COLM SULLIVAN WAS FEELING his age shortly after his 69th birthday in March 1929. He had led a rather quiet life since the death of John Larkin two years earlier. Colm kept his cottage in Larkin City, whiling away his days with painting and reading. He wrote weekly letters to his youngest son Aidan, a Catholic priest serving in Toronto, Canada, and once a week Colm's oldest son Mick stopped by the cottage to visit with his wife Layla. On occasion, Mick's son Jean-Claude came to see his grandfather with his wife Jennifer or his new best friend Mason Berger. Colm usually rustled up a big pot of Irish stew, which Jean-Claude and Mason seemed to enjoy immensely.

    Colm had not been to the Larkin estate since John's funeral. He was tired of funerals, having just attended the service for Lizbeth Bisiker at Larkin Cemetery. John's mistress was now gone, as if God was running through Colm's generation. He had no reason to go the mansion, although he sometimes felt the desire to see Molly's grave.

    Claude Mondoux came to Larkin City every Saturday for supplies, as he had done for years, and he always came to see Colm. The two usually had lunch together at Colm's cottage, or they sometimes went to Bruno's Café for a hearty meal.

    Claude and Colm were the best of friends, yet they rarely mentioned the past or Molly Larkin since Nigel's funeral. Claude knew Molly still haunted Colm's mind. It was an unspoken knowledge. Colm had been a dutiful and affectionate husband to his wife Maureen until her death twenty years ago, but Molly had always been on the peripheral edges of their marriage. Maureen had been aware of this of course, yet she loved Colm until her dying day.

    COLM'S TWO-STORY COTTAGE was located at the end of Cove Hollow Circle in Larkin City. The cottage was clapboard slate-gray, with two chimneys and a fenced rear garden. The interior was pleasingly decorated in eggshell blues and pale greens, with pale yellow wallpaper and comfortably cushioned window seats.

    One morning in early April Colm set up his easel in the garden behind his cottage. It had rained earlier, and the drops fell heavily on the grass, shrubs and flowers. The sun broke through the clouds, gradually dissipating the liquid bubbles of rain, creating a persistent drip amongst the foliage.

    Colm was painting his image of the garden, a collection of lilac bushes, roses, tulips, peonies, and larkspur. It was a riot of color, and Colm loved nothing better than to convey the sight with splashes on his canvas.

    He stored his finished artwork in a spare room inside the cottage. Aside from portraits he had given to John Larkin and members of his own family, Colm kept all of his paintings, rarely showing them to anyone. It wasn't because he was insecure about his talent - he knew the art was good - but he had no desire to become part of a showcase to promote his work. He painted for the enjoyment of it, not the possible financial windfall it might provide. He was also mindful of the terms of John Larkin's will. Some of the portraits depicted the relationship between him and Molly, and were therefore not suitable for public consumption.

    All finished works were well-organized in wooden crates, carefully separated by large pieces of thick tissue paper. One box held miniatures he had painted over the years: some of Molly, but mostly of his children and grandchildren. Bigger portraits, such as landscapes, lighthouses, gardens and other people were in tall, slender crates.

    Colm continued to work, humming to himself as he deftly stroked the canvas with his paintbrush. He had been painting for the better part of an hour when all of a sudden he felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck. Someone was in the garden, watching him.

    He laid the brush on the easel ledge, setting his paint board face-up on the garden table next to him. He wiped his hands on a small towel tied to one of the belt loops on his trousers.

    "Can I help you?" he asked without turning around.

    Silence greeted him.

   Colm sighed, standing up from his chair. He turned around, expecting to see a vagrant standing in his garden. Instead, the vision before him took his breath away and set his heart pounding with fear.

    It was Molly Larkin, looking like she did the last time he saw her . . . forty-three years ago.

    Colm blinked his eyes, willing the image of her away. But when he opened his eyes, she was still there.

    She was staring at him, her regard expressionless. There seemed to be a white, muted fringe around her figure, as if she were suspended in time. She was hollow-cheeked, pale and thin just as she had been on the last night of her life, but her beauty was still haunting. The hood of her dark green cloak was thrust back and resting on her shoulders. He looked at her hands, which held open the cloak, and he could see they were still bony and blue-veined.

    "What do you want?" Colm cried, grabbing the back of his head with his left hand. "You're dead, for pity's sake. Am I losing my mind? Are you here for a reason?"

    She smiled then, her lips parting slightly. "You are not losing your mind," she said in a cool whisper. "I'm only here because you want me to be here. I waited a long time to hear your voice."

    Colm shook his head. "Nonsense. I don't want you here."

    "Your thoughts brought me here," she said gently. "You've thought about me ever since I fell from the cliffs, haven't you Colm?"

    He turned away from her, trying to convince himself he was having a hallucination, but then the cold caress of her hand smoothed over his shoulder.

    "Don't be scared, Colm. I'm not here to hurt you."

    "But you're dead," he insisted. "And you didn't just fall from the cliffs. You threw yourself onto the rocks at Banshee Point."

    "All true. Please, Colm, look at me."

    He turned again and found her only inches away from him. He was weak at the knees, terrified by her presence.

    Molly smiled again. "That's better. There is nothing to fear, Colm. When I died, you and I weren't really through with one another. Before my last night on earth, you went on with your life while I lived in despair, true, but there was never a proper end for us. My father saw to that, with his almighty interference and righteousness. You were forced into a marriage with my maid to save face for our children."

    Colm found the courage to face her ethereal image, meeting her eyes for the first time. "My marriage to Maureen may have been a convenience at first, but I loved her in the end."

    "Like you loved me?" Molly questioned.

    He was defeated. "No. There was never the love . . . nothing like I felt for you."

    "That's better," she said, gladness in her wraithlike eyes. She glanced at his hair, his hands, and his body. "You've held up remarkably well, Colm. If only my father had left us to our own devices, we could be alive together right now, enjoying our twilight years in peace."

    Every time she spoke, Colm could feel her icy breath on his face. Was it because she was dead, and as eternally cold as the earth? He still felt as light as air, as if he were in the middle of a surreal dream.  "You're dead, so you must be seeing your father in the confines of heaven. Have you talked to him, confronted him with your anger?"

    Her eyes grew dark, almost turning black. "What makes you think I went to heaven?" she countered in a whisper.

    Colm recoiled in horror, perspiration forming on his brow. "You came from hell?" he asked, trepidation in his voice.

    "That's one theory," she said softly, her non-earthly wisp of a voice sending a shiver through his body. She evaded a direct answer to his question. "I'm Catholic, and I killed myself. What other logical conclusion is there to my ultimate fate?"

    Colm's eyesight dimmed and he felt his limbs turn to water. Turning away from her, he found his chair by the easel and sat down.

    His brain rattled: "I'm talking to Molly Larkin, who is fresh from hell to see me . . ."

    COLM WASHED HIS FACE vigorously in the bathroom sink in the cottage. He cupped running water and doused himself over and over again. Finally, he stopped, gripping each side of the sink with his hands. He raised his head slowly and looked at his face in the mirror.

    He was pale, grimly ashen. "My God, I look old," he said aloud. "When did that happen?"

    Shaking his head, he grabbed a white towel from a wooden rack next to the sink. He rubbed his face dry and then ran his fingers through his silver hair.

    He went to the kitchen and put the tea kettle on the stove to boil. He avoided looking out the window into the back garden, instead assembling a small tray with a cup and saucer, a spoon, sliced lemon and a small pitcher of cream. He sliced a few pieces of fresh zucchini loaf, given to him just a few days ago by Claude, setting the small delectables on a white china platter.

    Colm hesitated, and then added a second cup and saucer.

    "I've either drifted into the netherworld, or I did indeed see Molly," he said aloud, pondering his actions. Most of his fear was gone now. "Have I grown dotty in my old age, seeing Molly because I wish to? Or was she really there? Is it my time to go, is she here for me? But I did nothing to warrant a trip to hell."

    He placed the teapot on the tray and left the kitchen, making his way back to the garden. A few yards from his easel was a small, round oak table with little benches encircling it. Colm set the tray down and poured tea into the cups. Then he turned around and looked toward his easel.

    She was there, sitting in the chair he vacated earlier. She looked angry. "What took you so long?" she snapped, her voice still coming in a silvery whisper.

    Colm gestured toward the table. "Tea, my lady?" he asked. Then he thought: "Am I simply going with the train of my disintegrating mind, or is she really sitting there, madder than hell at me?"

    Molly rose from the chair, smoothing down her dark blue skirt and the surrounding cloak. She seemed to glide over the grass, coming to stand in front of him. He felt the coldness in the air again.

    "Tea?" she questioned, her anger gone. "I haven't had a decent cup of tea in ages. I would be delighted."

    They spent the afternoon sitting at the oak table, rarely speaking. They simply gazed at one another, sipping their tea and enjoying the spring sea breezes that washed over them. Colm nibbled on the zucchini loaf, but Molly desired none.

    Shadows fell across the garden as late afternoon approached. Colm cleared off the table, placing the empty tea cups on the tray.

    "I have to go in now," he said casually, looking at her in the quickly fading light.

    She smiled at him. "I know. Don't worry, you'll see me again soon enough."

    MOLLY ONLY CAME WHEN Colm was alone, never appearing when he had other guests. When Mick and Layla were visiting, or when Claude came to lunch on Saturday, Molly seemed to vanish into thin air. It was the same when Jean-Claude and Jennifer stopped by on occasion.

    Molly was only available to Colm, and no one else.

    She did not appear every day. Sometimes a week would pass, and Colm would slip back into his normal routine. Then, out of the blue, Molly would be there, wearing the same gown and cloak, and bringing with her the now familiar glimmer of wintry air. She would watch him paint, or prepare a pot of tea. She never accepted food, but seemed to relish in a hot cup of tea.

    Colm questioned his sanity every time he saw Molly. He was convinced he was slipping in his old age, but she seemed so real to him, so tangible, that he eventually dismissed encroaching senility. He was hesitant to tell anyone about his visions of Molly, certain they would think him stark raving mad. He was growing accustomed to her presence, her whispery voice, and he began to look forward to her visits. They were now like an old married couple, comfortable in familiarity and quietness, the way it should have been from the start.

    Then Claude came to lunch one Saturday in mid-summer, bringing with him two zucchini loaves and two bottles of sangria wine. Colm prepared lamb chops, mint jelly, a big bowl of buttered peas, boiled potatoes and a plentiful board of fresh bread, cheese and sliced apples. Colm had taken to baking his own bread every week, and it was always an offering when Claude came to lunch.

    The two friends ate in the garden, enjoying the mild heat of the summer day. They were halfway through the delicious meal before they began talking.

    "How is everyone at the mansion?" Colm wanted to know.

    "They are well for the most part," Claude replied, dabbing his mouth with one of Colm's white linen napkins. He scooped up another forkful of boiled potato. "Monsieur Roddy is feeling his age like the rest of us. Madame Sascha spends most of her days in the sitting room, knitting and drinking tea."

    "Patrick and Colleen?"

    Claude shrugged. "Those two, I never know what to make of them. Monsieur Patrick is an aucune fiche pour - how do you say? - a cold fish. Madame Colleen is bringing herself into the forefront of the family, let me tell you. In her own subtle yet sweet way she has taken over the running of the household with an absolute finesse."

    "I've heard about her charity work," Colm commented. "She is doing great things for Larkin City."

    "Oui. She spends much time working on her charities. She is to be commended."

    "Does she have any time left for the wee ones, Brian and Rory?"

    "Impossible as it sounds, oui. She reserves each morning for the boys. They play in the garden, they swim at the beach, and they climb to the top of the lighthouse. Madame Colleen wants them to learn how to cook, so some afternoons she brings Brian and Rory to the kitchen to learn simple dishes from myself or Nicholas."

    Colm sipped his wine, replete with the meal. "Interesting. I learned how to cook from necessity, but Colleen sees the need for her sons to know the skill as a matter of course."

    Claude leaned forward, his voice carrying a nattering timbre. "Frankly, I think it is a ruse, my friend."

    "A ruse for what?" Colm was puzzled.

    Claude ripped a piece of bread from the loaf. "I think Madame Colleen fancies Nicholas, and he her. There is an air about them . . . side glances, little smiles . . ."

    "Are they having an affair?" Colm asked, enjoying the gossip.

    "I don't think so. Not yet, anyway. Monsieur Patrick spends so much time at work, it's only natural Madame Colleen might find the attentions of an attractive young man alluring. But she is too much of a lady to do anything about it." He rolled his eyes dramatically. "The secrets of that old household. The stories keep growing each year, with each life tended to in surreptitious fashion."

    "Nicholas feels the same way as Colleen?" Colm was aware of the Larkin secrets, having been part of them since first laying eyes on Molly forty-seven years ago.

    "Oui. He is in love with Madame Colleen, but he is too refined and aware of proprieties to take another man's wife." Claude smiled. "I have a sense about them, though, just like I did with you and Molly. Only this time, there is no boding of tragedy."

    Colm looked down at his plate. The mention of Molly made him think of her recent visits. Their continuing life was a secret, too, mainly because no one would believe him if they knew the truth. Suddenly, he decided to tell his trusted friend about Molly's ghostly return.

    "This may sound insane, or like the mumblings of an old man," Colm began slowly. "But Molly has been coming to me in the last few months. Here in the garden, and inside the cottage."

    Claude tried to hide his surprise. "What do you mean, she has been coming to you? Does she appear in your dreams?"

    Colm pushed his plate away. He trusted Claude implicitly and had no compunction about relating his experiences with Molly.

    "At first I thought my mind was finally slipping," Colm began, watching Claude's face for reaction. "But she was there - rather, here in the garden. She came one morning in early April while I was painting, and she kept coming back. She intimated she was here because I wished it, and that she came from hell because she killed herself. She looked the same - she wears the same clothes she had on the night she threw herself from the cliffs at Banshee Point."

    Claude was alarmed by Colm's ruminations, but he kept his voice even. "And what does Mademoiselle Mary Margaret have to say for herself?"

    "She said when she died we weren't really through with one another," Colm replied seriously. "By that I assume she has unfinished business with me. You hear about this sort of thing with ghost stories all the time, but I never thought it to be true, neither with ghosts nor the part about unfinished business. She regrets the events in our relationship, blaming John for most of them. She said if John had left us alone, we could be together now, old and enjoying our twilight years."

    "If she's from hell, is it not the devil speaking to you?" Claude blurted out before he could stop himself.

    Colm shook his head. "No. She's not on an evil mission, Claude. Don't ask me how I know this; I just do. I have this crazy idea she wants me to choose between heaven and hell when my time comes. In order to be with her, I would have to choose hell. I don't think I can do that, even to be with her in eternity."

    Claude was speechless. He realized he had to select his words carefully because Colm was talking about what he perceived as a real encounter with Molly. Was it real, or a figment of Colm's aging and wishful imagination? "Are you sure Molly isn't just in your dreams, my friend? Or are you truly seeing her?" Claude asked gently.

    "I'm seeing her, Claude," Colm insisted. "She's no dream. I see her as I'm seeing you now. However, every time she comes around I always feel a wall of cold air, in her touch and with her breath."

    Claude drained his wine glass. He accepted Colm was convinced of Molly's presence, but in reality . . .

    He saw the plea in Colm's eyes, the desire to be validated. Claude knew and trusted Colm like a brother; he knew the man would never consciously lie to him. But was he perhaps slipping mentally, losing his mind?

    Claude decided to take the safe route. "Do her appearances frighten you?"

   Colm seemed relieved, assuming Claude believed him. "Seeing her shocks me, and I was frightened at first, but I am no longer made uneasy by her. Despite the reason she gave me for being here, I still wonder why she is coming around now. Why wait all of these years? Does it mean I'm getting ready to die, that she's come to help me make a choice?"

    "She said she was from hell," Claude pointed out again. "That is not the place for you."

    "My biggest sin was with Molly," Colm said softly. "You know that better than anyone."

    "Your so-called sin with her is not enough to send you to the burning damnation of hell," Claude said impatiently. "You did right in the end. You married Madame Maureen and provided a home for Mick and Johnny. You won't go to hell for that."

    Colm nodded. "I suppose you're right. So if I want to be with Molly, I have to choose hell rather than find my natural way."

    "I don't believe we are having this conversation," Claude thought to himself. Aloud, he said: "Well, what will you do?"

    Colm stared at Claude. "I don't know, honestly. I just don't know for sure. Not right now. Maybe when the time comes I'll get it right."

    "Will you continue to talk to her every day?" Claude asked, desperately concerned  that his friend was slipping away from him.

    "What else can I do?" Colm was rueful. "It's not like I can ignore her, you know. I could never ignore her, even in life."

    The afternoon waned as Claude listened to Colm talk about Molly, his apprehension increasing with each passing minute. He did not have the heart to tell Colm he was dangerously close to dementia or senility. The memories of Molly made Colm seem almost euphoric, and Claude could not wrest that away from him.

    Near four o'clock, Claude seized on a lull in the conversation and rose from the garden table. It had been one of the saddest afternoons of his life, and he felt as if he had lost a little piece of his friend in the process.

    "I need to get back to the mansion," Claude said as he gazed down at Colm. "We'll do this again next Saturday, oui?"

    Colm glanced up at his friend. "Oui, Claude. We have a standing date, don't we?"

    Claude saw the distance in Colm's eyes, the lack of focus. Before he could stop to think about what he was saying, Claude joked. "Say bonjour to Mademoiselle Mary Margaret for me."

    Colm brightened. "Yes, I will. She always liked you."

    Claude walked across the garden until he reached the side gate. He turned to look at Colm once more, the sight in front of his eyes stopping him in his tracks.

    Colm was still seated at the garden table, but now there was another figure present. Claude saw a diaphanous image of Molly, looking just like she had before her death. She was standing behind Colm's chair. Claude watched as she reached down and caressed Colm on the shoulders with her fingertips.

    Claude blinked his eyes several times, certain he was befuddled after three glasses of sangria. But when he looked again, he witnessed Colm leaning back and gazing up at Molly with a beatific smile on his face.

    Claude turned and left the garden, anxious to remove himself from the dreamlike tableau.

    He drove back to the mansion slowly, one thought uppermost in his mind. "Colm isn't crazy, he isn't seeing things. Mademoiselle Molly is actually with him, I saw her with my own eyes. She is real, in this moment."

    Then a realization struck Claude, collaborating Colm's notion. "But she is here for his soul. She wants him to choose hell over heaven to be with her in eternity . . ."