Devil's Shore Read Online Free Page A

in my head and the tingling in my extremities, almost as if my body were an overcharged battery that needed to be drained by exercise. Without my daily run, my powers were even more uncontrollable. As it was, in the past three weeks Declan replaced two windows and about ten burst lightbulbs.
    Late September and the air was still hot, still balmy, tinged with salt from the nearby shore. My oldest, Brendan, informed me this morning we were in the midst of an Indian summer, whatever the hell that was. Brendan, like his father, now reveled in all things American. Indian summer. Well, whatever it was, the endless humidity made me yearn for a cold Irish mist.
    But I mustn’t be negative. This morning I’d endured yet another lecture from Declan about how my bad attitude would affect the boys. Sayville was a wonderful place, a paradise really, Declan said. And besides, we were stuck here for another two years so I might as well “suck it up,” yet another Americanism Declan picked up at the office. What he left unsaid was that after the last two years, I owed him.
    So with classic rock blasting in my ears, I ran through the quiet streets of Sayville, my new shapely legs tearing past the luxury sedans and manicured lawns, racing past my elegant exile.
    An hour later, my legs like jelly, I walked into the Sayville Coffee Shop on Main Street and ordered an iced frappachino. I do have to give it to the Yanks, they make nice coffee. As I waited for my coffee, I noticed a flyer by the cash register. Sayville Yoga Center , it said.
    I picked it up and read the class schedule. Yoga classes. Probably full of manicured mammies killing time while the cleaning ladies did all the housework. God, what a nightmare. Was this really my life?
    I was putting the flyer back, when a woman behind me said, “You should check it out. The first class is free.”
    “Ah, no. Not for me.”
    The woman, a tall willowy blonde, mid-thirties I’d say, smiled, a Madonna-like beatific smile. She touched my arm, and a slight buzz of electricity emanated from her hand. “I think it would be good for you. It’s very calming, comforting. My next class is in a half hour. Please join me, the studio is only down the street.”
    I deliberately avoided the toxic mammies at the playground. Their harsh Long Island voices set my teeth on edge. And I had to hear from at least half of them about their great-great-grandmothers from Mayo or some other Godforsaken culchie place. So they have a drop of Irish blood flowing through their American veins. What did they want from me, a medal? They made me feel like an alien, a freak, and I avoided them as much as I could.
    But this woman was calm. Soothing. Her voice soft, melodious even. Before I knew it, I heard myself saying, “All right. Why not?”
    She rewarded me with another smile. “Great. I have a feeling you’ll love it.”
    The yoga studio was on the first floor of a large clapboard house painted a robin’s egg blue. Wooden steps adorned with pots of black and yellow pansies led to a small covered porch with two white deck chairs covered with soft pillows.
    The woman, Claire, unlocked and opened the door. A wall of cool air greeted us. Claire kicked off her shoes. I struggled to take off my sweaty trainers but Claire didn’t seem to notice as she glided around the studio, lighting candles, arranging pillows. She went into a back room and soon soft chanting music wafted from it.
    The studio, lit only by the candles and the diffuse sunlight that made it through the studio’s colored stained glass windows, felt like a chapel. Claire took my coffee cup from me and handed me a purple rubber mat. Her voice low, as if she were in a church, she said, “The others will be here in a few minutes. We usually start with meditation. Why don’t you sit on the mat and reflect on what you hope to achieve in the class?”
    I must have looked confused, so Claire smiled. “Sit quietly, Orla, and we’ll start from there.”
    I