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Síle is a stylish citizen of the new Dublin, a veteran flight attendant who’s traveled the world. Jude is a twenty-five-year-old archivist, stubbornly attached to the tiny town of Ireland, Ontario, in which she was born and raised. On her first plane trip, Jude’s and Síle’s worlds touch and snag at Heathrow Airport. In the course of the next year, their lives, and those of their friends and families, will be drawn into a new, shaky orbit.
This sparkling, lively story explores age-old questions: Does where you live matter more than who you live with? What would you give up for love, and would you be a fool to do so?
Jael, she happened to know, would be entirely gray by now if it weren't for expensive monthly applications of Malaysian Cherry. In her charcoal pinstriped jacket she looked so ... worldly, was that the word? Her friend had dressed so much more wildly in the days when Síle had first known her, as a perpetual student living off cheques from her parents' stud farm. Of course, Jael had been a lesbian back then, all battered leather and ties from Oxfam. That was the early nineties, before the boom
weeks hadn't felt quick, but more like a sojourn in hell. She couldn't imagine how they'd felt to her mother. When Jude hadn't been sitting in various London, Ontario, waiting rooms, she'd continued going to work, in a zombielike way. She'd presided over a board meeting in which Jim McVaddy (untiring, at eighty-two) mentioned that he might have thought twice about donating the collection that three generations of hard bargainers had built up in the McVaddy barn if he'd known that local
asked it without much hope. "Would that be for leftover squash, or a real dinner?" "If you need a burger that much—" "Just messing with you," he told her, his grin showing his uneven teeth. He put his can down on some brown files. Jude snatched it up. "Those are the Krebniz family letters; I only have them on loan." "They're kinda smeary already," he said, flicking through them. "Those are tear stains," she told him, seizing the files. "None of the three brothers ever saw each other again."
first time." As the virgin said to the bishop, Síle thought automatically. "Your first time seeing..." The narrow head shook furiously. "I didn't see him die; I must have been reading the magazine or longing for a smoke. No, I just mean it was my first time flying." "Ah, you creature! What a thing to happen to you." Tears were striping Jude's jaw, dropping onto her jacket, onto the streaky floor of the baggage hall. She averted her face. "Well, I made a right hames of that," said Síle
blue mug. She thought even Síle would call this a good cup of coffee. She was quite enjoying the energy of the surging, chattering shoppers. She shut her eyes and pictured the building in 1883, full of liquored-up, brawling farmers. At the next table, below a spindly coffee tree in a pot, a young woman with jaw-length brown hair was deep in conversation with a boy of six or seven. Her son, he had to be, he had the same dark-eyed charm; she must have had him very young, thought Jude, watching out