—not to mention any as close to the main post office, where Stephen picked up the mail he delivered, as this one was.
He did not want to move.
7
“M USIC SWEEPS AWAY the cobwebs in your mind,” her da always said. Annie had missed the dance last night because of preparations she and Mrs. Hawkins were making for Aileen’s arrival. Kirsten had been working long hours, so she hadn’t been able to go either. Work came first, but as Annie swept the front steps, she appreciated this memory of her father’s love of music, a memory she chose to keep. She sang the words to one of Da’s favorite songs.
When she got to the chorus, she realized someone was humming along with her. She continued the song to see if he’d keep up.
“Those days in our hearts we will cherish
Contented although we were poor
And the songs that we sung in the days we were young
On the stone outside Dan Murphy’s door.”
The postman joined her on the stoop. “You know the words to that song, do you?”
Annie leaned against her broomstick. “I’m Irish, don’t you know.” Her da used to sing that song to her, but she didn’t feel like saying so.
“True enough. I learned it recently and haven’t gotten it out of my head.”
Annie laughed. “I thought I’d heard you whistling it.”
He tipped the bill of his hat toward her. “Tell me, Miss Gallagher, do you know this shop of Dan Murphy’s that the song mentions?”
“Can’t say as I do, Mr. Adams.”
“Sounds like a jovial place.”
Annie sighed and stared out at the brick and clapboard siding buildings and paved sidewalks. “Aye, it does.”
The man fumbled through his bag. “Got the mail for you.”
“I thought you might.”
He smiled and handed her a stack. “Plenty of mail today. Keeps me employed and the bill collectors away.”
Annie playfully shook her head at him. “Thank you, Mr. Adams.”
“Quite welcome. Always good to see you, Miss Gallagher.”
He had emphasized the word always . She knew she was blushing, so she bent her head down toward the bristles of her broom. She had not felt so comfortable around a man since . . . well, since her father. “And you, Mr. Adams.”
She wasn’t sure what made her look up just then, but she spotted a man on the street staring at them. A panic rose to her throat, an emotion she didn’t anticipate. Puzzled by how a stranger could unnerve her, she supposed he must know the postman or maybe he was looking for an address.
The postman glanced over his shoulder and then back at her. “Miss Gallagher, do you ever —? I mean . . . Those Irish dances, the maid dances . . . Mrs. Hawkins mentioned that you have been there.”
She struggled to draw her focus back. The stranger moved along. “Aye, I go when I can.”
“I have been to a few myself.”
“Is that so? I thought I saw you once.”
“I was there yesterday, but I didn’t see you.”
“No, I could not go, but perhaps you were there two weeks ago. That was the last time I attended.”
“I missed that one. I’m afraid my work kept me busy.”
They both laughed, as though missing each other at the maids’ dance were a comedy of errors.
“I suppose ’twas just someone who resembled you.” Or someone like that stranger just now? Nay, her imagination wandered.
He stared at his shoes a moment, then smiled at her. “Hope to see you there in the future. Good day.” He turned and hopped down the steps. “‘There’s a sweet garden spot in my memory.’” The postman turned the tune to a whistle and then hurried off down the street.
Clutching the broom in one hand and the letters in the other, Annie entered the house, thinking about how the music had helped to whisk away her sadness. And that song in particular. Memories. If only she could completely separate the good and the bad.
She set the letters down on the silver tray just as Mrs. Hawkins passed her with a basket of
He did not want to move.
7
“M USIC SWEEPS AWAY the cobwebs in your mind,” her da always said. Annie had missed the dance last night because of preparations she and Mrs. Hawkins were making for Aileen’s arrival. Kirsten had been working long hours, so she hadn’t been able to go either. Work came first, but as Annie swept the front steps, she appreciated this memory of her father’s love of music, a memory she chose to keep. She sang the words to one of Da’s favorite songs.
When she got to the chorus, she realized someone was humming along with her. She continued the song to see if he’d keep up.
“Those days in our hearts we will cherish
Contented although we were poor
And the songs that we sung in the days we were young
On the stone outside Dan Murphy’s door.”
The postman joined her on the stoop. “You know the words to that song, do you?”
Annie leaned against her broomstick. “I’m Irish, don’t you know.” Her da used to sing that song to her, but she didn’t feel like saying so.
“True enough. I learned it recently and haven’t gotten it out of my head.”
Annie laughed. “I thought I’d heard you whistling it.”
He tipped the bill of his hat toward her. “Tell me, Miss Gallagher, do you know this shop of Dan Murphy’s that the song mentions?”
“Can’t say as I do, Mr. Adams.”
“Sounds like a jovial place.”
Annie sighed and stared out at the brick and clapboard siding buildings and paved sidewalks. “Aye, it does.”
The man fumbled through his bag. “Got the mail for you.”
“I thought you might.”
He smiled and handed her a stack. “Plenty of mail today. Keeps me employed and the bill collectors away.”
Annie playfully shook her head at him. “Thank you, Mr. Adams.”
“Quite welcome. Always good to see you, Miss Gallagher.”
He had emphasized the word always . She knew she was blushing, so she bent her head down toward the bristles of her broom. She had not felt so comfortable around a man since . . . well, since her father. “And you, Mr. Adams.”
She wasn’t sure what made her look up just then, but she spotted a man on the street staring at them. A panic rose to her throat, an emotion she didn’t anticipate. Puzzled by how a stranger could unnerve her, she supposed he must know the postman or maybe he was looking for an address.
The postman glanced over his shoulder and then back at her. “Miss Gallagher, do you ever —? I mean . . . Those Irish dances, the maid dances . . . Mrs. Hawkins mentioned that you have been there.”
She struggled to draw her focus back. The stranger moved along. “Aye, I go when I can.”
“I have been to a few myself.”
“Is that so? I thought I saw you once.”
“I was there yesterday, but I didn’t see you.”
“No, I could not go, but perhaps you were there two weeks ago. That was the last time I attended.”
“I missed that one. I’m afraid my work kept me busy.”
They both laughed, as though missing each other at the maids’ dance were a comedy of errors.
“I suppose ’twas just someone who resembled you.” Or someone like that stranger just now? Nay, her imagination wandered.
He stared at his shoes a moment, then smiled at her. “Hope to see you there in the future. Good day.” He turned and hopped down the steps. “‘There’s a sweet garden spot in my memory.’” The postman turned the tune to a whistle and then hurried off down the street.
Clutching the broom in one hand and the letters in the other, Annie entered the house, thinking about how the music had helped to whisk away her sadness. And that song in particular. Memories. If only she could completely separate the good and the bad.
She set the letters down on the silver tray just as Mrs. Hawkins passed her with a basket of
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