by Nora Roberts
She made herself step back inside, firmly shut the door. The next sound she heard was the hiss of the soup boiling over.
“Damn it!” She rushed to the stove and switched off the burner. “What’s wrong with me? A twelve-year-old could heat up a stupid can of soup, for God’s sake.”
She mopped up the mess, burned the tips of two fingers, then ate the soup standing up in the kitchen while she lectured herself.
It was time to stop bumbling around, to yank herself back in line. She was a responsible person, a reliable woman, not one who stood dreaming into the mist at midnight. She spooned up the soup and ate it mechanically, a duty to her body with none of the foolish pleasure a midnight snack allowed.
It was time to face why she’d come to Ireland in the first place. Time to stop pretending it was an extended holiday during which she would explore her roots and work on papers that would cement the publishing end of her not very stellar university career.
She’d come because she’d been mortally afraid she was on the verge of some kind of breakdown. Stress had become her constant companion, gleefully inviting her to enjoy a migraine or flirt with an ulcer.
It had gotten to the point where she wasn’t able to face the daily routine of her job, to the point where she neglected her students, her family. Herself.
More, worse, she admitted, where she was coming to actively dislike her students, her family. Herself.
Whatever the cause of it—and she wasn’t quite ready to explore that area—the only solution had been a radical change. A rest. Falling apart wasn’t an option. Falling apart in public was out of the question.
She wouldn’t humiliate herself, or her family, who’d done nothing to deserve it. So she had run—cowardly, perhaps, but in some odd way the only logical step she’d been able to think of.
When Old Maude had graciously passed on at the ripe old age of a hundred and one, a door had opened.
It had been smart to walk through that door. It had been responsible to do so. She needed time alone, time to be quiet, time to reevaluate. And that was exactly what she was going to do.
She did intend to work. She would never have been able to justify the trip and the time if she hadn’t had some sort of plan. She intended to experiment with a paper that combined her family roots and her profession. If nothing else, documenting local legends and myths and conducting a psychological analysis of their meaning and purpose would keep her mind active and give her less time for brooding.
She’d been spending entirely too much time brooding. An Irish trait, her mother claimed, and the thought of it made Jude sigh. The Irish were great brooders, so if she felt the need to indulge from time to time, she’d picked the best place in the world for it.
Feeling better, Jude turned to put her empty bowl in the dishwasher and discovered there wasn’t one.
She chuckled all the way upstairs to the bedroom.
She unpacked, meticulously putting everything away in the lovely creaky wardrobe, the wonderful old dresser with drawers that stuck. She set out her toiletries, admired the old washbasin, and indulged in a long shower standing in the claw-foot tub with the thin plastic curtain jangling around her on its tarnished brass hooks.
She dived into flannel pajamas and a robe before her teeth started chattering, then got down to the business of lighting bricks of peat. Surprised at her success, she lost twenty minutes sitting on the floor with her arms wrapped around her knees, smiling into the pretty glow and imagining herself a contented farmer’s wife waiting for her man to come in from the fields.
When she snapped back from her daydream she went off to explore the second bedroom and consider its potential as an office.
It was a small room, boxlike, with narrow windows facing front and side. After some deliberation, Jude chose to set up facing south so she could see the rooftops and church steeples of the village and the broad beach that led down to the sea.
At least, she assumed that would be the view once daylight broke and the fog lifted.
The next problem was what to set up on, as the little room had no desk. She spent the next hour hunting up a suitable table, then hauling that from the living room up the stairs and placing it exactly in the center of the window before she hooked up her equipment.
It did occur to her that she could write on the kitchen table, by the cozy little fire with the wind chimes singing to her. But that seemed too casual and disorganized.
She found the right adaptor for the plug, booted up, then opened the file that she intended to be a daily journal of her life in Ireland.
April 3, Faerie Hill Cottage, Ireland I survived the trip.
She paused a moment, laughed a little. It sounded as though she’d been through a war. She started to delete it, start again. Then she stopped herself. No, the journal was only for herself, and she would write what came into her mind, as it came.
The drive from Dublin was long, and more difficult than I’d imagined. I wonder how long it will take me to grow used to driving on the left. I doubt I ever will. Still, the scenery was wonderful. None of the pictures I’ve seen begin to do the Irish countryside justice. To say it’s green isn’t enough. Verdant somehow isn’t right either. It, well, shimmers is the best I can do.
The villages seem charming, and so unbelievably tidy that I imagined armies of elves slipping in every night to scrub the sidewalks and polish the buildings.
I saw a bit of the village of Ardmore, but it was pouring rain by the time I arrived, and I was too tired to form any real impressions other than that habitual tidiness and the charm of the wide beach.
I came across the cottage by sheer accident. Granny would call it fate, of course, but it was really just blind luck. It’s so pretty sitting here on its little hill with flowers flooding right up to the front door. I hope I can care for them properly. Perhaps they have a bookstore in the village where I’ll find books on gardening. In any case, they’re certainly thriving now, despite the damp chill in the air.
I saw a woman—thought I saw a woman—at the bedroom window, looking out at me. It was an odd moment. It seemed that our eyes actually met, held for a few seconds. She was beautiful, pale and blond and tragic. Of course it was just a shadow, a trick of the light, because there was no one here at all.
Brenna O’Toole, a terrifyingly efficient woman from the village, pulled up right after me and took things over in a way that was somehow brisk and friendly—and deeply appreciated. She’s gorgeous—I wonder if everyone here is gorgeous—and has that rough, mannish demeanor some women can adopt so seamlessly and still be perfectly female.
I imagine she thinks I’m foolish and inept, but she was kind about it.
She said something about the house being haunted, which I imagine the villagers say about every house in the country. But since I’ve decided to explore the possibility of doing a paper on Irish legends, I may research the basis for her statement.
Naturally, my time clock and my system are turned upside down. I slept the best part of the day away, and had a meal at midnight.
It’s dark and foggy out. The mist is luminous and somehow poignant. I feel cozy of body and quiet in my mind.
It’s going to be all right.
She sat back, let out a long sigh. Yes, she thought, it was going to be all right.
At three A.M., when spirits often stir, Jude huddled in bed under a thick quilt with a pot of tea on the table and a book in her hand. The fire simmered in the grate, the mist slid across the windows. She wondered if she’d ever been happier.
And fell asleep with the light burning and her reading glasses slipping down her nose.
In the daylight, with the rain and mist whisked away by the breeze, her world was a different place. The light glowed soft and turned the fields to an aching green. She could hear birds, which reminded her that she needed to dig out the book she’d bought on identifying species. Still, at the moment it was so nice just to stand and listen to that liquid warbling. It didn’t seem to matter what
bird was singing, so long as it sang.
Walking across the thick, springy grass seemed almost like a sacrilege, but it was a sin Jude couldn’t resist.
On the hill beside the village, she saw the ruin of the once grand cathedral dedicated to Saint Declan and the glorious round tower that ruled over it. She thought briefly of the figure she’d thought she’d seen there in the rain. And shivered.
Foolish. It was just a place, after all. An interesting and historical site. Her grandmother, and her guidebook, had told her about the ogham inscriptions inside and the Romanesque arcading. She would go there and see for herself.
And to the east, if memory served, beyond the cliff hotel, was the ancient Saint Declan’s Well with its three stone crosses and stone chair.
She would visit the ruins, and the well, climb the cliff path, and perhaps walk around the headland one day soon. Her guidebook had assured her the views were spectacular.
But today she wanted quieter, simpler things.
The waters of the bay shimmered blue as they flowed into the deeper tones of the sea. The flat, wide beach was deserted.
Another morning, she thought, she would drive to the village just to walk alone on the beach.
Today was for rambling over the fields, just as she’d imagined, away from the village with her eyes on the mountains. She forgot she’d only meant to check on the flowers, to orient herself to the area just around the cottage before she attended to practical matters.
She needed to arrange for a phone jack in the spare bedroom so she could access the Net for research. She needed to call Chicago and let her family know she was safe and well. Certainly she needed to go into the village and find out where she could shop and bank.
But it was so glorious out, with the air gentle as a kiss, the breeze just cool enough to clear the last of the travel fatigue from her mind, that she kept walking, kept looking until her shoes were wet from the rain-soaked grass.
Like slipping into a painting, she thought again, one animated with the flutter of leaves, the sounds of birds, the smell of wet, growing things.
When she saw another house it was almost a shock. It was nestled just off the road behind the hedgerows and rambled front, back, and sideways as if different pieces of it had been plopped down carelessly on a whim. And somehow it worked, she decided. It was a charming combination of stone and wood, juts and overhangs with flowers rioting in both the front yard and the back. Beyond the gardens in the rear was a shed—what her grandmother would have called a cabin—with tools and machines tumbling out the door.
In the driveway she saw a car, covered with stone-gray paint, and looking as though it had come off the assembly line years before Jude had been born.
A big yellow dog slept, in a patch of sunlight in the side yard, or she assumed it slept. It was on its back with its feet in the air like roadkill.
The O’Tooles’ house? Jude wondered, then decided it must be so when a woman came out the back door with a basket of laundry.
She had brilliant red hair and the wide-hipped, sturdy frame that Jude would imagine in a woman required to carry and birth five children. The dog, proving she was alive, rolled over to her side and thumped her tail twice as the woman marched to the clothesline.
It occurred to Jude that she’d never actually seen anyone hang clothes before. It wasn’t something even the most dedicated of housewives tended to do in downtown Chicago. It seemed like a mindless and thereby soul-soothing process to her. The woman took pegs from the pocket of her apron, clamped them in her mouth as she bent to take a pillowcase from the basket. Snapped it briskly, then clamped it to the line. The next item was dealt with in the same way and shared the second peg.
Fascinating.
She worked down the line, without any obvious hurry, with the yellow dog for company, emptying her basket while what she hung billowed and flapped wetly in the breeze.
Just another part of the painting, Jude decided. She would title this section Country Wife.
When the basket was empty, the woman turned to the facing line and unhooked clothes already hanging and dry, folding them until her basket was piled high.
She cocked the basket on her hip and walked back into the house, the dog prancing behind her.
What a nice way to spend the morning, she thought.
And that evening, when everyone came home, the house would smell of something wonderful simmering in the kitchen. Some sort of stew, Jude imagined, or a roast with potatoes browned from its juices. The family would all sit around the table, one crowded with bowls and plates wonderfully mismatched, and talk about their day and laugh and sneak scraps to the dog, who begged from under the table.
Large families, she thought, must be a great comfort.
Of course, there was nothing wrong with small ones, she added, immediately feeling guilty. Being an only child had its advantages. She’d gotten all her parents’ attention.
Maybe too much of their attention, a little voice murmured in her ear.
Considering that voice very rude, she blocked it out and turned to return to her cottage and do something practical with her time.
Because she felt disloyal, she immediately phoned home. With the time difference she caught her parents before they left for work, and squashed her guilt by chatting happily, telling them she was rested, enjoying herself, and looking forward to this new experience.
She was well aware that they both considered her impulsive trip to Ireland a kind of experiment, a quick forty-five-degree turn from the path she’d been so content to pursue for so long. They weren’t against it, which relieved her. They were just puzzled. She had no way to explain it to them, or to herself.
With family on her mind, she placed another call. There was no need to explain anything to Granny Murray. She simply knew. Lighter of heart, Jude filled her grandmother in on every detail of the trip, her impressions, her delight with the cottage while she brewed a pot of tea and made a sandwich.
“I just had a walk,” she continued, and with the phone braced on her shoulder, set her simple lunch on the table. “I saw the ruins and the tower from a distance. I’ll have a closer look later.”
“It’s a fine spot,” Granny told her. “There’s a lot to feel there.”
“Well, I’m very interested in seeing the carvings and the arcading, but I didn’t want to wander that far today. I saw the neighbor’s house. It must be the O’Tooles’.”
“Ah, Michael O’Toole. I remember him when he was just a lad—a quick grin Mick had and a way of talking you out of tea and cakes. He married that pretty Logan girl, Mollie, and they had five girls. The one you met, Brenna, she’d be the oldest of the brood. How’s she faring, pretty Mollie?”
“Well, I didn’t go over. She was busy with laundry.”
“You’ll find no one’s too busy to take a moment, Jude Frances. Next time you’re roaming you stop in and pay your respects to Mollie O’Toole.”
“I will. Oh, and Gran?” Amused, she smiled as she sipped her tea. “You didn’t tell me the cottage was haunted.”
“Sure and I did, girl. Haven’t you listened to the tapes, or read the letters and such I gave you?”
“No, not yet.”
“And you’re thinking there goes Granny again, with her make-believe. You just go through the things I sent along with you. The story’s there about Lady Gwen and her faerie lover.”
“Faerie lover?”
“So it was said. The cottage is built on a faerie hill with its raft, or palace, beneath, and she waits for him still, pining because she turned off happiness for sense, and he losing it for pride.”
“That’s sad,” Jude murmured.
“Well, it is. Still, it’s a good spot, the hill, for looking inside yourself to your heart’s desire. You look inside yours while you’re there.”
“Right now I’m just looking for some quiet.”
“Take as much of it as you need, there’s plenty to go around. But don’t stand back too long and watch the re
st of the world. Life’s so much shorter than you think.”
“Why don’t you come out, Gran, stay here with me?”
“Oh, I’ll come back, but this is your time now. Pay attention to it. You’re a good girl, Jude, but you don’t have to be good all the time.”
“So you’re always telling me. Maybe I’ll find some handsome Irish rogue and have a reckless love affair.”
“It wouldn’t hurt you any. Put flowers on Cousin Maude’s grave for me, will you, darling? And tell her I’ll come see her when I’m able.”
“I will. I love you, Gran.”
Jude didn’t know where the time went. She’d meant to do something productive, had really intended to go out to play with the flowers for a few minutes. To pick just a handful to put in the tall blue bottle she’d found in the living room. Of course she’d picked too many and needed another bottle. There didn’t seem to be an actual vase in the house. Then it had been such fun sitting on the stoop arranging them and wishing she knew their names that she’d whiled away most of the afternoon.
It had been a mistake to carry the smaller squat green bottle up to her office to put on the table with her computer. But she’d only meant to lie down for a minute or two. She’d slept for two solid hours on top of the little bed in her office, and woke up groggy and appalled.
She’d lost her discipline. She was lazy. She’d done nothing but sleep or piddle for more than thirty hours now.
And she was hungry again.
At this rate, she decided as she foraged for something quick in the kitchen, she’d be fat, slow, and stupid in a week.
She would go out, drive down to the village. She’d find a bookstore, the bank, the post office. She’d find out where the cemetery was so that she could visit Old Maude’s grave for her grandmother. Which is what she should have done that morning. But this way it would be done and she could spend the next day going through the tapes and letters her grandmother had given her to see if there was a paper in them.
