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calling on Bridget Nolan, what are you planning for your visit?”
    Maura chewed slowly on some of Ellen’s bacon, which was closer to ham than what she was used to. “I…really don’t know. It was Gran who wanted me to come, and she made me promise. She even left enough money to pay for it, although I don’t know how she managed to put that much away. I haven’t really had time to think about any touristy stuff. Heck, I’ve never been out of the country before.” Maura had never even given traveling much thought. She and Gran had never taken anything like a vacation, unless a quick excursion out to Cape Cod with a friend counted. “I found the letters Mrs. Nolan had written to Gran, for years. I wrote to tell her that Gran had passed and that I wanted to meet her, and she answered right away. So here I am. Would anyone else remember Gran?”
    “Surely they do.” Ellen sat down across the table from Maura with a cup of coffee. “Your gran was born in Knockskagh—that’s a townland only a few miles from here. Bridget Nolan was a neighbor.”
    “What’s a townland?”
    “Ah, do you not know the term? It’s a land division. Leap here is a village, but the townlands are smaller. Now, Skibbereen is a town—there’s maybe two thousand souls there. That’s five miles down the road. You came from the Cork side?”
    “Yes, I flew into Dublin, and then I took buses from there.”
    “Well, then, you’ve not seen Skibbereen. Why don’t you talk to Mrs. Nolan and see how much time you’ll want with her, and then you can plan?”
    “Sounds good to me,” said Maura. “Where am I supposed to meet this Mick?”
    “He’ll be stopping by here in a bit. No doubt Rose has told him you’ve arrived.”
    “Who owns the pub? Is there a Sullivan there?” Maura asked.
    “That’s a bit up in the air. Mick’d like to take over the place, but old Mick Sullivan died a week ago, and nobody’s figured out who inherits.”
    Maura swabbed her plate with the last of the coarse brown bread. “I don’t mean to be rude, but from what I saw of it yesterday, it’s kind of a dump.”
    Ellen laughed. “You’re right. Old Mick was ninety-odd, and he didn’t much like change. He ran the place to suit himself.”
    “Does the place still do any business? It looked pretty quiet yesterday.”
    “It does. You’ll have to go back in the evening. The locals, they don’t mind a bit of dirt in the corners, and there are regulars who stop by, and the tourists think it’s charming—they come mostly in the summer—although they usually leave after one drink, thinking they’ve seen the real Ireland.” Ellen made a face before going on. “It’s the people around here who keep it alive. Old habits die hard.”
    Someone rapped firmly on the front door, and Ellen stood up. “That’d be Mick. You finish up, and I’ll bring him back. No need to hurry.”
    Ellen disappeared down the hall and returned a moment later followed by a tall man in his early thirties, Maura guessed. He was casually dressed in corduroys and a knit sweater, with heavy and slightly muddy shoes, and he needed a haircut. “Mick, this is Maura Donovan.”
    “Mick Nolan. Good to meet you.” Maura had stood whenhe entered the room, and took the hand he offered. She noticed that he didn’t smile.
    “Thank you. Ellen tells me you’re my ride out to…the townlands, is it?”
    “Yes. My grannie, Mrs. Nolan, still likes living out there. Are you ready to go? She’s sharpest in the mornings. I know she’s looking forward to seeing you.”
    “Let me get my things,” Maura said.
    Downstairs she looked in the mirror. Her clothes looked as bad as she had feared, and her hair had dried every which way. But Mrs. Nolan would have to take her as she was. She sighed and picked up her bag and went up to meet Mick.

Chapter 3
    M ick was waiting outside the front door when Maura came up the stairs. Ellen saw them off. “I’ll be in and out today, Maura,” she said.