All around the cemetery, red and white flowers, lovingly placed by family members and friends, created the familiar polka-dot holiday pattern Cassandra expected to see. The delicate purple irises with leaves the color of springtime looked out of place against the fresh snow and the gray speckled granite of her grandmother’s tombstone as they approached. The yellow irises in the bouquet’s center were reminiscent of a sunny summer day.
Her grandfather quickened his pace to get to the grave first. He placed a bouquet of blood red roses, baby’s breath, and pine branches in the vase attached to her tombstone. With trembling hands, he retrieved a note hidden among the irises resting there on the ground. As his eyes moved over the writing, he knelt beside the grave muttering in Gaelic. Cassandra recognized a few words, but he was speaking so softly she couldn’t understand much. When he finished, he made the sign of the cross, kissed his fingertips, and laid them over his wife’s name. The note was still in his other hand. He looked at it again. Before shoving it into his coat pocket, he crushed it with all the force his arthritic fingers could muster.
Waving her hand away, he pulled himself up using the tombstone instead. Dennis Wilde was losing the battle against old age, but not today and not in front of his granddaughter.
“Grandad, are you okay? Do you know who left these flowers on Nan’s grave? It’s an odd choice for winter.”
“Leave it be, Cass.”
He looked from the flowers to the trash barrel near a set of benches. He considered throwing them away. At last, he closed his eyes and shook his head.
“Your Nan loved irises. The yellow ones grow wild along the riverbanks and in the marshes during the summer in Ireland. He had no right, but I can’t take them away from her again.”
Without another word, he turned and trudged back to the car. Cassandra had so many questions, but she knew not to ask them now. If he told her anything, it would be in his own good time. She knelt and said a quick prayer while resting her forehead against the cold granite. Before getting up, she snapped a quick photo of the unwelcome bouquet.
They didn’t speak during the car ride back to his house. Cassandra followed him inside and insisted on making his lunch before heading back to work. She heard the door to the liquor cabinet open as she was leaving.
***
Dennis poured two fingers of Jameson in a glass and downed it. The devil himself had come to Boston to expose the secrets Mae took to her grave. And there was nothing he could do about it.
***
This time last year, Cassandra and her family gathered around her grandmother’s bedside to say their final goodbyes. She and her grandmother were always close. It was as if she lost a little piece of herself that day. She could only imagine how much her mother and grandad were suffering. After the barrage of casseroles and condolence visits reached its expiration date, Cassandra and her mom alternated days checking in on him. She’d seen him in all stages of grief, but today was the first time she ever saw him afraid of something or someone.
Who left those flowers on her grandmother’s grave, and why was her grandfather so upset? What was he keeping from her?
***
“I’m sorry I’m late, mom. The afternoon got away from me. Where’s granddad?”
“He said he was too tired. I offered to make up the guest room for him, but you know your grandfather. Your dad’s dropping dinner off now.”
“But dad’s car is here.”
“He walked over. Da will probably want him to have a whiskey or two – a toast to Mam. I sent enough food for both, so Da won’t have to eat alone.”
Cassandra showed her mother the photo of the irises and shared her grandfather’s odd response.
“I saw the irises when I went this afternoon. I thought maybe you and Da left them and the roses. If it wasn’t him, I don’t know who did it, Cass, or why it upset him. Tell me exactly what he said, again.”
Delia listened as Cassandra repeated the story.
“Mam used to tell me stories about the yellow irises growing wild in Ireland. She even showed me a few pictures from a book. Irises were always her favorites. Da never seemed to like them much. You can get the purple ones year-round at any florist, but the yellow ones only bloom in the summer. Someone went to a lot of trouble to grow them out of season. They’d need a greenhouse for that. None of Mam’s friends have one.”
“I’m worried about grandad. Whatever is upsetting him likely happened in Ireland before they emigrated from Galway.”
“I was born a few months after they arrived in Boston. They never talked about friends or family in Ireland; only how beautiful it was. Mam used to sing me songs in Gaelic. I learned a fair bit of the language from her and Da. I know she missed it, but I don’t remember them talking about ever going back.”
Her voice trailed off.
“What else mom?”
Your dad and I wanted to go to Ireland on our honeymoon, but Da talked us out of it. He and Mam gifted us a trip to Hawaii instead.”
“Doesn’t that seem strange to you?”
“I never gave it a thought, until now. Today was tough for Da. Let’s give him some time before we start asking questions.”
“I promise I won’t bring it up.”
Delia’s cell phone pinged.
“That’s your dad. He’s eating with Da and will spend the night, so I guess it’s just you and me.”
***
Michael Halloran inspected the flowers in his greenhouse. It wasn’t easy to convince summer flowers to bloom in winter, but with enough effort and an extensive outlay of cash, his yellow irises were almost as beautiful as the ones along the River Clare in Galway.
That morning, he watched from a distance as they stood at her grave. It was the first anniversary; he knew Dennis would come. His granddaughter Cassandra was with him. He was hoping it would be the daughter, Delia. He might have confronted them at Mae’s grave just to see the look on Dennis’ face when fifty years of lies came crashing down.
Delia never met the nice old man from Ireland who bought the most expensive house her husband ever sold, but he’d been watching her and her daughter, Cassandra, waiting for the right moment to have his revenge. To take back what was rightfully his.
***
The man was medium height with a sturdy build. Cassandra watched him place another bouquet of irises in the snow. This time, they were all yellow. He turned his head as she approached.
He had the slightly crooked nose and scars of a boxer. Sunglasses shielded his eyes from the glare of the sun bouncing off the snow. Silvery hair peeked out from under his tweed flat cap. He was wearing a coal black cashmere coat with a black, green, and white plaid scarf. The shine of his shoes evident even in winter weather.
“Hello, did you know my grandmother?”
“I knew both your grandparents a long time ago in Ireland. “Michael Halloran,” he said extending his hand. Despite his impeccably manicured nails, his hands betrayed his past.
“I don’t recall either of them ever mentioning your name.”
“We met in Belfast during the Troubles. I had another name back then. We shared certain beliefs.”
“My grandparents are from Galway. I think you must be mistaken.”
He held out a photograph of three people.
“We’ve changed a fair bit since this was taken.”
He was standing in the middle with one arm around her grandfather and another around her grandmother who gazed adoringly up at him. They seemed more than friends.
“I don’t understand,” she said.
“We did certain things back then to fund our cause that were lucrative, but not exactly legal. Your grandfather didn’t have the stomach for it. He convinced Mae to leave me and run away with him.”
“What things?”
“That would be a question for your Grandfather. I’m sure he hasn’t forgotten.”
“What are you doing here at my Grandmother’s grave after all these years?
“I was certainly upset to lose my closest friend and the woman I planned to marry. I tried to find them, but let’s just say life got in the way. Last year, a former associate read Mae’s obituary in The Boston Globe and contacted me. I was curious, so I hired someone to do a little research. They sent a picture of your grandfather with you and your mother, Delia. When I saw it, I knew I had to come over from Ireland and pay my respects. The eyes don’t lie.”
He removed his sunglasses. Cassandra gasped. This stranger, Michael Halloran, possessed the same unmistakably rare bottle green eyes as her mother. The same eyes Cassandra saw when she looked in the mirror.