by Jill Cox
“His face lit up like a toddler at Christmas,” Dad beamed. “And that was all it took. Your mum called Moira back and offered her the exact amount we had in the bank back home, which was ten thousand euros higher than the price they’d imagined, and now the Sullivans are the proud owners of the Juniper House.”
I pulled the laptop toward me and traced the outline of the house with my finger. “But isn’t running a B&B every bit as stressful as the restaurant business?”
“Yes.” Mum ran a finger along the edge of the kitchen table. “But they’ve got a housekeeper to help with the cleaning, plus the tourist season only runs five, maybe six months in Ireland. If you choose, you can shutter up for the winter.”
“Won’t you get bored?”
“Heavens, no,” my dad laughed. “I can play golf down at Lahinch or go fishing in the river. If we’re lucky, we might even get to travel a wee bit.”
I imagined my parents floating down the Nile on some river cruise. Or flying above the Kenyan savannah in a hot-air balloon. Neither of those trips would have been possible from Lincoln City, not only due to the expense, but also the logistics of traveling that far on so little time off from the restaurant.
“When would you move?” I asked finally. “Soon?”
Mum nodded. “We’ll be putting our house on the market after you head back to school. Which means you’ve only got a short time to decide what you’d like to keep and move it to the basement. We’ve decided to donate whatever is left. The McCarthys included their furniture in the offer, so we’re set. Whatever we bring with us has to be worth the price it costs to ship.”
I glanced around the kitchen again, and though my eyes filled with tears, I did not feel sad. For as long as I could remember, I’d wondered how different our lives might be if we’d never left Ireland. And as I stared at the bare countertops and empty walls, it was as though a brush began erasing my life in Oregon. Just like that, I understood why Pete had moved to Shanghai: without my brother, this wasn’t our home anymore. Letting go meant freedom.
To my complete surprise, I began to laugh. Really laugh, from the bottom of my belly, for the first time since my brother died. “Please let me come with you,” I said between each heaving breath. “After graduation, I mean. I want to move with you to Ireland.”
“But… no, love, that’s unnecessary,” Mum protested. “Come visit us as often as you like, but just because we’re giving up on our dream doesn’t mean you should give up on yours.”
“What dreams?” I turned and reached for her hand. “Please, Mum. Let me come with you. I promise I won’t be a burden. Let me stay in Doolin a few months until I figure out what I want to do with my life. I can wait tables to pay rent for a room at the Juniper House. Or, I could be your housekeeper. I won’t need a car because I won’t have any friends. What do you think?”
My mom stared at me for a long time, her face devoid of expression. But then she looked at my dad, and when they grinned at each other, I grinned too.
Dad reached over to squeeze my hand. “There’s an apartment just above the garage. You’d find it quite comfortable, but if you hate it, you can always come back here to your friends.”
“What friends? Drew’s headed to law school, the Treehouse boys will scatter to the four winds come May, and the Addison girls are all moving to Boston together. I have no reason to stick around this part of the world. Not anymore.”
My parents exchanged a glance. My dad asked, “You sure about this, darlin’?”
I imagined Pete on his phone, deleting us from his life. “One hundred percent,” I replied, pulling my parents to their feet as I swallowed them into a hug. “Ireland, here we come.”
EIGHTEEN
Doolin is a small burg in County Clare, halfway down the western coast of Ireland at nearly the same latitude as Dublin. Sprawling along a small stretch of craggy coastline between the Cliffs of Moher and the Burren, the village slopes down to the sea in hues of green and greener, dotted by brightly colored cottages and one extremely proud bull guarding the field off the main highway.
But don’t let the pastoral vibe fool you. Doolin is famous around the world for its music scene. Who knows why, but the local pubs draw the greatest of the great from all over.
Within days of their arrival back in the motherland that spring, the Sullivans took over the Juniper House and all of its belongings. On April 14th, the guests enjoyed afternoon tea and scones with the McCarthys, and on April 15th, they were with my parents.
Not one single guest noticed the difference.
I arrived three weeks later, twenty-four hours after I turned in my last final exam at Highgate College. That Saturday, while my classmates crossed the stage in their caps and gowns, I was chasing the neighbor’s chickens off our property.
Summer turned to fall, and the inn went from full occupancy every night to the occasional American who didn’t know the North Atlantic grew wild in the fall. Storms Abigail, Beatrice, Charlie, Dalton, and Ellery left us stuck inside without power for hours on end. Holidays came and went without much ado. And before I could blink, another year had passed. It was Saturday, December 13th.
I was twenty-three years old.
I woke that morning to the sound of my laptop beeping. When I checked the screen, I couldn’t help but smile. Dan Thomas was asking to video chat.
“Happy birthday, Sullivan,” he said as our computers connected. “Nice to see your face. I can’t say as much for your hair, though.”
“You’re hilarious. And lucky, because I’m normally up to my elbows in scones and clotted cream this time of morning. But this is the off-season, so you caught me sleeping.”
“Scones? You’ve never baked anything for me. Rude.”
“Well, then, convince that humanitarian group you’re working for that you need to handle a crisis in Dublin. I can have you sitting in Mum’s kitchen within three hours, depending on traffic.”
“Three hours? I thought you guys lived on the opposite side of the country from Dublin?”
“Therein lies the beauty of Ireland, old chap. Thanks to our efficient network of highways and roundabouts, you can drive all the way across the country in the same amount of time it takes you to drive from Portland to Lincoln City.”
Dan crossed his arms and leaned back against his chair. “Good to know Sutton wasn’t exaggerating when he called you Ireland’s newest tourism ambassador. He says hello, by the way. And he promises he’ll call you later today.”
“You saw Drew? Where?”
“He stopped off in Portland on his way from Seattle to the coast, so we met up at some new micro pub near Highgate. Did you wake up fifty times during the night with your ears burning?”
“No. Why?”
“Well, we may have spent at least thirty minutes complaining about how neither of us hears from you. Like, ever. I told him you don’t talk to the Addison girls much either, but that seemed to make things worse. Where’ve ya been, sister?”
“Oof, sorry. I don’t even have a decent excuse. I spend all day every day either writing in my room, helping my parents at the inn, or waitressing at the pub across the street. My life’s been reduced to a two-hundred meter radius.”
Dan smiled. “Can I just say something here? This is the first time in a year and a half that I feel like I’m looking at you, Meredith. It’s like you’ve filled back into your skin or something.”
“Is that your way of saying I need to cut back on the soda bread?”
“Stop that. Your fire is back, like a legit Irish lass. You’ve even got a tiny brogue.”
“No I don’t.”
“Yes, you do,” he mimicked, with an almost perfect Irish lilt. “But I warn you, if you start inserting that useless extra U into your spelling, I will stop responding, full stop. See what I did there?”
“Aren’t you clever, saying ‘full stop’ instead of ‘period’?” I rolled my eyes. “The U isn’t useless, you know. Maybe America should add it back.”
; “I mean it, Sullivan. I’m already stalking your @juniperhousedoolin accounts to keep you in line.” Dan’s mouth curved into a smile. “Remind me again which pub you work in?”
“Gus O’Connor’s, across the street from my house. It’s a pretty well-known pub around here. Ed Sheeran came in a couple of weekends ago.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yeah. He was making the rounds from one pub to the next. My boss Kieran is always telling me we’ve got some famous musician or another at the bar, but he’s the only one I’ve recognized. Not many people have that ginger swagger.”
“No, they don’t.” Lines suddenly appeared on Dan’s forehead, and his smile disappeared. “Look, I thought I could put this off until the end of our call, but I’m dying here, so I’m just going to blurt this out: Pete Russell has moved back to Portland.”
For a full ten seconds, I pinched my thigh just to make sure I was awake. “Whoa,” I finally exhaled. “Way to bury your lede, Danny.”
“I know. I’m sorry to dump that on you, but Drew and I saw him tonight at the pub.”
“Did you talk to him?”
“Talk to him?” Dan laughed wryly. “Uh, sure, if you count monosyllabic grunts as talking, then yes, absolutely. Neither one of us could shut ourselves up. Oh, and just in case you wonder where he lives? Downtown Portland. In a five-star hotel. Because that’s not weird or anything.”
My stomach coiled into a knot. “Did he say why he’s back?”
“He got a job teaching at St. Francis Prep. One of the French teachers went on maternity leave in early December, so they got in touch with Pete to see if he’d be interested, and boom. He spent Thanksgiving with the Logans, and now he’s here. Living in a five-star hotel on a substitute teacher’s salary. Or not. Because, you know, trust fund babies don’t need salaries.”
I wanted to throw up. “So you did move past the Neanderthal grunts at some point?”
“No, but I think Drew Sutton has learned a thing or two about leading the witness at law school.” Dan pushed his glasses up his nose and watched me for a long moment. “Do you remember at Pete’s graduation when I pointed out one of his neighbors, Brooks Darby? Her dad used to help Pete’s grandmother with her legal stuff.”
“Come on, Danny. We both know who Brooks is. Why do you ask?”
“Because she teaches at St. Francis Prep these days,” he replied, his cheeks flushing bright pink. “She’s the one who contacted Pete about the long-term substitute gig.”
“Brooks is a teacher? I thought she wanted to be a pastry chef.”
“Maybe for a hot minute, a few years back. But she studied Mathematics in college and picked up a Master’s in Education the last couple of years. She teaches Geometry.”
My brain felt like a jigsaw puzzle. “How do you know all of this, Danny?”
“She told me.” Dan ran his fingers through his hair. “Tonight at the pub.”
We stared at each other for what felt like days, and as the seconds ticked forward, I realized this bombshell was really no bombshell at all. Pete and Brooks had been gravitating toward each other for years. Maybe for their whole lives. Dan obviously knew it, and in my heart, I must’ve known it too. After all, I’d seen her face at graduation.
Of course Brooks had been the one to finally lure Pete home. Brooks Darby had it bad for Pete, and why wouldn’t she? Not only was he beautiful and funny and kind, Pete was her very own Drew Sutton – the boy next door who had always been too risky to lose.
“For the record, I did not want to be the messenger here.” Dan’s eyes searched mine frantically. “Have I mentioned Sutton’s word sorcery? Before I knew what hit me, I’d agreed to spill the tea. He convinced me it was my idea.”
A tear slipped down my cheek. “Let’s hope he goes to work for the district attorney, then.”
He looked at me funny. “You’re not angry with me?”
“Danny,” I laughed through a sob. “You may be the only real friend I have left. I would much rather hear bad news from you, which is probably why Drew tricked you into telling me.”
“Maybe so, but I’m still pissed. I’ve never wanted to punch anyone as badly as I wanted to punch both Sutton and Russell tonight. If they were famous, I’d be calling up TMZ right now to ruin their lives.”
Another tiny laugh escaped me. “Now there’s a visual. I mean, you could definitely hold your own with Drew, but Pete’s got fifty pounds on you.”
“You think I’m joking? That guy’s lucky I’d only had one beer before he showed up, or I would’ve been ready to rumble.”
Laughter spilled from me, and then I was crying again. Not so much for the obvious reason, but because I missed this brother-and-sister-in-arms thing Dan and I had forged last year. I missed it so much that I actually wrapped my arms around my own waist, just so I wouldn’t feel so alone.
Dan leaned forward on his desk, crossing his arms. “You okay?”
An extremely unattractive sniffle escaped my nose. “I will be. Especially if you change the subject right this second and never mention Brooks Darby again for the rest of our lives.”
“You got it,” he smiled. “So, how’s my favorite author-in-training? Sutton claims you finally finished your novel. Was he telling the truth?”
He was.
The week after Christmas last year, I’d gotten an e-mail from Dr. Carraway. “Come to my office the first Monday back,” he’d written. “Be there an hour before our first class. I’d like to discuss your final project.”
The instant I’d crossed his threshold, Dr. Carraway had pushed my short story, Begin the Beguine, across the desk with a giant red A+ scribbled across the top. “Nice work,” he’d conceded. “Your story has bones, Miss Sullivan. It’s clear that you care about these characters, and I’d like to hear more. Maybe this semester, you could flesh out their story.”
So, with his help, I’d written the story of Luke Jameson and Allie McIntosh. One hundred pages, to be exact – right up to the events at the Tuileries that inspired my short story the previous semester.
But I didn’t stop there. After I’d settled in to life in Doolin, I wrote another two hundred pages. By the time I finished a full draft in August, the story was a patchwork quilt of truth and fiction. Since then I’d revised it four more times, and with each new version, Luke and Allie became characters in their own right.
Especially once I’d removed Drew Sutton from the picture.
Reaching behind me, I pulled a three-ring binder off my nightstand, holding it up to my laptop camera for Dan to see. “I present to you Untitled Draft, Version 5.0.”
“Whoa. That is a brick.”
“Current word count: seventy-five thousand, give or take a few words. Current page count: three hundred and three. But don’t get too excited. It’s still too rough a draft to let you read.”
Dan’s expression softened. “Is it still a fairy-tale love story?”
“Fairy tale? Rude, Danny. No way.” I pretended to puke. “Luke and Allie fight to save the world from a mad cow disease pandemic. And the only fairies involved in this tale are the zombified plague victims living in the forest. At least, that was my working plan for draft six.”
“Sounds intriguing.”
“I thought so.” I ran my hand along the spine of the notebook. “Anyway, the fairy tale version was overrated, as all fairy tales are. Besides, don’t most authors have at least ten unpublished works hiding in the back of their closets? I should probably clear out some space. And start a new project.”
“What? No! You can’t quit now. You’ve already written five drafts!”
“Come on, Danny. You’re not going to make me say this out loud, are you?”
“What, that in real life, Luke keeps getting sidetracked by fembots? Never.” He scanned my face. “Listen, Meredith, if you need to take a break from this story while you adjust to the Brooks bombshell, take a break. Just promise me you’ll keep writing. I think you must find it therapeutic. You aren’t vibing off t
he walls with all that frenetic energy that used to drive me crazy.”
“It drove you crazy? Imagine what it’s like to be me.”
Dan grinned. “What about a children’s book? You could write about that crazy bull you’re obsessed with. The one that lives up the road from your house.”
“You mean Angus?” I pursed my lips together. “Oh, bless him. Angus died last month.”
“Don’t tell me. Mad cow disease?”
“Well, not that you’ll believe me, but yes, actually. The national news even came all the way out to pokey ole Doolin to interview his farmer and the nearby villagers.”
Dan smiled again, only this time, his smile was real. “You know what? You amaze me. I was legitimately terrified to tell you about Brooks, but you didn’t freak out like I expected. In fact, you brought your A-game with the zombie jokes and mad cow shenanigans.”
“Hey, now – mad cow disease is no laughing matter. Your brain turns to Swiss cheese.”
“I’ll steer clear. Get it?”
“That was lame, Danny.”
“But you smiled. I saw it.”
“Whatever you say.”
Dan’s smile shifted to wistful. “Look, I know I haven’t read your manuscript, and maybe it’s total crap. But for once in your life, no one’s grading you. So don’t give up, okay? I was there in Paris. I had a front row seat to your life, and if you ask me, you and Pete had a story worth telling.”
“Sure we did. Right up until we left it in pieces behind the Treehouse.”
“That’s the thing, isn’t it?” Dan propped his chin on his hand. “We spend all this time chasing happy endings, but by definition, an ending is a terminus. We forget that all the good stuff happens in the middle.”
After we said goodbye, I flipped through my binder. Untitled Draft 5.0 indeed. How would I ever face down this story again now that real-life Luke had cozied up to his trust fund soulmate? Because even though I hadn’t done it consciously, every word on the page read back to me like a last-ditch effort to save my long-lost love.