Rosewater and Soda Bread by Marsha Mehran Read Free Book Online Page A

of it. The good doctor would know just what to do about the mermaid's loss. She knew she could trust him.
    Estelle had chosen to call the girl a mermaid mostly out of romantic sentiment. It was a fancy prompted not by scales or a fish tail but rather by the girl's extraordinary hands.
    At first glance, the young woman's fingers looked normal enough, delicate and pale like the rest of her body. But a secondlook revealed that they were something marvelous to behold. Linking her four fingers and thumb, right above where the natural base of each digit dipped into the palm, was a sheath of skin as delicate as organza pastry and so pale that, when fanned open, it resembled the fin of an ocean temptress.
    The rest of the girl's body was typical of her age, which Estelle guessed to be in her early twenties—so she knew her mermaid fantasy would be remedied once her patient woke from her fevered sleep.
If
she woke from her fevered sleep, Estelle corrected herself, pacing around and around the bedroom rug in a ring of growing panic. If God would grant just this.

    THE RAIN HELD BACK until the flames had reached the burning man's head. Within minutes it had reduced the harvest icon to a pile of smoldering ash, purple plumes swirling toward the starry night's sky. Marjan helped Fiona collect the fold-up chairs as the town's two-man police guard, Sean Grogan and his deputy, Kevin Slattery stood by the dampened pyre, sequestering wayward sparks with all the protocol of a major stakeout. By the time Mar-jan and Fiona joined the rest of the revelers in Paddy McGuire's Pub, the place was packed for the rousing music
seisiún
.
    “Will you have a pint, Marjan?” Fiona asked, as they pushed through the smoky, cheerful pub.
    “Some cider, if there's any left. Thanks!” Marjan had to yell over the bustle of the front room. From the back parlor thunderous clapping followed the beat of a bodhran drum, that goaded cry of battle dawns. “I'm just going to make a phone call!” She pointed toward the back of the pub as Fiona sidled up to the long oak bar.
    Weaving her way through the crowd, Marjan passed by aplank table tucked under a low alcove. Known to regulars as the Confessional, the spot was a favorite of amorous couples, chosen mainly for its darkened crannies and velvet-curtained nooks. She caught a glimpse of Malachy sitting with Peter and Michael Donnelly in one corner. Wedged in with the lads was Layla, her lips glued to a pint of stout, drinking greedily from its creamy top.
    Wonderful, thought Marjan, as a trio of tweed-capped farmers blocked her view. That was all she needed: a hormonal teenager with curious taste buds. It was a good thing Bahar had gone home early; the sight of Layla sipping Guinness would not have gone over well with their more conservative sibling.
    Marjan took another look around the busy pub. Quite a few families had gathered under its cozy rooftop tonight. Children of all ages were among the patrons; newborns and toddlers cradled in corners and benches while their parents drank and gossiped about the brilliant but all too brief Bonfire. There was even a carpeted area reserved for young ones to crawl, next to a corner table where a gang of school-age kiddies had set up a house of cards.
    It was a time-honored tradition in Ireland, bringing the whole gang out to the local pub for some craic and grub. The bar was an extension of the family parlor, after all, a big living room where loneliness and the constant rain could be cast away for a few precious hours.
    Still, Layla should know better than to take advantage of that singular strain of hospitality, thought Marjan, reminding herself to make a stop by the Confessional on her way back.
    She slipped past the crowded back parlor and descended a flight of sloping wooden stairs. The Covies, with Conor Jennings on the tin whistle, had just launched into a spirited rendition of U2's “With or Without You,” a big hit of the summer charts. At the bottom was a narrow