For a long time, Margaret had longed to return to Ireland to see the place where her ancestors lived. To her, everything about Ireland was more charming than America, and when she finally made her way there, she stayed much longer than originally planned. A month there did nothing to diminish her appetite for her family’s homeland.
She stayed first in Liston, then traveled on to Dingle, where her ancestors had boarded boats bound for America centuries before. She bicycled to scenic spots and ancient churches, stopping to talk to almost anyone she met along the way. The beauty of the dramatic cliff-lined beaches, with shawled women walking enormous gray wolfhounds on long leather leashes, struck a chord of primeval longing Margaret felt in her blood.
Everywhere was the smell of peat moss burning. That aroma was so specific to this land and evoked visions of cozy rooms with warm fireplaces. She understood why that scent brought tears to the eyes of her transplanted Irish friends in New York—to them, it smelled of home. She mailed swaths of it back to her apartment. She would share most of it, but she wanted to keep some for herself to burn when she wanted to remember this beautiful land.
She found that the humblest things, like bread and butter, were far more delicious in Ireland than at home. The people took great pleasure in their unpretentious lives; the land, rock walls, and roads had character. She loved hearing the hooves of donkeys on the stone streets and the tinkling bells on the carts they pulled. Margaret adored how these villagers accepted people as they were—you could sit down and have a conversation with anyone.
She spent her last week at a little house that belonged to a welcoming couple. She stayed at their inn for several nights, and they were so charmed with Margaret they insisted she stay at their private retreat on a tiny island. It was only a short row away, and the house overlooked a sandy beach with an ocean of crystal-clear water in front. Behind were the cliffs and shores of Dingle. It was clean as a whistle and positively enchanting. At low tide, she gathered shells to add to her collection inside the little cottage that sat alone on a tiny island.
Margaret wanted to bring Michael to this little house when she came to Europe at the end of the month. On the trip from New York to Ireland, Margaret had reflected on her relationships with Bill and Michael. She was tired of Bill’s philandering and drinking, although she still loved him. His divorce was still dragging on, but she had adjusted to her life as it was. She no longer wanted to marry him, and her physical attraction to him was slowly dying. Before she left for Ireland, he had confessed with a laugh that he could never change his adolescent approach to romance. Maybe that’s why he was attracted to her. She, too, was unable to grow up. Each summer they would return to Maine and become a temporary family. Together they created the eternal prom he wished life could be—a place where they could dance the night away on his ballroom under the stars and relive the summers of their youths in Maine.
On her way to Ireland, Margaret realized that even if she was intellectually ready to leave adolescence behind, she had no idea how to do it. If she calmed her racing mind, then perhaps she could analyze her life. Maybe maturity was the ability to calm your mind and emotions—an ability to discard the love you have for someone like Bill simply because you knew it was going to lead nowhere. Was that what growing up was? Choosing what you didn’t want to do instead of where your heart leads you?
Margaret decided she would not invest any more of her emotional energy into a romantic relationship with Bill. She loved Michael more than anyone else. Margaret hoped she could grow up enough for Michael to feel the same. Michael would never be faithful, but Margaret knew she could count on Michael to be there if she needed her. She knew the person behind the extravagant ego and had witnessed the failings of her fragile self-confidence. It was Michael who wrote letters full of love and encouragement to her and whose phone calls she hoped for at the end of the day. Michael was the one who draped warm furs over Margaret when it was cold. When Michael came home from the road, Margaret welcomed her with a cup of peppermint tea. It was her life with Michael that was secreted into her books time and again. They had cobbled their lives together the best they could, and it was enough to make Margaret happy.
Michael would be attending the royal wedding of Princess Elizabeth and Prince Philip Mountbatten and was then scheduled to perform at Wigmore Hall in London. Margaret thought that a relaxing stay in Ireland would be beneficial to Michael, who continued to tire easily. This small cottage near Dingle would be the perfect place for Michael to come rest.
In her letters, Margaret described the place and her days of traveling through Ireland to Michael. She wrote using the coded language Michael insisted upon. At times, they attached emotions they had for each other to their dogs or had imaginary characters speak for them in their letters. Michael’s was Rabbit and Margaret, Bunny. Michael’s dog, Cricket, might speak for her, telling Margaret how much she was missed and loved. If their letters were ever discovered, they would read like nonsense, yet the two women knew the veiled meaning of every word. When Margaret wrote, she would touch the gold wishbone necklace Michael had given her. She sometimes doubted how much Michael loved her. At those times, she needed Michael to reassure her, which she often did. However, at other times, Margaret’s neediness irritated Michael. She wanted Margaret to stand on her own two feet instead of clinging to her. Those arguments could last for days. The wishbone necklace had been Michael’s way of silently reassuring Margaret. All she had to do was touch it to remember that someone did love her very much.
*
Over the last year, Michael had been frequently absent from their apartments, still busy touring with her show. Diana had begun using her mother’s apartment as a home base when she took on the lead role in the traveling production of The Philadelphia Story. Again, Margaret cared for their dogs while they were away, sending a stream of letters that included updates from their dogs Mocha and Cricket. Smoke had died two years earlier, but the letters invariably reported on Crispian’s bad behavior toward the smaller dogs.