While the others talked, Marisa sat back and watched the musicians. There were so many women, from all over. She wondered how many of them were sisters, traveling all this way to Nova Scotia together. She looked for family resemblances, saw them everywhere. She felt happy for all these women, and she felt a terrible hollow hurt inside, for Sam.

Anne Neill saw Marisa sitting outside the circle, and she edged over. She had big blue eyes, chestnut brown hair pulled back in a French twist. She wore a peach cable knit sweater over lime green slacks—Marisa thought her bright clothes reflected her spirit. Anne was an innkeeper in every sense of the word, and her hospitality showed even when she wasn't at the inn's desk.

“How are you?” Anne said.

“I'm fine,” Marisa said, trying to smile. “You've done a wonderful job with the ceili.”

“Thank you,” Anne said. “It's the most fun part of the year, but it does keep me busy. It's nice to sit down and listen to the music for a while.”

Marisa nodded. “I've been to so many. In Newport, and on the Eastern Shore of Maryland, lots in Boston . . .”

“Always with your sister?” Anne asked.

Marisa nodded. She didn't want to cry, so she swallowed hard and looked away.

“We're holding a space on the bill for the two of you,” Anne said.

“I don't think,” Marisa began, “we'll be needing it.”

Anne didn't say anything, but her blue eyes were so warm and kind, her smile so steadying, Marisa felt her heart crack. She heard the women on stage playing “Taibreamh.” It was sweet and traditional, and meant “Dreams” in Gaelic, and had always been Sam's favorite lullaby. Tears popped into Marisa's eyes and spilled over, and she thought she might break in two.

“Where's your sister now?” Anne asked gently.

“In Baltimore,” Marisa said. “I'd thought she was in Peru. But she came home last week.”

“And didn't tell you,” Anne said.

Marisa shook her head, picturing Patrick going to the little house on Fish Street, talking to Sam. “A friend of mine found her,” she said.

“Are you and Sam very close?” Anne asked.

“We were.”

“Sisters,” Anne said. “You grow up knowing everything about each other, living in the same house, sharing the same secrets, having the same feelings.”

“That was Sam and I,” Marisa said, suddenly knowing that Anne had to have a sister. “We were exactly like that.”

“When we were young, my sister Emily and I were so close, we did everything together. You and Sam played fiddle, Emily and I did step dancing.”

“At ceilis?” Marisa asked.

Anne nodded. “Until she went to college. And then took a job in Toronto, and then moved to Vancouver. It was never the same after that. I felt so abandoned. How could someone I'd spent every free moment with, loved more than anyone—my best friend in the world—just leave me that way?”