Vanished like a puff of smoke, she thought.
“I don’t know where he went. There are a lot of people. But I saw him, and it doesn’t make sense.”
“Okay. Let’s walk.” He kept his arm around her as he drew her away. “You’re shaking.”
“It’s not anxiety. I’m pissed off,” she realized. “I’m really pissed off. It feels like he’s taunting me. It feels so arrogant.”
“I can dump rocks on him if you see him again.”
She didn’t laugh, but she did tip her head toward his shoulder. Then she straightened. “Would my mother have someone follow me?”
“I didn’t think of that.” Now he did as he guided her along the path. “I guess she could, but why?”
“I don’t know, just to keep tabs. But that doesn’t make sense, since I saw him on the stupid bus before I found out about the money. And hell, she could read my blog if she wanted to know what I was doing. She could just freaking ask if she wanted to know.”
As they walked, he rubbed her back in that soothing way he had. “It’s a wide world of coincidence, but you said you saw him at the airport.”
“I did.” Or she thought . . .
“I bet we’re not the only people from Philadelphia in Ireland, or even in this park right now.”
“He looked at me like he knew me,” she added, then shook her head. “Maybe because he recognized me like I did him. Maybe. The first time, on the bus, it felt like he looked at me, but I was already worked up. Getting dumped, hating my job, hating that I was on the bus going to my mother’s. But I guess—in the wide world of coincidence—he could have seen me today and thought: Hey, she looks familiar.”
She didn’t believe it. She realized as she said it, she didn’t believe it at all, but there was comfort in saying it.
“We could walk around more, see if you spot him again.”
“No, it’s silly. Let’s go get some fish and chips.”
“I’m all about it.”
But he kept his arm around her as they walked back to the car. And he kept his eye out for a man with silver hair.
She put it behind her, and with Marco revived from lunch, explored ruins and round towers, explored another castle in the rain that swept in, and out again just as quickly.
She sat on a seawall with the Atlantic wind in her hair, walked the moonscape of the Burren. They rounded it out with another pub meal and music before taking the winding roads back to their last night at the castle.
“It’s still light out. Let’s have a drink in the bar. You’ve earned another Kir Royale on me. Last night here,” Marco pointed out before she could make an excuse.
“You’re right—last night, and I earned it. I’m just going to drop Morena’s gift at the desk, then change my boots. Meet you there.”
She detoured to the desk.
“Good evening, Ms. Kelly, and how was your day?”
“It was wonderful. I wonder if I can leave this with you to send to the falconry school? It’s a little thank-you for Morena—I didn’t get her last name. She let me do an informal hawk walk this morning when I met her and Amish—the hawk—in the woods.”
“Isn’t that lovely?” The young brunette on the desk took the gift bag. “I’d be happy to, of course. Enjoy the rest of your evening.”
She intended to. She walked to her room, pried off her boots, let out a long sigh as she wondered how many miles she’d put on them—and her feet—in the last two days.
Worth every step.
Since it was the last night, she decided she could take a minute or two to freshen her makeup.
As she checked the results, a knock sounded on her door.
“It’s been five minutes, Marco,” she muttered. “Okay, ten.”
But she opened the door to the brunette from the desk.
“Sorry to bother you, miss, but I checked with the falconry school—with my cousin, as it happens, who works there. He tells me they have no Morena, nor a hawk called Amish.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It may be you misunderstood the names. My cousin would be happy to check in the morning if any of the falconers met with you, though no one mentioned it through the day. I didn’t want to keep the gift until we find the right person, you see.”
“Yes, of course, thank you.”
“Anything more I can do for you, Ms. Kelly?”
“No, no, thanks. Sorry for the trouble.”
“No trouble at all. Have a lovely evening.”
But she hadn’t misunderstood the names, Breen thought as she shut the door. And she sure as hell hadn’t imagined the experience.
Morena and Amish—she could see, and hear, them both perfectly. She could remember the thrill of watching the hawk fly to her glove, and the way he’d looked right into her eyes.
Then again, Morena hadn’t specifically said she was with the school. Wasn’t it possible she decided to fly her own hawk on castle grounds?
Breen thought that might be frowned upon, even illegal. She wouldn’t push it, she decided as she tucked the bag in her suitcase. She could get the woman in trouble.
And she remembered the way Morena had looked back at her, told her they’d see each other again.
Then she’d just . . . melted into the trees. Just disappeared.
Like the man with the silver hair.
“Maybe I’m losing my mind.” Feeling the pressure in her chest, she closed her eyes, forced herself to breathe through it. “Maybe I imagined it all.”
She opened her eyes again. “But I didn’t. I absolutely didn’t.”
So she wouldn’t worry about it. She’d go have that drink with Marco.
And she didn’t see any point in mentioning any of this to him.
That night she dreamed herself a child, one of no more than two or three. She sat, crying, inside a cage with glass walls. Outside the cage the water flowed, pale green.
She cried for her mother, and her father, but they didn’t come. She cried for someone she called Nan, but no one came.
Outside the glass walls in that flickering light stood a shadow she knew to be a man. But she couldn’t see him. She didn’t cry for him because she feared him, even as a child of no more than two or three.
When he spoke, his voice was smooth and sweet as music. And false, somehow false.
“There now, my child, my blood, my own, your tears are foolish and weak, and no one can hear them. You have lessons to learn, to carefully learn. I’ll teach you to be all you are, and you’ll have toys, shiny and bright, and sweets, all the sweets your heart desires.”
“I want my ma, I want my da, I want my ma, I want my da. I want—”
“Silence!” Not smooth and sweet now, but a boom of thunder. “I’ll teach you what to want. I’ll show you what you can have. I am your mother, your father, your all now. Heed me or you’ll shed more than tears. Lessons to learn, and the first is obedience.”
As the shadow moved closer, she screamed. She screamed first in fear, then in the rage only a child can feel.
And with that scream, with that fisting of her hands, the glass shattered.
She was in her bed in the room with the sloped ceiling in the little house in Philadelphia. And a child still, a bit older, but a child still, she clung to her father as he stroked, rocked, soothed.
“Just a dream, mo stór, only a dream. Da’s here, right here. You’re safe and well and I’m right here. He can’t hurt you. He’ll never touch you again.”
But as she tried to claw herself out of the dream, Breen thought he could.
She thought he would.
CHAPTER EIGHT
She decided not to tell Marco about the dream, and she certainly wouldn’t blog about it. But she wrote it out in what she now thought of as her personal journal.
Since the best explanation for Morena and her hawk equaled trespassing, she didn’t see any reason to mention it.
She wrote her blog, concentrating on the positive and happy—and found that mad
e her feel more positive and happy.
Following habit, she streamed a workout, then took herself out for her final morning walk at Dromoland. The walled gardens offered peace and beauty, so she took it, pulled it into her like the positive and happy.
Bad dreams were just that—dreams—and since she’d been plagued by them most of her life, she wouldn’t dwell on them during waking hours.
Not when she had flowers and birds and soft sunlight through layered clouds. Though what she had left to pack would take about five minutes, she told herself she’d go back in, get it done. Then admitted to cowardice and pushed herself to take a path into the woods.
Nerves bubbled up and, annoyed by them, she pushed herself to take the same route she had the day before. But this time, she walked alone.
She wound her way back as those layered clouds began to drip.
The plan, loosely outlined, put her at the wheel for the first leg north. So with the little car loaded and Marco beside her, she drove away from the castle in a thin, steady rain.
“We slept in a castle, Breen.”
“We slept in a castle, Marco. Now we’re going to take our time and our wandering way and see more on the road to our cozy Irish cottage.”
“How many people do we know who can say what you just said?”
“Absolutely no one.”
They headed north, then west toward the coast, adding gorgeous miles to the journey. In and out of rain, into a patch of strong sun that had cloud shadows sliding over the fields, they pulled off and stopped where they pleased.
On foot, they crossed a field wild with buttercups to explore a ruined keep while behind a fence a little gray donkey watched them. When Marco jogged over, the donkey stretched her head over the fence in invitation.
Gingerly at first, Marco tapped his hand on the donkey’s head. “Look at that. She likes it.”
“Turn around. I’ll take your picture. Urbanite Meets Donkey.”
“I’ll do better.”
To Breen’s astonishment, Marco vaulted over the fence.
“I don’t think you should—”
“It’s not hurting anything, and look, she likes it.”
He actually put an arm around the donkey’s neck, who proceeded to rub against him like a cat.
“That’s something you don’t see every day,” Breen murmured, and immortalized it.
“Come on over. She’s really sweet.”
Though she hesitated, Breen lectured herself on cowardice and moved to the fence. She had to push herself as she had that morning to climb over. And when the donkey turned its head toward her, she let out a muffled squeal that made Marco laugh.
“Gut up, Breen. She’s not going to eat you.”
“She could bite. What do either of us know about donkeys?” But she put a tentative hand on the donkey’s head. “There, done. Now we should get back on the road.”
“Wait. I need to get your picture with her, too. Think of the blog,” he added.
“Think of the blog.” She muttered it, but put her hand back on the donkey. It looked at her, right at her, just as the hawk had done.
“She is sweet, isn’t she?” Now she stroked as she might a friendly dog. “She likes the company. She gets lonely out here when the sheep aren’t around. Isn’t that right, Bridget?”
“Breen, you’re not going to believe this.”
“What?” Smiling at the donkey, stroking its rough hair, she imagined a farmhouse, and a boy with messy brown hair who came out to brush her.
“There’s a butterfly on your shoulder. Don’t jerk! I got a great picture already, but just turn your head to the left. Slow.”
Heart thumping, she turned her head. The butterfly perched, wings as yellow as the buttercups, spread. Astonished, she stared while those wings, dappled with black dots, closed and opened.
Then it flew, a delicate blossom riding the air.
“That was major cool. Here, look at the pictures I got.”
He held out his phone, slowly swiping through, as he’d taken several shots of Breen smiling at the donkey as if they were old friends, and a butterfly on her shoulder.
And the one he’d managed to get after she turned her head. And there she didn’t see shock on her own face, but absolute delight.
“I didn’t know they did that—landed on people.”
“Neither did I.” She touched a hand to her shoulder.
“I think I’d’ve freaked. You didn’t.”
“Inside a little.”
“Didn’t show. That’s sure as hell something to blog about. Gotta book it, girl.” He gave the donkey a last pat. “Bridget?” Grinning, Marco looked back at Breen. “Where’d you get all that?”
She didn’t have a clue. “I guess she looks like a Bridget.”
“We’ll go with it. Nice to meet you, Bridget.”
Marco took Breen’s hand when they climbed over the fence, swung it. “My turn to drive.”
They crossed into Galway, navigated their way with considerable stress to a car park in Galway city.
“You did great.” Breen rubbed the tension out of the back of her neck.
“Got us here. We need a break, and food. And anyplace that has a street called Shop Street deserves my attention.”
Breen soon discovered it deserved a lot of people’s attention. The crowds seemed huge after a full morning of no one, but Marco jumped right in. Pulled in his wake, she cruised the shops, resisted everything until she came across a piece of framed ogham script. Beneath the script it read: COURAGE.
“I sense a theme.”
“It’s a good one. And this is small enough to pack easily when my time’s up.”
“I’m getting one.”
“Which one?”
“No, not the art. Or not the wall-hanging art. Ink. What should I get?”
“That’s on you, in every way.”
“Ha-ha. We’ll talk about it over lunch. I’m starved.”
“You could get that tattooed so you’d just have to point at it several times a day.”
“And she hits with another one. Something Irish,” he said as they wandered out to pick a lunch spot.
She looked at him, her Marco with his golden brown skin, his riot of dark braids down to his shoulder blades, the meticulously groomed goatee.
“You’re not Irish.”
“But I’m getting it in Ireland, right?”
He decided on an Irish harp. Maybe he wasn’t Irish, but he was a musician. Plus, he liked the look of it.
“Now, where should I get it? On me, I mean. I can google where in Galway.”
Because she still didn’t take him seriously, Breen only smiled. “You’ve got a great butt.”
“I really do, but then only the chosen few would see it. Biceps seem, like, usual. Though . . .” He flexed.
“Yes, Marco, you have great bis, too.”
“I’m going with the usual. It’s a manly choice, and look here, this place gets solid reviews.” He studied his phone. “Done. Let’s do this.”
When he rose from the table, Breen blinked at him. “You’re serious?”
“You’re not getting one up on me, girl. You got ink, I get ink.”
“Marco, you need oxygen when you watch a hospital show and somebody gets a shot.”
“You’re going to hold my hand.”
She held his hand—and watched his eyes widen at the first prick of the needle.
“Holy shit. Distract me.”
“Multiplication tables?”
“Jesus, not math. Sing.”
She started to laugh, but he sat in the padded chair, eyes huge, his hand clamped on hers as a guy named Joe with complex and colorful tattoo sleeves meticulously worked the outline of a harp into his skin.
She started with “Molly Malone” because the melody struck her as soothing. Joe, the tattoo guy, shot her a grin, then joined her with a very nice baritone on the chorus.
“Is it finished?”
“No, honey.”
/> “You’re doing brilliant, Marco,” Joe told him.
Marco just closed his eyes. “Keep singing.”
She went with “The Wild Rover”—a brighter tune—and a woman of about fifty in the middle of getting a Celtic spiral on her forearm picked it up.
Because he’d heard it a few times and knew the words, Marco—eyes still firmly shut—added some harmony.
“That was grand!” The second tattoo artist, a woman of maybe thirty, stopped to applaud. “Are you professionals then?”
Breen shook her head, wondered if she’d ever have full use of her hand again.
“You should be, for you have lovely voices. Let’s have another. Do you know any Lady Gaga?”
“Do we know Gaga?” Marco managed a smile—eyes still closed. “‘Born This Way,’ Breen.”
She sang as the harp took shape, and since watching the actual process made her a little queasy, kept her eyes on Marco. At some point his grip loosened enough for her to flex her aching fingers.
But she held on, because he needed it.
“And there you have it, mate.” Joe patted Marco lightly on the shoulder. “You can have a look now if you want to.”
“Okay, just breathing first.” He opened his eyes, looked at his biceps, and the harp with its bold green shading. “It’s awesome! Look at that, Breen. I got a tat, and it’s awesome.”
“You come back for another sing-along anytime. I like yours,” Joe told Breen.
“Thanks.”
“If ever you want another, come see me.”
“I think one’s going to be enough.”
He grinned at her. “That’s what they all say.”
“I got a tat,” Marco said when they walked out. “I got inked in Ireland.”
“Yay. You seem a little wobbly.”
“Legs feel shaky yet, but I did it. You’re driving now, right?”
“You can count on that.”
“Next time, we do it together.”
“Right.” She mentally rolled her eyes. “Next time.”
When they reached the car, Marco folded her into a hug, swayed with her. “I love you, Breen. You never let go.”
“Never will.”
“Don’t make me sound like a pussy when you blog about it.”
The Awakening Page 11