Excerpt from The Love Object by Edna O'Brien, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

"Nonsense . . . nonsense," a voice that is her own shouts, insisting that islanders would not rent a sailing boat on such a day. She runs from room to room, closing doors and windows against a gale that rampages like a beast. Suddenly there is a knock, and putting on a semblance of composure, she runs to open the door, only to find that there is no one there. She stares out in the pitch- black and believes the keening wind to be a messenger of death.

The hours drag on, and in those hours she knows every shade of doubt, of rallying, of terror, and eventually of despair. She remembers a million things, moments of her son's childhood, his wanting to pluck his long curved eyelashes and give them to her, a little painted xylophone he had had, stamps that he collected and displayed so beautifully under single folds of yellow transparent paper. She sees Penny tall and stalklike in her tight jeans and pink T?shirt with pearl droplets stitched to the front, her eyes flashing, dancing on his every whim.

At seven she sets out for a restaurant, believing that by doing so she will hasten their return. A note of optimism grips her. They will be back, and what is more, they will be famished. The restaurant is empty, so that she has a choice of tables. She chooses one near the window and looks out over the sea, which is no longer churning but is gray and scowling in the aftermath of the storm. In fact, she realizes that she cannot look at the sea, so she quickly changes tables. The owner and his daughter, who are laying out other tables, give each other a shrug. She is not welcome. For one thing, she has come too early, and for another she is being stroppy about tables. She orders a bottle of the best wine. The daughter brings it with a dish of green olives. At moments, hearing footsteps, Eileen half rises to welcome Mark and Penny, but those who enter are other waiters arriving for work, removing jackets as they cross the floor. Soon the restaurant takes on a festive appearance. The daughter folds the napkins into shapes that look like fezzes and she carries them on a tray, along with vases each containing a single rose. The guitar music is much too harsh, and Eileen asks for it to be put lower, but her request is ignored. Yes, she does admit that Penny and Mark are thoughtless to have stayed out so long and not to be back for pre-dinner drinks, yet she will not scold them, she will make a big fuss over them. She has already asked if there is lobster and has asked for three portions to be put aside. "But suppose they don't come," she asks aloud, as if addressing another person. The daughter, who decidedly does not like her, hears this and mutters something to her father. Eileen now asks herself irrational questions, such as if they have not arrived by eight, or at the latest by eight thirty, should she eat, and if they do not arrive at all, will she be obliged to pay for the lobsters? She opens her purse and looks at the mauve-tinted checks, flicking her finger along each one, wondering if she has enough money to defray the expenses that most certainly will be hers.

No sooner has she finished the first glass of wine than the tears start up and the owner, who until then has disliked her, comes over to the table to inquire what is the matter.

"Morto," she says as she looks up at him, and now he becomes solicitous and asks her in broken English to explain to him what the matter is.

"Il mare," she says, and he nods and describes the fury of the storm by puffing out his cheeks and making awesome gulping sounds. Upon hearing her story, he pushes away the wine bottle and tells his daughter, Aurora, to bring cognac. Eileen realizes that it must be grave indeed, because of his ordering the cognac. He recalls a drowning in their little village, the grief and horror, the darkness that descended, and although she cannot understand everything that he is saying, she gets the gist of it and wrings her hands in terror. He crosses to the counter and quickly dials the phone, all the time looking in her direction in case she does an injury to herself. Then as soon as the phone is picked up at the other end, he turns away and talks hurriedly, leaving her to assume the worst. He comes back proudly twirling his mustache and in halting English tells her that no news of a sailing accident has been reported to the lifeboat people.

Excerpted from The Love Object by Edna O'Brien. Copyright © 2015 by Edna O'Brien. Reprinted with permission of Little, Brown and Company.