She’d work the six to two, go home and drop into bed, and, please God, sleep and sleep late.
Before she knew it, she’d be on the plane and gone.
She started to settle in, glanced out the window.
There he was—the man with the silver hair. Just standing on the sidewalk, smiling at her. She’d lost track of the number of times she’d seen him since that first day.
At the market, outside Ellsworth’s offices, even at Sally’s one other night she’d helped out.
Every time she worked up the nerve to go closer, he just vanished. Not like poof, she thought. That was ridiculous, but he simply evaded her.
Just someone from the same neighborhood—and yet, she’d seen him in the city, too.
It didn’t matter, she assured herself. She’d soon leave him behind—thousands of miles behind.
One more day, she thought as the bus rumbled along. Just one more day before the rest of her life began.
CHAPTER FOUR
Back in her apartment, Breen did just what she’d said she’d do. She obsessively checked everything.
Suitcases, recently purchased on sale—a half-price sale, maybe because they were turquoise. Neither was close to full, but she’d have room for souvenirs, gifts, and whatever else she purchased on a nearly three-month stay.
She’d opted to use her backpack for her carry-on—one she’d had since college. Though battered and worn, it would come in handy for hiking. At the moment, it held her guidebooks, maps, eye drops, Dramamine, ibuprofen, Band-Aids, her tablet, laptop, charging cords, pens, a notebook, two books, a toiletry and makeup bag.
She had a small, efficient cross-body bag that organized her passport, tickets, ID, credit card, cash.
When she reached the point she had to admit she had nothing left to do, she set the alarm on her phone for thirty minutes and stretched out to take a nap, since she’d wait tables until after two in the morning.
She had to turn off her mind first, as her thoughts insisted on conjuring worst-case scenarios.
Either she or Marco would contract a serious illness—or have a terrible accident—overnight and have to cancel.
They’d learn all flights to Ireland had been canceled indefinitely because . . . reasons.
They’d fly all the way to Ireland only to learn their passports were invalid. They’d be deported immediately.
The aliens finally invaded.
The Walking Dead became reality.
As she wasted nearly five minutes entertaining all the tragic possibilities, it was hardly a surprise her short nap was neither quiet nor restful.
She found herself alone walking on thick green grass under skies the color of pewter. Though gray, the sky carried a glow as if the sun pressed and pressed its light and heat behind those layered clouds.
A kind of inlet wove, a slow snake, between the land and the wider bay. She could see stubby green knuckles punching up through the still water, and fuzzy white sheep with black faces on the far hills.
The air, moist and cool, fluttered through the trees, shivered over a garden alive with bold, almost insolent color.
She heard birdsong and the musical notes of the chimes—dozens of them—hanging from the branches of a tree at the verge of the woods.
She walked that way, where the thick grass led to a soft brown path, narrow as a ribbon, and the light turned to a wonderfully eerie green. Moss, thick as a carpet, blanketed the wide trunks of trees, coated their curving branches, smothered rocks that heaved out of the ground.
A stream rushed by, burbling and spilling over rock ledges. She thought she heard murmuring, and laughter.
The water, she thought, or the wind chimes at the start of the path.
She walked on, caught up in wonder and delight.
A bird whizzed by, green as an emerald. Then another, ruby red, and a third, like a sapphire on the wing.
She’d never seen anything like them—so jewel-like, so iridescent—and followed the path of their flight.
And in the green shadows and light she heard them call, a young sound and somehow fierce. With it came the drumbeat of water striking water and rock.
The waterfall spilled from a dizzying height, had her heart leaping at the sight of it.
A thunderous fall, white as snow into the winding stream, where it turned pale, pale green.
The birds swirled around the fall of water, the three and more. Topaz, carnelian, amethyst, cobalt in a dazzling display. Dipping, diving, dancing.
One swooped to her, wings fluttering as it hovered inches from her face. She saw its ruby-red wings tipped with gold like its—his, she knew, his—eyes.
Not a bird, not at all, but a dragon no bigger than the palm of her hand.
“Hello. You’re Lonrach, because that’s what you are. Brilliant.” She held out a hand, thrilled when he settled on her palm. “And you’re mine.”
She walked with him, drawn to the falls, the dance of the little dragons.
She realized she could see through the white water, as if it became moving and translucent glass.
And through it, she saw what seemed to be a city, gray and black, towers and spears of buildings rising into a sky more purple than blue. Like a healing bruise.
The greatest tower, a black glass spear, grew from an island of rock. A bridge, narrow, swaying, spanned over the crashing sea to connect it to the city on the cliffs.
She thought she heard weeping, war cries, and inhuman screams, the clash of steel to steel, the thunder of hooves.
Though it made her heart pound, she moved closer, saw swirls of light, explosions of it.
Was she supposed to go through, leave this wonderful place for one of weeping and war?
Why would she? Why would anyone?
Still, she found herself drawn closer as the dragon calls turned thunderous and the fall of water rocked the ground.
The dragon winged away to join the others. She tried to call him back but how could he hear over the din?
Then in the stream, in a pool of pale green, she saw the gleam of red and gold. For an instant she feared the dragon had fallen in, drowned, but he circled above her head, those gold eyes watchful.
A stone, she realized, big as a baby’s fist, with dozens of smaller ones glinting on the gold links of the chain. And the clasp, clear through the water, a dragon in flight.
Someone had lost it; someone had dropped it. Anyone could see it was important. She’d climb down, wade through, and retrieve it.
As she inched her way down the bank, the air began to pulse, to beat like a heart. It seemed the central stone pulsed as well.
The moss-covered trees whipped in a rising wind. Lightning flashed, so strong, so fierce, the world went white for an instant. And the following clap of thunder stole her breath.
A storm, she thought. No one sensible walked in the woods during a storm, or reached into water when lightning cracked.
She’d come back later. She’d go home now, where it was warm and dry and safe, and leave it to someone else to find the pendant.
But if she just reached down, reached out, she might be able to snag the gold chain and . . .
She tumbled. Instead of into a shallow pool, she fell what seemed like fathoms deep, deep into the pale green water.
She tried to kick to the surface, but her hand met a wall, solid as steel.
She swam right, met another. Left, yet another, and realized she was trapped in some kind of box under the water. She saw the sky overhead, the fury of the storm that broke with blackening skies, flashes of lightning.
She beat against the walls until her own blood threaded through the water.
I can’t breathe, she thought. Let me out. Let me out.
You are the key. Turn it. Awaken.
As her vision began to dim, she saw a lock. It glittered silver with jewels crusting it.
Too far away, she thought as she flailed.
Her heart banged; her body shook.
Marco yanked her up as
her phone alarm beeped.
“Jesus, Breen, Jesus. I thought you were having a seizure.”
“I . . . I was drowning. I was in the stream, but it was too deep, and . . . Oh my God, that was awful.”
She pushed at her hair as he wrapped around her. “I was in someplace wonderful. It’s all blurry now, but I was in a beautiful place, then I was in the water. Something I needed in the water, then I was drowning.”
“You’re shaking, girl.” Shaking himself, he pressed his lips to her forehead. “Breathe it out now.”
“I’m okay.” She blew out a breath as he kept an arm around her. “The queen of all anxiety dreams, I guess.”
“Worst one ever. You were shaking and choking and your eyes were wide open. You scared the ever-fucking crap out of me.”
“Me, too.” His shoulder, always there for her, made the perfect rest for her head. “Sorry, really. My own fault. I let myself get wound up about the airport, the flight, about every damn thing. I’m going to stop, because wherever the wonderful place was, that’s where we’re going.”
“I’ll sure as hell be glad when we get there. Don’t do that to me again.” He held her shoulders, took a long look at her face. “You’re still what my granny used to call peaked. You’re the poster girl for peaked. You want me to call Sally, tell him you can’t make it?”
“Absolutely not. It was just a bad—a really bad—stress dream. Work and Sally’s will take my mind off the ten thousand things I can dream up that could go wrong.”
“Then go fix your face.”
“What’s wrong with it? Besides peaked.”
“Put some smolder on those long gray eyes, girl. Didn’t I show you how? I’m going to go put on something sexy that says your bartender deserves big-ass tips. You get the bathroom first.” He walked out, called back to her as he went into his own room to change.
“How was the last day of the old life?”
“It was okay. More than okay. I’m ready for the new one.”
Later, when they walked together to the club, Breen slipped an arm around Marco’s waist.
He wore a snug red tee that showed off his slim build and gym-fit arms, and matched his belt, his high-tops.
The color made her think of the dream, but she shoved it aside.
She had reason to know she wasn’t the only one with some anxiety.
“Do you not want to talk about going over to say goodbye to your mom and dad?”
“What’s to say?” He shrugged. “We were all polite. My dad told me to have a good trip, then went down to his workshop. My mom gave me a Coke, told me how there were lots of churches in Ireland and she hoped I’d spend some time in some of them. She still believes I can pray away the gay.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Hey, we were polite, so that’s something. Since I knew that wouldn’t happen with my brother, I didn’t go by to see him. I talked to my sister—she was swamped at work, but we had a good talk.”
“You can always count on Keisha.” She squeezed him as they walked. “We’re the family misfits, Marco, just like always. I’m feeling okay about that. You always have, but I’m getting there, and even kind of liking it. And tomorrow, when we get on the plane, nobody knows us. We can be whoever we want to be.”
“What’s your choice?”
“I work for MI6, so I can’t talk about it.”
“That’s a good one. I’m a young, billionaire philanthropist song-writing sensation who’s having a secret affair with a certain hot music and movie star.”
“Who would that be?”
“Can’t say, because secret. But his name rhymes with Moodacris.”
“As an agent for MI6, I can decipher your clever code. He is hot.”
They turned toward the club, and Marco paused at the sign in the glitter frame posted next to the door. “Did Sally say anything about a private party?”
“No. Huh. Well, tips are always excellent with the privates.”
They went inside. A club full of people let out a cheer.
Breen thought it looked like St. Patrick’s Day—one of the many holidays Sally revered—had exploded.
Shamrocks, rainbows, winged faeries, leprechauns—not a single Irish cliché missed.
She heard Marco say, “Holy shit,” and let out what was definitely a giggle.
Derrick Lacross, Sally’s smoking-hot longtime love, headed toward them with a glass of champagne in each hand. He wore a green leather vest over his very impressive pecs and a tiny, adorably ridiculous little leprechaun hat cocked over his surfer-streaky blond mane.
“You didn’t think we’d let you leave without a send-off, did you?”
He handed them both champagne, grabbed another from a tray, then turned to the club full of people.
When he raised his glass and everyone shouted, “Sláinte!” Breen let out a giggle of her own.
“This is amazing,” Breen managed. “This is just amazing.”
“We haven’t even started. Drink up, my children.”
Irish music blasted out of the speakers as Sally, his short, spiky hair dyed green for the occasion, glided over. Glided suited, as he wore a long, sparkling white dress and fluttering green wings.
“As if I’d ask you to work the night before you leave.” He rolled his eyes before he gave them both cheek kisses. “You”—he handed Marco a high-crowned black hat with a shiny green band—“go eat, drink, and be merry. And you”—he took Breen’s hand—“come with me.”
“Sally.” Marco moved in for a hard hug. “You’re the best. Man, you and Derrick are the best.”
“No question of that. Your sister had a meeting, but she’ll be here in about an hour.”
“Really? That’s—that’s just great.”
“Now you run along with Derrick. Breen’s not quite ready for party time.”
Keeping a grip on Breen’s hand, Sally wove through the crowd. “She’ll be back, ladies and gentlemen. Enjoy, enjoy.” He waved his free hand as if parting the sea. And some clever soul put a flute of champagne in it.
“Sally, this is the best surprise ever, and so sweet of you. So sweet.”
“Oh, you know me, any excuse for a party.” He led her backstage, into the communal dressing room. “But you and Marco are special to me, to Derrick.
“Now.” He walked to one of the costume racks. “We’re going to get your party on.”
He pulled out a dress—short, as green as his hair. The deep vee in the back dipped to the waist.
“It’s beautiful, but—”
“It’s yours. Derrick, who obviously has exquisite taste in all things, picked it out for you.”
“You bought me a dress.”
“A party dress, which, despite your windfall, you haven’t bought for yourself. And shoes, which I—also with exquisite taste—selected.”
He held out a pair in glittering gold with open toes and ankle straps.
“Those heels are really high.”
“You can handle them. You can handle anything. Now strip down, girl. The party’s started without us.”
Since the music, the voices, the laughter all pulsed against the walls of the dressing room, she couldn’t argue.
Breen took off her shoes, her T-shirt, shimmied out of her pants.
“Lose the bra, sweetie. It only makes me sad.”
Breen stood in her plain white bra, her practical white cotton panties. “No bra?”
“The dress has self-support, but your girls are young and perky anyway—and that sad bra deserves a decent burial. Flaunt your girls while you’ve got them.”
“Okay. One more first for me.”
She took it off, wiggled into the dress. She lifted her arm so Sally could deal with the side zip. “It fits.”
“In every single way. Sit. Shoes.”
She sat, slipped them on, struggled a bit with the straps. “You invited Marco’s parents.”
“It would’ve been rude not to.”
“They declined. So did my mot
her when you invited her.”
Sally knelt down to help Breen with the straps. “It’s their loss. It hurts my heart to see people lucky enough to have beautiful children, inside and out, who can’t bring themselves to accept those children for who they are.”
Sally patted Breen’s foot. “Girl, take it from an old queen: be who you are and the hell with the rest.”
“You’re not old,” Breen said, and made Sally laugh.
“And you need a pedicure. Get some color on those pretty toes.”
“I’ll get one in Ireland.”
“And buy some pretty underwear, girl.” Before Breen could object, Sally hooked a finger in the discarded bra’s strap, flung it away. “What are you going to do when you find some Irish hottie and he sees that mess?”
“I think I’d better find myself before I think about any Irish hotties.”
“You’re a smart woman. Find what makes Breen happy with Breen, then move to the rest.”
“I love you, Sally.”
“Oh, my baby girl, I love you, too. Now stand up, take a look at you.”
She saw a woman with fire-red hair cascading in curls wearing a bold green dress that showed a great deal of leg standing in shoes fit for a princess.
“I look . . . sort of sophisticated.”
“Straight lines, no frills, that’s what suits you.” Sally circled a finger in the air. “Give us a twirl.”
“I might break my ankle.”
“You’ve got better balance than you think.”
She did the twirl, caught a glimpse of the back of the dress. Said, “Oh, wow.”
“That’s one sexy back you got there, girl.” Sally put her hands on Breen’s shoulders, smiled nearly cheek to cheek. “And there you are, Breen Siobhan Kelly.”
“Even when you’re not wearing wings, you’re my fairy godmother, Sally.”
“My favorite purpose of being a fairy. Now grab that champagne and let’s let everybody get a load of you.”
That night, Breen slept the sleep of the happily exhausted with no stress dreams, her new dress and shoes packed for Ireland.
All the stress tumbled back the next day. She reconfirmed all her reconfirmations of all her bookings, rechecked the contents of her bags. Studied her passport, looking for any possible flaws.
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