He stared at her for a moment, and a lopsided smile curved his mouth. “You have mud on your face. Quite a bit of it, actually.”
“I do?” Rachel rubbed her fingers over her cheeks.
“Ah, you’re just making it worse,” Conall said, laughing. “Here, let me.”
Carefully, studying her face with all the intensity of an artist surveying his subject, he swept a thumb over her cheekbone and came away with a thick dollop of black mud. “That’s the worst of it.”
“Thank you again,” she said.
“Nah, don’t mention it. But if I could make a suggestion, you might want to wear some proper trainers the next time you go exploring.”
“Trainers?”
“Er, runners. Sneakers. Lace-up running shoes. They won’t come off so easily if you fall into another boghole.”
Rachel raised her hands, laughing. “No worries, I have absolutely no intention of ever climbing that hill again.”
“I hope you don’t mean that. The views from the top are spectacular. I could show you, if you’d like.” He glanced at her feet. “Once you have a proper pair of shoes, that is. And I promise to keep you out of bogholes.”
“Thanks, but as you probably noticed, I’m not much of an outdoors type,” she confessed, her tone rueful. “I’m probably safer sticking to paved roads.”
Conall tipped his head as he looked at her. “If you don’t get off the beaten path, you’ll miss all the best parts.”
Rachel realized he was right. If she hadn’t ventured into that field, they might never have met. She might have taken a nap, instead, and he would have jogged straight past the O’Learys’ B&B and they never would have crossed paths.
“Maybe you’re right,” she conceded with a smile. “Can you recommend somewhere to buy a good pair of trainers?”
Conall grinned. “I can, actually. There’s a shop called Heart and Sole on Drumbarron Road that can sort you out.”
“Great, thanks.” She turned toward the gate and then paused. “Maybe we’ll see each other again.”
“No doubt we will. It’s a tiny wee town, after all.”
Chapter Two
“And this is our weaving floor,” Seamus McDermott said as he ushered Rachel into an enormous warehouse-sized bay, which was part of the McDermott tweed factory. In his early fifties, Seamus had an open, friendly face and blue eyes that crinkled when he laughed. The pride he felt for his company was evident in his voice as he talked about the weaving process to which he had dedicated his life.
The rhythmic noise of the powered looms was familiar to Rachel. At least a dozen industrial looms filled the massive space, separated by floor-to-ceiling open shelves that held hundreds of giant spools of wool thread which could be fed directly into the looms. When she had arrived at the mill that morning, she had been surprised and humbled to realize the owner had set the day aside for her, to personally show her the weaving operation. He could have turned the responsibility over to the factory manager, but she could see in his face how proud he was of McDermott Mills.
“This is amazing,” she said, taking in the noise and colorful bustle. The air smelled like wool and machine oil, and she was surprised at the size of the McDermott factory. Being in such a small village, she had expected something on a much smaller scale.
Rachel was no stranger to the weaving industry; her family owned a textile factory in Chicago that manufactured high-end upholstery material and other home textiles. For as long as she could recall, Rachel had planned to work at the family business, designing fabric for Lakeside Industries. Her uncle, Jack Woods, was on the board of directors for the company, and had promised Rachel a position on the design team once she finished her degree. But McDermott Mills was vastly different than the Chicago-based company. This was no sleek, modern operation, and there were no robotics to be seen. The equipment was old-school and once again Rachel felt as if she had stepped back in time. The noise of the machinery was loud, but the workers seemed competent and happy, greeting them and moving with confidence among the weaving machines and spindles, ducking beneath lengths of thread and occasionally checking the warps.
As they made their way across the factory floor, Rachel admired the patterns being worked on the looms. The nearest one was a rich red fabric, woven with a deeper red windowpane pattern. She had expected to see brown and gray tweeds and plaids that reflected the earthy hues of the Donegal landscape. She had not expected to see such modern—and vibrant—interpretations of the traditional tweed cloth.
“How many weaving machines do you have?” Rachel asked.
“We have thirteen power looms, and can produce upward of five hundred meters of woven fabric a day, and that’s just here in the mill,” Seamus said. “We also send select patterns and yarn to local handweavers, who work out of their homes in the traditional fashion.”
“I’d love to see that.”
Seamus chuckled. “I’ll arrange it. Our drivers collect and deliver the handwoven fabrics each week. If you’d like, you can go along one day and see the process. Come along, and I’ll show you how we process the raw fabric and where we store the finished bolts.”
The day passed so quickly that when Seamus suggested she go home and get some rest, she was surprised to see it was already midafternoon.
“I look forward to having you here, Rachel,” Seamus said as they walked outside. “When I received your letter, you could have knocked me over with a feather. I remember your father and I’m sure he’d be proud that you’ve decided to follow in his footsteps.”
A small knot formed in Rachel’s chest, as it always did when she thought about her father. He’d died suddenly of a heart attack when she was just thirteen years old. Nobody had been prepared, least of all Rachel. One day he’d been there, and the next day he was gone. Rachel hadn’t even had a chance to say goodbye. That had been twelve years ago, and she still missed him. Without conscious thought, her hand went to the necklace she wore beneath her blouse, a Celtic knot on a heavy gold chain. She couldn’t remember a time when her father hadn’t worn the pendant, and she’d begged her mother for it after he had died.
“I actually had no idea he’d spent time here as a young man,” Rachel confessed. “When I was looking for somewhere to do an internship, my uncle mentioned that Dad had spent a summer here working in this factory, so I was anxious to do the same.”
She didn’t add that coming to Ballylahane and literally following in her father’s footsteps seemed a way for her to honor his memory, while fulfilling his dream for her to learn the family business. She hoped he would approve.
“Seems a long time ago,” Seamus mused. “Probably going on thirty years. Of course, I didn’t own the factory then. My father did. I was still a lad, learning the ropes, so to speak.”
“Did you know my father?”
“I did.” Seamus nodded. “He worked for us for a full summer. I thought he might stay here in Ballylahane, but in the end, duty called, and he returned to Chicago.” He gave Rachel a sympathetic smile. “I was sorry to hear of his passing.”