and shouted loudly, “The young lady here wants to give us a song.” With that, the music came to a screeching halt, and a whirlwind of preparation commenced. Liam leaned over and whispered to the two musicians beside him, instruments were set down, a microphone was raised, a path spontaneously cleared, and into the arena stepped Deanna’s sister. It was like the infamous scene of Marilyn Monroe singing “Happy Birthday” to President Kennedy.

There was a hush in the room as all eyes riveted upon the girl. She stood all of five foot two, but within that minuscule framework there was a lot going on: thick, raven hair fell in loose waves across her forehead and down her back. Large green oval eyes slanted and squinted catlike beneath thick, dark lashes. Turn by turn, her eyes focused and held one man in the room after another. She stood with her right hand on her hip and her voluptuous weight shifted to the left. With great histrionics, she crooned out a song in the Irish language I’d never heard before. When she finally stopped, she sashayed over to Liam, totally aware everybody was watching. With grand theatrics, she threw both her arms around his neck and kissed him square on the mouth, nearly knocking him over with her forward advance. All hands in the room clapped loudly, wolf whistles erupted, and a few eyes turned my way.

“I imagine you’d have something to say about this passionate display,” said Deanna’s father, who had materialized beside me.

“Not really,” I said. “Do you?”

“You have to watch that one is all. She’ll be the death of me one day, he said, cocking his head toward her.

“I hope not,” I said.

“No harm done then?”

“No harm at all,” I said.

There’s an energy that hangs between strangers even in a crowd. Call it interest, or attraction, or the knowledge of things to come. It is awareness, and I was aware to the exclusion of all activity around me that Liam Hennessey was watching me. He was sitting at the corner of the bar by himself, and because I could feel his gaze upon me like an electrical current, I froze. I did not move an inch because I sensed I didn’t have to, that something would come about with little prompting from me. I don’t know how I knew this, but I was right, it came about within the hour. It began as a series of introductions to people near Liam, and drew itself closer until Liam was introduced to me.

Right before Leigh left, claiming she had to get up early the next day to drive to Cork, Kieran pointed out that the Irish traditional musicians playing in the corner were the father and older brother of the lad sitting at the end of the bar.

“That’s Liam Hennessey at the bar there,” Kieran gestured to my right. “He’s the best box player in Connemara – even in the whole of Ireland, many say. His family is long in Connemara; they’re all players, so. That’s Sean Liam, his da, and his brother Anthony there on the guitar.” Kieran seemed proud to know the facts. He next took my arm and led me straight to Liam.

“I’ve the pleasure of knowing this American here, her name is Hailey,” Kieran announced to Liam.

I had an uneasy feeling. It’s one thing to suspect you’ll cross paths with someone again, and quite another to be fully prepared when it actually happens. For some unknown reason, I kept thinking it was strange to see Liam this far out in the country from Galway, but then again, what did I know? I didn’t know anything about him.

Liam looked at me with large dark eyes and smiled brightly. He was different than I had imagined: he was friendlier, more candid. I assumed because he looked so dark and mysterious, there would be a personality to match. I assumed he would be reserved, aloof, perhaps arrogant in an artistic sort of way. I was paying close attention, and there was none of that about Liam. In seconds, I realized he was a nice guy. I moved a step to my right as an older man approached the bar.

“Would ye give us a hand there,” the man said to Liam, and for the next few minutes, Liam handed pints over his head to a group of men too far from the bar’s edge to grab the glasses themselves. Just then, Kieran said something that set off a chain of events and put the rest of the night in motion.

“Liam, will you watch Hailey for me, I’m off to join the sessiun.” With that, Kieran produced a harmonica from his shirt pocket and walked off to join the musicians in the corner.

I stood at the bar and waited for the next thing to happen. The world seemed to operate in slow motion. All the noise in the room subsided, and the only thing I knew was I was looking directly at Liam Hennessey. I searched his face for imperfections. I had never before seen such beauty in the face of a man. I hoped my thoughts didn’t show on my face. He was so good looking, I wondered why other people in the room weren’t staring at him, then I realized most of Hughes’ patrons knew him and were probably used to the way he looked. I was reticent, unsure of how to speak to Liam, unfamiliar with how provincial he may or may not have been. Words tend to get in the way in moments like this, but they lay in wait just the same.

“You’re an American, yah?” he asked in that way the Irish have of answering their own question. “I’ve been to America,” he said.

“Where in America?” I encouraged.

“Boston, New York, Chicago. My cousins live in Chicago. I even went all the way to Niagara Falls,” Liam said.

“Believe it or not, I’ve never been to Niagara Falls. What’s it like?”

“Not much, mind you, it’s a nice enough place, but ten minutes after I saw the falls, I was asking where I could get a nice cup of tea.”

“I imagine it would take a lot to be impressed after living here,” I said.

“I’d never want to live anywhere else. Everything you could ever want is here in Connemara.”

And it is, I thought. Connemara has a sense of peace I’ve never felt before.

“Are you long in Ireland?” he asked.

“I live here,” I said. “I live in Inverin.”

“Ah, so you’re just up the road. Me too.”