by Nora Roberts
Once again, Finola waved it away as she went back inside. Now a bottle of wine stood on the counter.
“Enjoy the first evening of many.” She set keys beside the wine.
“You can bet we will,” Marco told her. “Why don’t I open this, and you can join us in a glass?”
“Aren’t you the sweet one, and I thank you. But I have to get on my way. No, no, now, open that wine. I’ll show myself the door, as I know where it is.” She waved them away, walked to the door. And paused, looked back. “Fáilte. Déithe libh. A welcome and a blessing to you both.”
“Okay, this is awesome. I gotta say I figured on a cottage deal for you, girl. Now I’m all in. And I’m opening this wine right now.”
“Yes, do that. It is awesome. And she was awesome. Did you see her skin? She has to be at least sixty, even if she got married as a teenager, and she’s . . . I figured she was maybe forty.”
“If she had work, it’s top-of-the-line. Just like this stove, where I’m going to cook us a hell of a meal later. You’ve got to blog your fine ass off about this place.”
“I will in the morning, after I sleep in that amazing bed. Pour really big glasses, Marco, and let’s take them and walk down to the water. I want to take my shoes off and put my feet in the bay.”
“Put them in, hell. We’re going to take off our shoes, drink big glasses of wine, and dance in the freaking bay.”
“I’m in.”
CHAPTER NINE
Breen woke as the first soft light of morning slid into the room. She’d slept deep and—as far as she remembered—dreamless. She wondered if the crystal of pale pink hanging over the bed—one she hadn’t noticed until she’d climbed in—had anything to do with it.
She’d known a girl in college who’d sworn by crystal power. Not that she believed any of that.
All she knew for certain was she felt rested, energized, and stupidly happy. She plumped her pillows up, settled back to bask in the room, the view coming to life outside the windows, and the fact she was, for the rest of the summer, home.
Because she caught herself already writing the blog in her head, she bounded up. She pulled a sweatshirt over the T-shirt she’d slept in, thick socks on her bare feet, and went downstairs to make coffee.
She took a big white mug of it into the main-level bedroom, settled down at the laptop she’d set up on the desk.
Then just sipped coffee and sighed at the rioting flowers outside the glass door.
They’d already agreed on a day at the cottage, a lazy one. Marco would sleep in, no question. They’d explore the area—together or separately. And maybe she’d settle in for a couple of hours and work on what she thought might be a short story, or a novel, or nothing at all.
But she wanted to try. Blogging had opened the door—as she now suspected Marco had meant it to.
She booted up her laptop, then took a deep breath.
A thin, soft rain fell as we left the magic and wonder of Dromoland, she began.
More than ninety minutes later, almost without pause, she finished:
I feel more at home here, sitting at this pretty little desk, looking out at the glorious garden a man named Seamus tends, than I have anywhere in my life. If the purpose of all of this really is Finding Me, I think I’ve begun to.
She got another cup of coffee before she went over it all, chose and added photos. Agonized over whether she could and should do better. Lectured herself, then put it up.
Back upstairs, she put on workout gear, then used the dual purpose of the room for a solid forty-five minutes.
When she heard clattering in the kitchen, she bounded out to find Marco fumbling at the coffee machine.
“Good morning!”
He gave her a grunt.
“I’ve done the blog, worked out. I’m going to cook breakfast—which I can actually handle—then shower, change, take a walk. What are you going to do?”
“Drink coffee. And try to ignore my overly perky roommate.”
“I’ve got all this energy!” To prove it, she turned two tight pirouettes.
He answered that with a sleepy, sour look.
“I’ll go shower and change first. That’ll give you time to wake up before bacon and eggs.”
“Deal. Take your perky self upstairs. I’m going to take this coffee . . .” He circled a finger at the door.
“Outside.”
“Yeah, there.” He rubbed his eyes, managed a smile. “It’s annoying as fuck, but perky looks good on you.”
“Feels good. Breakfast in thirty,” she called out as she bounded from the room.
She served it on the patio. It might’ve been a bit chilly, but not too. And it wasn’t raining. Yet.
“Blog’s good, Breen.” He shoveled eggs in his mouth like a man starving. “Just gets better and better.”
“Because everything’s better and better.” She looked out at the water, softly blue as the sun pushed light through the clouds, and at the birds that skimmed along, the boat—red as a stop sign—plying its way.
“I love it here. I know it hasn’t even been a day, but I love it here.”
“It suits you.” He studied her as he bit into a slice of the brown bread she’d toasted. “What you wrote at the end of your blog? I think that’s true.”
“I hope it is. I do want that walk—and I need to get a bird book to go with my flower book. There are so many of them, and I want to know what they are. And it’s a little scary, but I want to sit down today and try to write. Not blog, but write a story. Or start to.”
He hefted his coffee mug, tapped it to hers. “Then that’s what you’ll do.”
“You aimed me that way, toward writing. Trying to.”
“Maybe.” Then he grinned at her. “You can give a girl a nudge, but she has to take the step, right? Anyway, I’ll stay out of your hair so you can concentrate. I think I’ll take a trip into the village. I can poke around, scout out someplace we can go when we want to eat out, where there’s music.”
“That would be great. There are lots of places to see, and we can plan routes.”
“But not today.” To prove it, he shot out his legs, crossed his ankles. “Close to home today.”
“Exactly. Remember that pledge we made the night we moved into our apartment?”
“Oh yeah. If neither of us find the love of our lives, you and me live together forever.”
“Still on?”
“Damn straight, girl.”
She’d be happy with that, Breen thought as she set out on her walk. In a lot of ways, Marco was the love of her life. Just minus the sex. And sex wasn’t that big a deal—especially when you weren’t having it anyway.
She walked along the narrow strip of beach first, letting the wind stream over her hair, her scarf, her jacket. And letting her mind roll toward the story she wanted to tell.
Maybe she didn’t know exactly how to start, but it was time to sit down and try. In fact, it was past time. Though she looked with considerable yearning toward the woods, she walked back to the cottage.
No excuses, she told herself. She had an empty cozy house without distractions and a solid space of time. Maybe it was good the entire idea of trying to write, of trying to be a writer made her anxious.
Maybe she’d write better nervous.
She took a jug of water to her desk, opened her laptop.
She spent what felt like hours staring at the screen, fingers poised on the keyboard.
Then her fingers began to move.
A blue moon rose the night the visitor came to call, and Clara’s life changed forever.
That first sentence cracked open a dam inside her, and Breen wrote in a flood for two hours.
When she surfaced, she found herself astonished to see she’d filled eight pages with words.
Some of them—most, she thought—were probably terrible. Or worse, even worse, just silly. But she’d written them.
She poured a glass of water, downed it. She got up, paced the room, walked
outside, paced some more. And realized she wasn’t done.
This time she got a Coke to fortify her, used the little buzz to write for another two hours.
Though it terrified her, she went back to the beginning, began to read. She caught herself second-guessing, fiddling, even considering tossing it all out and starting again.
Then realized she had to stop, step away, let it all just sit. She’d pick it up again in the morning, just start again where she left off.
Because it was amazing to ride along on the current of the story, and she didn’t want to give that up.
Dazed, she walked out to find Marco at the stove, something in a pot filling the air with delicious.
“I didn’t hear you come back.”
“You were in deep, girl. I’ve done made us some potato and ham soup, got the fire going—it’s raining and cooled down some, and I’m trying my hand at making soda bread. Don’t judge it harsh, as I’m a bread-baking virgin.”
“I didn’t help. What time is it?”
“It’s glass of wine time for you.”
She glanced at the time. “Holy crap! I didn’t realize. You didn’t have to do all this, Marco. I figured we’d go into the village for dinner.”
“I had my fun, and I’ve got a couple spots picked out for tomorrow night.” He poured her a glass of wine from the bottle he’d set on the counter. “You know I like to cook it up when I’ve got the time, and this Philly boy ain’t never made potato soup and soda bread.”
She had to admit he looked as happy as happy got as he topped off his own wine.
“I had a sandwich the size of Utah in a pub,” he continued, “and lots of conversation. Did a little shopping. Found a bird book for you, a cookbook for me—and used my book to try out what’s for dinner.”
When he uncovered the shaggy round of bread with a deep X in the center, she studied it.
“You actually made bread. From . . . flour.”
“Buttermilk, too. I bought freaking buttermilk. Looks pretty good, right?”
“Looks great, smells great. Why aren’t we eating it?”
“Because this soup needs more time, and we’re going to use that to sit by the fire, drink some wine while you tell me about your writing day.”
“Actually, I think I went into a fugue state.”
He covered the bread again before giving the soup another stir. Then he took her hand, grabbed the wine bottle, and steered her into the living room.
“Like I said, you were in deep when I poked my head in.”
“I wrote fifteen pages, Marco.”
“That’s a lot. That feels like a lot. Can I read them?”
“I . . . not yet. I haven’t even read them. I started to.” Like him, she propped her feet on the coffee table. “Then, I don’t know, I felt like I should just walk away for now, let it all . . . simmer like your soup, I guess.”
“Sounds smart. You’re going to be a natural at this.”
“I don’t know about that, but it felt good, and that’s enough for now. It all feels good.”
So did eating soup and bread in the kitchen, and snuggling up with a book in front of the fire. And waking up in the morning to another day.
She wrote her blog, thinking of it as a warm-up act, then spent an hour on her book. Only an hour, as she set a timer. She’d have weeks and weeks of alone soon, and didn’t want to miss the time she had with Marco.
They ventured out, visiting sights and villages, then had dinner in a pub in Clifden with music—and conversation.
She found two people who remembered her father, and his music, but not with the clarity of Tom from Doolin.
They fell into a routine. Breen rose early to write, then they’d have a day out to ramble with a pub meal and music, juggled with days closer to the cottage and dinner at home with Marco walking her through simple recipes.
No matter how hard she tried to stop time, the ten days flew.
On a drippy day that mirrored her mood, she drove her best friend back to Shannon Airport.
“I don’t know what I’m going to do without you, Marco. Maybe I should—”
“Don’t you even start to say maybe you should go back to Philly, too. You just gave me the best two weeks of my life. Don’t go spoiling it.”
“It’s one thing to talk about spending a whole summer here, by myself. It’s another to actually do it.”
“You’re going to be more than fine. You think I could go if I didn’t know that in my gut? And I’ll tell you what you’re going to do. You’re going to write your ass off, learn to cook some more—you’re doing okay there.”
“Because you stop me before I screw up.”
“Screw up, eat a sandwich,” he said with a shrug. “You’re going to take those crazy long walks you love so much, text me every damn day. And find you. You do that for me, Breen.” He squeezed her hand. “You find you, then you can bring you home because I’m going to miss the hot holy hell out of you.”
“I already miss you. I couldn’t have done any of this without you.”
“That goes both ways.”
Her heart sank, just sank out of her body when she made the turn for the airport.
“You’re going to drop me at the curb, like we said.”
“I can park and come in, and—”
“No way. We’ll both cry like babies. I got myself a manly tat, I can’t be crying like a baby.”
“I’m going to cry anyway.”
“Do me a solid, Breen.”
Already sniffling, she drove toward departures. “You know I will.”
“Have fun with all of it. Just let go and have fun. I want to picture you sitting at that desk writing and having fun with it. Sitting outside with some wine, looking at the water, and having fun with it. Maybe getting yourself out for a night at the pub and flirting with some sexy Irish guy, and having fun with it.”
“I’m going to try.”
“I’m gonna Yoda you. There is no try. Okay now, you’ve got Finola’s number if you need anything at the cottage, and you know how to work the stove and oven. Don’t forget to lock up at night even though.”
“I won’t. Don’t worry about me, Marco.”
“Shit, course I’m going to worry about you some. It’s part of my job.”
She pulled up at the curb, remembering how thrilled they’d both been when they’d arrived. “You’ve got your passport, your tickets, your—”
“I got it all.”
He got out to retrieve his bags while she got out and tried not to wring her hands.
“Text me as soon as you land. The minute.”
“I will, and you text me when you get back to the cottage. I’ll be in that first-class lounge, thanks to my best girl.” He set down his bags to grab her into a hard hug. “If you can’t sleep or you get nervous, you call me—right out call. Okay?”
“I will. I love you. I’ll miss you.”
“I love you back, and I’m going to miss you so hard. Now I’m going before I start blubbering.” He kissed her, squeezed her again, then grabbed his bags.
He hurried toward the doors, then turned around once. “You have fun, girl, or I’m gonna be really pissed.”
Then he was gone.
She drove through rain and tears back to the solitude she didn’t know if she was ready for.
The sun broke through minutes before she reached the cottage. And the rainbow shimmering over it had tears flowing again.
She wanted Marco to see it, so she got out of the car, used her phone to try to capture it. Standing there, she sent it with a text.
A good omen for your safe travel, and my next phase. I love you a rainbow’s worth.
He responded:
Love it—def blog worthy. Sitting here like a rich bastard drinking a beer and eating freaking canapés. Go take a walk under the rainbow. Love you.
Okay, she thought, maybe I will.
She grabbed her purse to take inside, and there changed into the classic Wellingtons Marco h
ad talked her into.
Two steps out the kitchen door, she let out a muffled squeal.
The man wore Wellingtons like hers, rough brown trousers, and a work jacket. Tufts of gray-streaked yellow hair stuck out from under a blue cap.
He was bigger than a leprechaun, but not by much, and his round Irish face, merry blue eyes, and pug nose made her think of one.
He tossed a handful of what she assumed were weeds into a black tub, then tipped his cap at her.
“Good day to you, miss! I’d be Seamus, here to see to the garden if it pleases you.”
“Yes, of course. Finola said you’d be by. We must have missed you before.”
His smile, charmingly crooked, beamed warmth. “It would seem so. And how are you enjoying your stay?”
“Very much. I—I just dropped my friend off at the airport for his flight home.”
“Ah, and that makes you sad, of course. Friendship’s the bread of life, isn’t it now? Well then, I wish him a fair journey.”
“Thank you. The gardens, they’re just beautiful.”
“Flowers are one of the gifts the gods give us, and tending them a pleasure and duty.”
“I’ve been trying to learn about them—flowers and plants.”
He just beamed at her again. “Have you now?”
“Yes, I have a book.”
“Books are fine things, one of the finest for certain. But then doing’s a good teacher as well.”
“If I wouldn’t be in the way, could I ask you some questions?”
“Sure and you can ask all you please. The roses there need deadheading. I can show you how it’s done, and you can have a go at it if it pleases you.”
Between Seamus and the rainbow, her mood lifted. “I’d love to try.”
He spent a patient hour with her, naming flowers and plants, explaining growth cycles, guiding her hands to pull a weed or deadhead a spent bloom.
He showed her what flowers to harvest from what he called the cutting garden to make a nice display inside.
When she offered him tea, he thanked her but said he had work elsewhere. So he tipped his cap again before he walked away and left her with a handful of flowers and a feeling of fresh optimism.
