As I shook the reins of the pony and pointed her toward the road back to Kilcross, I tried not to think beyond this minute. I couldn’t begin to picture the future. It was as if time was standing still. As the cottage came into sight, the evening sun was slanting over the fields, turning them from green to purple to gold, and the beauty of it made me hold my breath. I’d been born in the most beautiful place in the world, but it was not enough to hold me. I realized then that I would soon have to leave again. America had changed me too much, and it was calling me back.

* * *

Dom had been in New York for over a month when I got a letter from him. “Two letters from America,” the postman said, “and on the same day, so. I’ve never seen the likes of it.” He held one out. “This one’s for yourself, darlin’.” I snatched it from him before Ma could get her clutches on it and ran up the back field to Delia’s stones to read it. I tore open the envelope and pulled out the flimsy pages. Dom sounded in good form. The crossing had gone smoothly, and he was back at his old digs in New York. He had a job in the construction business and was learning everything he could. He’d told me his dream was to one day build tall buildings and own them. I smiled. He would do it too, I knew; he had a good head on his shoulders and the self-confidence to see it through.

“Come to New York soon” was how he ended the letter, “I miss you.” And he’d signed it “Love, Dom.”

My heart skipped a beat. I put the letter in my pocket and gazed out at the sea, picturing us together in New York. Dear, sweet Dom. I would feel safe with him. But a small voice whispered in my ear: Is feeling safe all you really want, Nora? I didn’t know the answer.

I was in a dreamy state when I went back into the cottage, but as soon as I caught the look on Ma’s face, I was jolted back to reality. She shoved an envelope into my hands and stood, arms folded,

Sighing, I sat down and studied the return address on the envelope. It was addressed to Da and it was from Delia! What on earth was she writing to Da about? Before I could open it, Ma pointed at it.

“’Twas sent in February,” she said.

“And addressed to Da! Did he read it?”

“But it went astray in the post,” she went on, ignoring my question, “and just arrived today.