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The nights of kneeling by Mary's hospital bed, praying desperately for my daughter's life and then feeling her fingers touch my hair and her whispered "Mamma?".

I reached down with my left hand and touched the other book where it snuggled in another side pocket. I thought of another old saying I had always loved. "Weeping may endure for a night but joy comes in the morning." My night had been very long indeed, but my days had more than made up for them.

I relaxed, folding my hands in my lap. I looked at Mike again. Not that I needed a picture to keep his face in my mind. I closed my eyes, holding him before me, as handsome and as strong and loving as he had always been.

Those French doors must have opened somehow. I could feel a gentle breeze on my face. Well, Lisa was going to have a fit, but I wasn't going to get up and close them. It just felt too nice. I could hear the distant roar of the ocean. "Silly old woman," I thought to myself, "The sea is a hundred miles from here." But the rhythm was soothing and I felt myself being lulled to sleep.

My eyes struggled to open, then gave up and stayed closed. Now this was a fine-how-do-you-do. I didn't recall having done the "wake up and not know where I was or what the heck happened" since the fight with Thorfinn. Maybe I was just overdue after 65 years.

It did feel nice, wherever I was. The sun was warm on my face, even through my eyelids. I had never tired of reveling in the sensation of feeling the sun. On Mike's and my honeymoon I had ended up with a case of sunburn that made me look like a lobster. Poor Mike had spent the whole trip home from Bermuda slathering me in Aloe and scolding me for not respecting the sun.

The breeze felt wonderful too. I could feel my hair blowing away from my face. The scent was of fresh green grass with just a tiny hint of salt air. Speaking of grass, I seemed to be sitting on a thick carpet of it. I ran my fingers through the blades. There was still a faint film of dew on them, it must be early morning.

I was almost tempted enough by the feeling of my surroundings to open my eyes now. But I didn't. I felt so calm and relaxed that I thought nothing could convince me to stir. Then...

"Bridget!" A deep male voice called "Get up me lass. Are ye going to sit there a wastin' the morning away? I thought I had been teaching you better than that!"

I bolted to my feet, my eyes wide open. The figure of a burly man stood a few yards away. His eyes twinkled with the laughter he had always been filled with.


"Well, Mary, at least she doesn't seem to be addled. At least not any more than she always was."

"Cease your blathering, Michael O'Brien," a woman's voice answered, as firm as she had always been. I smothered a sudden urge to giggle as I looked from my towering father to my petite and commanding mother. She was waggling her finger under his nose, as I had seen a thousand times before. She sniffed and turned towards me, her eyes betraying her suppressed mirth. Then they both held their arms out to me. Three steps and I was wrapped in my parents' embrace.

I finally managed to regain my voice as I looked at them both. "How... what... I mean... Mother, Father... what are you doing here?"

"Getting acquainted with your in-laws lass." My father replied. I felt two more sets of arms around me. I twisted and saw Pat and Mike. "And mighty good people they are," my father continued, "Even if the man cheats at arm-wrestling," he pretended to grumble.

"Ach, ye loon," my mother scolded again. "Be paying him no mind, Michael Gibson. He never could take being beaten at that."

Mike laughed merrily. "As I recall, I grumbled worse than that when he beat me."

Pat rolled her eyes and poked him in the ribs. "Indeed. The two of you are cut from the same cloth." She paused, and in a voice that summed up the feelings of all women towards their mates, she added "MEN!"

I marveled at the foursome.

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