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said. Mary Helen watched Patsy’s gray head disappear as the woman elbowed her way toward the front door.
    The nun stretched to see what was going on, but the crowd was too dense. Besides, Eileen and she had deliberately sat far enough away from the entrance so that they couldn’t hear the drums. Both of them had had enough of the I Believe Team to last a lifetime.
    â€œWe meet again.”
    Mary Helen looked up. It was Oonagh Cox. She wore a lovely sky-blue silk dress that highlighted her eyes and a large diamond lavaliere with matching earrings.
    At first glance, it would have been difficult to recognize the wet, angry woman of this afternoon. It was as if she had been transformed.
    Oonagh smiled apologetically. “I’m glad I ran into you,” she said. “I hope my little fit at Moran’s didn’t drive you away.” Her cheeks reddened. “It is just that I see Willie Ward and I rear up. I should know better than to let him bother me.”
    â€œNot at all,” Eileen said, patting an empty chair next to her. “Do you want to join us?”
    Oonagh appeared as if she might, but the band started up again and a tall, handsome, young man tapped her on the shoulder. “May I have this dance, Mam?” he said.
    â€œMy son, Dermot,” Oonagh introduced him, then linked her arm through his. “If you’ll excuse us.”
    â€œSweet,” Eileen said, watching the pair waltz away in a swirl of sky blue.
    A sudden roar from the bar area caught Mary Helen’s attention. She thought it had come from a tall sinewy man with straight black hair slicked back to reach his collar. He was noseto nose with Owen Lynch, and neither man appeared to be giving an inch.
    â€œEnough, me arse!” she heard the tall man shout. She was about to ask Eileen if she knew who he was, when Paul Glynn and his redheaded wife danced over to them.
    â€œHow’re ye keeping?” Paul asked cheerfully.
    â€œGrand!” Eileen answered for the two of them.
    Paul looked around. “It’s a beautiful party now, isn’t it?” he said.
    Mary Helen nodded, waiting for her opportunity to ask about the man with the slicked-back hair, but when she looked up, he was gone, and Owen Lynch was making his way to the bandstand.
    Tapping the microphone, Owen called for attention. Amazingly, the crowd quieted down as the chairman once again introduced the Oyster Queen, Tara O’Dea, in her green taffeta dress and rhinestone tiara.
    Tara smiled shyly as Owen handed her a bouquet of deep red roses. The applause rose to a roar, and the friars picked up their barrels for one final metallic drum roll. Zoë O’Dea stood below the stage, unself-consciously wiping tears from her cheeks.
    Sister Mary Helen looked around the crowded tent. Where was Willie Ward? she wondered. Shouldn’t he be here to interview people for his column? It looked as if everyone in the village was present except Willie and the shrouded figure of Mr. Death. Maybe that was where Willie had gone, to interview Mr. Death.
    Sister Mary Helen was glad to see her friend yawn, at last. “Tired?” she asked, trying not to sound too hopeful. Party or no party, she could barely keep her own eyes open, although she was making a brave try at it, not wanting to spoil Eileen’s fun.
    â€œExhausted,” Eileen admitted. “All that fresh air.” She studiedMary Helen’s face. “Oh, my!” she said. “You’re the color of death warmed over. I forgot about jet lag. We ought to both be in bed. Tomorrow is another day.”
    â€œWhat’s the event tomorrow?” Mary Helen asked, hoping it started late.
    Eileen rummaged in her pocketbook and dug out a bright yellow brochure. “An art and photo exhibit at the school hall,” she read, “from noon to five. And then, in the evening, a game of whist at Rafferty’s Rest in Kilcalgan. That’s the next village,”