“As if.” She got in, waited for him to take the passenger seat. “You may need to sing until I get through the traffic.”
“You got it.”
But it wasn’t as bad going out as it had been coming in.
As she took the route to Connemara, through and around villages, she could count more sheep than cars.
And Marco dozed, likely worn out, she thought, from tattoo trauma.
She settled into the quiet of it all, the lack of urgency, the knowledge she could stop anywhere she pleased and no one would tell her she had to do something else, be somewhere else.
She saw signposts for sites she wanted to visit, but as Marco slept, she told herself she—or they—could come back on a day trip.
She looked out over Lough Corrib, wondered if she’d enjoy a boat trip. She could cross over to Mayo, see sights there, too. She had weeks and weeks to do just as she wanted, when she wanted.
Freedom, heady and sweet.
If she ever did get another tattoo—not likely—she’d choose Freedom.
She passed cows and sheep and hills and fields and rising cliffs that all burned their beauty into her heart.
Marco stirred, rubbed his eyes. “Man, I went out! Where are—Holy wow!”
“They’re called the Twelve Bens.” Her voice was soft, tight with emotion. “We’re in Connemara. It’s like something that just froze in time, at exactly the right moment. You missed the lake—God, it was beautiful, Marco. We’ll come back.”
“How long was I out?”
“I don’t know. It’s all timeless here. Oh, do you see that?”
He straightened, looked where she pointed. “The big hole in the ground? What are those things stacked up?”
“It’s peat. They’re drying it. They dig it, cut it, and dry it in the wind.”
“The stuff they burn, seriously?”
“Yes, my father told me about it. I’d forgotten so much he’d told me, and it’s coming back now. When I see things, I remember. They had a peat bog on the farm where he grew up. It might even be around here. He must’ve told me where, but I can’t remember.”
“Bet you will.”
“I hope so, but I know this feels . . . almost like home.”
“Sense memory. I read about it.” He pulled out his phone to take pictures out the window. “It’s, like, in your blood, right? Your dad, and your ancestors and all. So you sense it, feel it.”
“It’s like that. Smell the air, Marco.”
She all but drank it.
“You can smell the peat and the pine, and I swear, you can smell the green.”
“I can drive if you just want to soak it up.”
“I’m fine. We’re nearly there.”
“Good, because I’m—”
“Starving.”
“Could use a snack. Hold on.” He dug into the bag at his feet.
“Got chips and Cokes. Road food.”
“Crisps over here,” she reminded him, and took one. “You’ve got the contact for the rental manager, right?”
“Yep.”
“Go ahead and text her. She said to do that when we were about thirty minutes out. I think that’s about right.”
“Don’t we need to stop for supplies?”
“Let’s get there first, take some stock, make a list. There’s a village not far from the cottage—a couple of them.”
“She’s fast.” Marco read the return text. “She’ll be there to welcome us, she says.”
“Perfect.” She glanced over to grin at him. “It’s all just perfect.”
When she turned onto the skinny, snaking road boxed in with hedgerows, Marco shifted in his seat.
“You’re sure this is right?”
“Yes.”
“I thought it was on the water, with a mountain view.”
“You have to get to it first.”
“Okay . . . I’m just saying there might be a reason it was available for the whole summer.”
“Have some faith.”
Maybe she was a little nervous herself—and not entirely sure two cars could pass each other on this tiny road—but they had nowhere to go but ahead.
“It’s remote-ish,” she added to reassure them both. “Private. I wanted private.”
“There’s private and there’s Bumfuck. This is feeling like Bum-fuck. You said there’s a village.”
“Yes, only a couple kilometers. Walkable.”
“Anybody who walks on this road has a death wish. How about I text—what’s her name?—Finola McGill—which sounds made-up—just to be sure we didn’t take a wrong turn onto somebody’s cow path?”
“If you think—Wait, there’s the turn—it said to turn right—and it’d be signposted. See? It says Fey Cottage. That’s us.”
She turned and the world began to open up. Though the road stayed narrow, a field stretched on the right with the mountains rising. She caught her first glimpse of the bay.
“It’s weird. Before you turned it was like we were hedged in. Get it—hedged.”
“Not anymore.”
The field gave way to the forest—fairy-tale green and shadowy. And there, between the forest and the bay with the majesty of the mountains rising, sat Fey Cottage.
Flowers all but exploded at its charming feet with white paths winding through them. Its sturdy gray stone walls rose two pretty stories under its thick thatched roof. Its windows sparkled, flashing jewels in the sun.
“Okay, I take it back. It’s no castle, but it’s like something out of a movie, and man, those views.”
When she said nothing, he glanced over to see her staring with tears in her eyes.
“Hey, girl.”
“This is what I wanted. The castle—I wanted that, wanted the experience, but this . . . This is what I wanted. A cottage near the woods and the water, with flowers everywhere.”
“And that’s what you got.” He took her hand, pressed it to his cheek. “You deserve getting what you want.”
“I have it because of my father. I’m not going to forget that, no matter what.”
“You had the chance to have it because of your dad, and that’s a big. But you took the chance. Don’t you forget that.”
“Right.” She swiped her hands over her face.
As soon as she got out of the car, the front door—white as the paths—opened.
The woman who stepped out wore a bold orange sweater and trim brown pants over a curvy body. Her hair, the color of roasted chestnuts, swept back from a pretty face of rose and cream where dimples flashed with her welcoming smile.
“And here you are! Welcome to Fey Cottage. Ah, Breen Kelly.” She extended her hand—a strong, confident grip—then laid her other hand over Breen’s for a long squeeze before she turned to Marco. “And Marco Olsen. What a handsome one you are. I’m Finola, and I’m delighted for certain to meet you both. You’ve had a long journey, so come in, come in. We’ll have you settled in no time.”
“Thank you. It’s so beautiful. It’s all so beautiful.”
“I couldn’t be more pleased to hear you say so. Come in, come in, and I’ll show you around before we deal with your bags and so on. What a fine day we’re having for your welcome home.”
She whisked them straight into the living room, one centered around a stone fireplace where logs stacked. The wide mantel gleamed and held a trio of fat white candles.
A rug decorated with a central trinity knot spread over a floor of the same gleaming wood as the mantel. Its forest-green motif picked up the color of the sofa with its fat cushions. A throw artfully arranged on the back of the sofa was the color of top cream and looked soft as clouds.
Shelves held books—a world of books. Tables held pottery vases filled with flowers. Crystals dangled from windows to shoot rainbow light into the room while the sparkling glass opened it to more flowers dancing in the sun and the sloping green that led to the water.
Water as blue as summer and so clear it caught the reflection of green hills on its su
rface.
Everything spoke of welcome and comfort.
“It’s wonderful,” Breen murmured. “It’s just wonderful.”
“A bit warm for a fire on such a fine day, I thought, but it’s laid so you can enjoy it tonight. As you see you have what they call the ‘open concept,’ so if you’ve a mind to cook you’re not cut off from the rest.”
Though cooking wasn’t her strong suit, Breen wandered in. The kitchen was separated from the main room by a breakfast bar the color of slate.
A little table, already set charmingly for two, took center. The counters held a little coffee maker—thank God—a stoneware bowl of fresh fruit, more flowers, a toaster.
A bright red kettle sat on the range Marco already beamed at.
“That is top-of-the-line,” he announced.
“And do you cook?” Finola asked him.
“Yeah, I do.”
“Clever as well as handsome then. Aren’t you lucky to have such a friend? You have a nice pantry, I think, and it’s stocked, as is the refrigerator with what we thought you’d want.”
“Oh, we never expected—”
Finola brushed Breen’s surprise away. “We can’t have you troubling with such matters on your arrival. I’ve brought you a round of brown bread, baked myself fresh for you. It’s in the bread drawer there. And biscuits in the jar. Not store bought,” she added with a wag of her finger.
The warmth, the welcome simply stunned her. “It’s so thoughtful of you. Thank you so much.”
“Sure it’s little enough. And right through there you have the little room with the washing machine and drying machine, though there’s a line out the back for hanging on a sunny day.
“Now, there’s the bedroom down here, and what I like best about it is it has its own door so if you wake and fancy a walk, there you have it.”
Breen walked through in a haze of wonder and delight. If she’d designed a cottage for her stay, this would be exactly it.
She’d set up her office/gym in the main-level bedroom. When she wanted a break, she’d just step outside, into the gorgeous gardens, or beyond to the water, around to the woods.
She’d learn to cook more—and better. Marco could help with that. And in the evenings she’d curl up in front of the fire with a book.
Finola led them upstairs. Doors stood open on either end of a short hall. In the center of the hall, a narrow table with curved feet held more flowers, more candles. Breen ran her fingers over the intricately carved surface, a dragon in flight.
“This is stunning. What beautiful work.”
“It is, isn’t it? I’m proud to say I know the artist well—I should, as we’ve been married these forty-eight years. When she who made the cottage asked for something special, he crafted this.”
“It’s . . .” Breen, fingers still on the carving, turned. “Wait.”
“That didn’t get by me either,” Marco added. “Did you get married before you were born?”
Finola’s cheeks pinked as she laughed. “Ah now, listen to you! I’ve a granddaughter your age, and three more besides.”
Marco, in his Marco way, grabbed both her hands. “Tell me your secret. I’ll do anything short of sacrificing a chicken.”
“Oh now. We’ll say living happy as you can, loving hard as you can. Taking care when care’s needed. And a good cup of wine of an evening.”
“I can do all of that. All of that is now on my daily regimen.”
“And this is a good reminder.” Finola took Breen’s hand, turned up her wrist to tap the tattoo. “To have the courage to do all of that, for all but the wine take courage.”
“You read Irish.”
“As I was taught.”
A little unnerved by the direct look—Finola’s eyes were a steely blue, and somehow strong—Breen eased her hand away. “Marco got a tattoo this afternoon.”
That strong look softened into flirtation as Finola turned to Marco. “Well then, let’s have a look at it—wherever it might be.”
He shoved up the sleeve of his sweater. “It’s still a little red.”
“An Irish harp! And very nicely done as well.” She put her thumb and forefinger on either side of it to give his biceps a little squeeze. Winking, she said, “Woof!”
The usually unflappable Marco flushed.
“And now you’ll have to learn to play the harp.”
“Marco’s a musician.”
“When I’m not being a bartender.”
“Handsome, clever, and musical? What a catch you’ll be for some lucky boy. Now let me show you the bedrooms, and we’ll see if I guessed right. I’ve pegged this as yours, Marco, but don’t fret if I’ve got it wrong.”
She backtracked to the room at the top of the stairs.
The bed, plumped with pillows under a fluffy duvet, faced the windows. Its heavy head- and footboards boasted carvings of flutes and fiddles, harps and harpsichords, bodhrán drums and dulcimers.
“Wow” was all Marco could manage.
“Is this your husband’s work, too?” Again, Breen traced her fingers over the carvings. “It’s fabulous.”
“It is, and thank you. You’ve a fine view of the bay, and its roll to the sea, of the mountains as well. A good, sturdy chair and the chest of drawers as well as the closet. Your own bath, of course. The blanket—or throw is the word—is the work of my dearest friend. I think she’s made all those shades of gray warm rather than somber.”
“Marco, your view! You’re going to see this every morning.”
He walked to the window, stood shoulder to shoulder with Breen. “It’s like a painting. You can have this room if you like it better.”
“No.” She tipped her head toward his shoulder. “It feels like you.”
“It’s lovely, it is, to see friendship so true. I know it myself, and what it means to the heart. Why don’t I show you the other bedroom? I think you’ll be happy with it, Breen.”
“If it’s anything close to this, I’ll be ecstatic. Does your husband work nearby?” Breen asked as they walked down the hall again. “If he’d ship to the States, I’d love to have a piece he made. I’m going to be in the market for some new things.”
“Oh sure, it’s not far as the crow flies. We can talk about all that when you’re well and settled.”
She gestured Breen into the room.
Carved faeries danced on the headboard. Dragons flew and flowers bloomed. The throw at the foot blended hues of green, from shadowy forest to soft sea. The desk in the corner held more flowers, an antique inkwell, and a dark green bowl of colorful tumbled stones. The art on the walls carried the theme of the bed with flowers and faeries, and a striking one over the bed of a woman—her back to the room as she faced a misty lake, her long white dress painted as if to ripple in the wind, her fall of red hair streaming in curls.
But Breen could only stare at the view that swept outside the windows.
The forest crept in, full of glorious secrets; the water rolled and rolled. She saw a pair of swans gliding near the shore.
And under a sky gone blue and bright with a summer day, the mountains.
“I think she’s pleased,” Finola said to Marco.
“Oh yeah, she is. You’ve got a fireplace, Breen. We built our dream houses—in our heads—when we were kids. Breen always had a fireplace in the bedroom.”
Small, stone, the split logs laid, it murmured cozy nights.
“The pictures—I saw pictures online.”
“Oh, we did a bit of decorating since. We need to—what is it?—update all that.” Finola merely smiled as Breen turned to her. “Will it do for you then?”
“Ms. McGill—”
“Oh now, it’s Finola to you and yours.”
“I cried in the car,” she heard herself saying. “Because when I saw the cottage it was so much what I wanted. And now this? It’s everything and more. I’ll take good care of it, I promise.”
Those strong, direct eyes softened again. “I’ve no doubt you will. Now i
f we could take a quick walk outside? I’ve keys for you, of course,” she began as she walked out, and down the hall to the stairs. “I can promise you’ll have no trouble here, but you lock up if you feel the better about it. There’s a little veg garden, and you should help yourself to that, to the flowers and the herbs. You’ll have Seamus coming by early once or twice a week to tend to things,” she continued as she led the way back to the kitchen and out its door to the back.
“The flowers are just amazing.”
“Well now, Seamus has the touch for certain.”
“I’d really like to learn how to garden. Would he mind if I asked him questions?”
“Talk your ear off more like than mind. You ask away. Now, as you can see, there are paths going into the woods, down to the bay. You can walk and wander where you please. There’s a path through the woods to the near village. And there you see you’ve plenty of wood for the fire under the lean-to. If you need more, just tell Seamus and we’ll see to it.”
Breen thought if she could have any house in the world with any view in the world, it would be just this.
“Now, you won’t always have so fine a day as this,” Finola continued. “It’s Ireland, after all—but when you do, you might sit there at the little table and enjoy the air and a nice cuppa or that glass of wine. Oh, I all but forgot! You’ve got the internet service. The password there is ‘magic one.’ That’s altogether—one word, I’m meaning—and written out, not the number itself.”
Marco took out his phone. “Got it. We’ll need that. Breen’s a blogger.”
“Is that the truth?”
“I’m new at it.”
“I’ll send you a link,” Marco told Finola. “You can bet she’ll be blogging about the cottage.”
“That would be lovely. Now, is there anything else I should tell you? Are you wondering about anything at all?”
“I can’t think of a thing. Honestly?” Breen looked around, tried to see it all at once. “I’m dazzled.”
“Then I’ll be on my way so you can relax after your journey. My nephew will have taken your bags up to your rooms by now. He’s a good lad, is Declan.”
“Oh, you didn’t have to do that.”
Once again, Finola waved it away as she went back inside. Now a bottle of wine stood on the counter.
The Awakening Page 12