Her Great Irish Escape

by Michele Brouder

Grace paid attention to where they were walking and scanned the area, looking for the now-infamous bull. The farm was divided into fields, hedged off by either stone walls, dense hedges, or an electric fence, which Declan had warned them about.

  As they walked along the footpath, they cut through two or three fields, the land gently sloping. In the distance, Grace could see hills covered in a wildflower the color of mustard. Wind turbines lined the hilltops, their blades lazily revolving.

  Her line of sight was soon interrupted by a grassy mound of earth that was taller than she was. The bottom of this small hill was ringed around with trees. It actually looked ridiculous in the middle of the field, with the herd of dairy cows surrounding it. Grace frowned at it.

  Declan stopped walking and turned to face the tour group.

  “Do you see that hill in the middle of the field, surrounded by trees?”

  “It’s a little hard to miss,” Grace said with a laugh.

  Declan smiled at her and it made Grace feel fuzzy inside.

  “That’s what is called a hill fort or, more commonly, a faery fort,” he explained. “They are believed to be from the Iron Age to the early Christian times.”

  “In other words, they’re old,” the priest piped in.

  “Very,” Declan confirmed. “These are found all over Ireland. There are thousands of them.”

  “But what are they?” Mr. Peete asked, frowning.

  “It’s thought they were used as dwellings. There’d be a bank or a ditch that would circle the bottom of it, and at night, the people could bring their livestock into the hill dwelling to keep them safe from other predatory species like foxes and such.”

  “And you say there are thousands of them?” asked Mr. Peete in disbelief.

  Declan nodded. “That’s right.”

  “It’s hard to believe. You’d think over time they’d be torn down or leveled,” Mr. Peete said, looking at his wife, who nodded in agreement.

  Declan shook his head. “There was a lot of superstition in old Ireland. It used to be said that these forts housed faeries, or that the Celts had imbued them with magic. It was considered bad luck to knock them down. And there’d be stories traveling the countryside of so-and-so knocking down a faery fort and then some tragedy befalling him. Farmers just left them as is and worked around them. But now, they’ve all been properly mapped in the country, so the ones that are left you can’t tear down. You’d be fined heavily.”

  “That’s good,” Mrs. Robinson said, nodding her approval.

  Mr. Robinson nodded along with his wife and said, “That’s good.”

  Without taking his eyes off the earthen mound, Declan said, “I grew up on a farm. Both my father’s and my mother’s people were farmers. We had a huge faery fort in our back field. It’s still in existence to this day. When I was a young boy, my father showed me the underground tunnel that connected it to another faery fort at a neighboring farm. Who knows how long that tunnel was there? And for what reason. My mother deemed the tunnel unsafe for us, and my father boarded it up. But it’s still there.”

  The little details Declan gave them about Ireland were fascinating, Grace thought. It was stuff that couldn’t be found in tour books and guides.

  “We can walk up to the fort and take some pictures. Just mind the mud,” Declan said, stepping onto the field.

  Only Mrs. Robinson and Mrs. Peete declined the invitation, but Grace joined Declan, the priest, Mr. Robinson, and Mr. Peete and made her way to the mound. She thought it was ironic that something as simple as a small hill ringed by trees could have so much historic significance.

  She pulled her phone from her pocket and began to snap some photos.

  “Would you like me to take a picture of you in front of the fort?” Declan asked from behind her, startling her.

  “Do you mind?” she asked. She’d love to be in the picture to give it some scale. Up close, it was huge.

  “Not at all,” he said, holding his hand out for her phone.

  As she handed it to him, her fingertips brushed against his and the sensation made her breath hitch. He gave her a warm smile and said nothing. Had he not felt it, too? Not the lightning-bolt, electric shock that romances tended to go on about but that feeling of connection, that shiver that made all the little hairs on her body stand upright.

  Grace drew one conclusion: Declan O’Grady was a dangerous man.

  She sidestepped him, keeping her eye on the faery fort. Grace positioned herself in front of it. She wanted to have tangible proof that she’d actually been in Ireland. That she’d dealt with her heartache by doing something positive. That she didn’t curl up in a ball and die. It wasn’t that she hadn’t been affected by being dumped at the altar; she had. In fact, there were some moments where she felt absolutely raw and exposed. But she didn’t want it to be her undoing. She couldn’t let it. It was so easy to get into a rut and even harder to get out of it. Every day, it took every ounce of her energy to sit up in bed and get moving. At least here in Ireland, there were things to do that made her get out of bed. And hopefully, once she returned home, she would continue to get out of bed.

  Declan held her phone up and frowned. He put the phone down at his side. “Are you not going to smile, Grace Kelly?”

  She felt self-conscious smiling, especially with him taking the picture.

  “Ah, that’s much better,” he said, lifting the phone back up and centering her in the frame.

  She heard the shutter snap twice.

  “There you go,” he said, handing her phone back to her.

  “Um, how about I get your picture?” she asked, feeling foolish. She looked down at the ground and then lifted her head just as quick. He regarded her with one eyebrow raised.

  “Never mind,” she muttered, beginning to head back to the footpath.

  “I didn’t say no,” he said quietly from behind her.

  “You didn’t say anything,” she said to him, meeting his gaze with her own challenging one.

  He laughed, his eyes twinkling and a grin breaking out on his face. “Come on, Grace Kelly, take my picture,” he said. “I may even autograph it for you.”

  After she snapped a photo of him, they walked side by side back toward the footpath where the others waited.

  “How long are you in Ireland?” he asked casually.

  “I go home on Tuesday,” she replied, trying to avoid tripping by keeping her eyes on the uneven ground where she was walking.

  “Not a lot of time left,” he observed.

  “No.”

  “Where are you off to after this?” he asked.

  “Dublin,” she said.

  “Dublin’s a great city, you’re sure to enjoy it,” he said.

  “Any recommendations?” she asked.

  He shrugged. “It depends on what you like to do.”

  “Museums and stuff,” she replied.

  He stopped walking. “Museums? Really?”

  She smiled. “Yes, I’m an archivist back home.”

  “For a museum?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she replied.

  “Well, you’ve come to the right country if it’s history you’re interested in,” he said. “There’s the Museum of Ireland on Kildare Street. That place is amazing. Make sure you see that. Also, there’s the obvious: Dublin Library at Trinity College and the Book of Kells.”

  Grace smiled. “I’ll be sure to check both those places out.”

  “For the Book of Kells, it would be best if you purchased your ticket online ahead of time. The lines can be notoriously long.”

  “Thanks for the tip, I appreciate it,” she said.

  They went quiet once they reached the footpath.

  Declan glanced around quickly to make sure everyone was there and hadn’t run afoul of the bull.

  “Would ye be ready for a cup of tea?” he asked the rest of the group.

  “I certainly would,” the priest said.

  “Me, too,” said Mrs. Peete. “I’m absolutely parched.”
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  “Very good,” Declan said. “Let’s get on the bus. Twenty minutes from here, you’ll find the best cup of tea in Ireland.”

  Once they were on the bus, they were back on the road in no time. But after ten minutes, Declan stopped the bus in the middle of the road and stood up from his seat.

  He turned to the passengers. “There’s a bit of a delay. I’ll get it sorted and be back in a few minutes.”

  Grace stood up from her seat in the back and saw a bunch of black-and-white cows milling about in the middle of the road. Everyone else watched, mesmerized.

  Declan walked through the herd about four hundred feet up the road, where there was a gate in the middle of the hedge. He opened it. From there, he returned to the escaped cows and gently swatted them on their backsides. Grace’s hand flew to her mouth to cover her laughter when one muddy tail caught Declan in the mouth. He coughed and spit and narrowed his eyes. He yelled a hard, short “Aye, aye,” as he maneuvered the beasts into the field. The last cow proved to be tricky as she tried to outmaneuver Declan, but in the end, she went into the field. Once all the cows were off the road, he closed the gate. As he stepped back onto the road, a tractor approached from the opposite direction. Declan turned and trotted toward it.

  The tractor stopped and idled as Declan approached. Declan spoke to the driver while gesturing with his arms and hands.

  When he was finished, he trotted back toward the bus and boarded it, breathless. From a box next to the driver’s seat, he grabbed a bottle of hand sanitizer and squeezed a small glob onto his hands.

  “Now that was a bit of excitement for the day,” he said.

  “How did you know those cows belonged in that field?” Mrs. Robinson asked.

  “Yeah, how did you know those cows belonged in that field?” Mr. Robinson repeated.

  “I didn’t. Most important thing is to just get them off the road. They wouldn’t have come far,” he explained. “Actually, the field belongs to that farmer in the tractor. They aren’t his cows, but he’ll find out who they belong to.”

  He looked at them all, his face flushed, his hair dishevelled. “Now, let’s get that cuppa.”

  Chapter Four

  Declan drove the bus down the narrow country road. He could close his eyes and he’d still get them there, as he knew the route by heart. Content, he whistled an old Irish tune, its name long forgotten. The cows were soon forgotten, too, as all thoughts led back to the American, Grace Kelly. Earlier, when they’d been snapping photos of each other, he was pretty sure a “moment” had passed between them. He’d felt it and he was almost certain she’d felt it, too. It was something you read about in books. It was something that hadn’t happened to him before. Oh, he’d flirted with his share of girls, and there were girls he’d dated that he liked, but today was the first time he’d felt a connection to one. And the encouraging aspect was that she hadn’t been dismissive of him. If anything, she seemed almost embarrassed, which suggested to him that she had felt something.

  A quick glance in the rearview mirror showed his passengers relaxed and smiling. As soon as the minibus pulled down the passageway to his grandmother’s bungalow, he explained to them the plan.

  “You may have noticed that we drink a lot of tea in this country,” Declan said. When everyone agreed with murmurs of yes, he continued. “In the world, Ireland ranks number two in regard to annual consumption of tea. Turkey is number one. The average Irish person drinks about three hundred liters of tea per year.”

  This was met with mutters of amazement.

  “In Ireland, if you go to visit someone, you will not get out of the house without a cup of tea and a sweet. That could be a slice of tart or cake or all of the above.” He pulled the bus to a stop in front of the whitewashed wall surrounding the small garden in front of the cottage. “The mighty cup of tea is affectionately known as a cuppa.”

  “Look at all the beautiful roses,” Mrs. Peete said from her seat.

  “This is my gran’s house.”

  “You brought us to your gran’s house for tea?” Mrs. Robinson cried. Declan couldn’t tell if she was offended or surprised or both.

  “It was at her request,” he explained, getting out of his seat. He looked at them knowingly. “And when Gran tells you to do something, you do it.” This got a twitter of laughs out of his group and even a smile from Grace. When Grace Kelly smiled, it felt like the spring thaw.

  As they got off of the bus, Declan’s grandmother emerged from the front entrance of her house. She had on her usual skirt, cardigan, and flowered apron. She threw open her arms to the group. “You’re all very welcome to Ballymaloo cottage. I’m Declan’s gran. You can call me Mary.”

  Mrs. Peete commented again on the beautiful roses, and Gran proudly showed the group her flower garden out front and the vegetable garden out back. After fifteen minutes of a walkabout, she turned to the group and asked, “Would anyone be interested in a cup of tea?”

  The tour group followed her in like ducklings following the mother duck into the pond. She held open the door of her sitting room in the front of the house and invited them all to take a seat. Gran had placed some of her kitchen chairs around her living-room suite to accommodate everyone. Declan wanted to kick himself. He should have asked if she needed any help when he’d been there the night before. That was the problem with living away from home: alone, you became so self-absorbed that you forgot about the people around you and what they might need.

  “Declan, you can help me carry everything in,” Gran said.

  Several members of the group offered to help as well, but Gran waved them away with her hand. “Not at all! Declan and I can handle it.”

  There was an assortment of finger foods, from sandwiches to desserts, laid out on the kitchen table. She had her best china out, Declan observed, the familiar white teacups with their red and pink roses and matching plates. A big silver teapot steamed with tea. Barry’s Tea, Declan was willing to bet.

  “Declan, would you be a love and take the tea in? I can bring in everything else.”

  “No, you come in with me and start pouring the tea, and I’ll bring everything else in,” Declan ordered good-naturedly. Gran laughed a girlish giggle.

  As the plates were brought in, Gran began to pour tea and pass cups around. There were trays of little sandwiches—egg mayonnaise, ham and coleslaw, and turkey and stuffing—cut in quarters with the crusts removed. On a smaller tray were slices of brown bread with butter and smoked salmon. At each end of the coffee table were three-tiered cake plates bearing slices of cakes and tarts and biscuits.

  Once everyone had their tea and a plate each of sandwiches and desserts, Gran sat down in an upright chair and helped herself to tea and something to eat.

  “Now, why don’t you tell me your names, where you’re from, and what you do back in America,” she instructed. She turned to her right, to Mrs. Peete. “Why don’t you start?”

  Mrs. Peete set her plate down. “My name is Rhoda Peete, and this is my husband, Tim. We’re from North Carolina and we own an online stationery business, which we are in the process of handing off to our son and his wife.”

  Gran smiled. “Time to retire?”

  “Exactly,” Mrs. Peete agreed. “And Ireland was the place we’ve always wanted to go to when we retired.”

  “How do you like it so far?” Gran asked, taking a bite of a ham sandwich.

  Mrs. Peete looked at her husband and they both smiled. “We love it! We’re only sorry that we didn’t do it sooner.”

  Mr. Peete reached for some desserts from the cake stand.

  “Try some coffee cake,” Gran said.

  “It’s award winning,” Declan added.

  “Don’t mind if I do,” Mr. Peete said, helping himself. He took a bite and exclaimed, “It tastes just like coffee!”

  Gran frowned. “Yes, that’s why they call it coffee cake.” She looked at Declan for an explanation, but Declan could only shrug.

  Mrs. Peete and Mrs. Robinso
n laughed.

  “American coffee cake is a plain cake, usually with a cinnamon crumb topping,” Mrs. Peete explained.

  Gran turned back to Declan. “Why do they call it coffee cake if it has nothing to do with coffee?”

  Declan smiled and shrugged again.

  The priest, sitting next to Mr. Peete, spoke when Mrs. Peete was finished. “I’m Father Ken Smolarek from Chicago. I’m pastor emeritus at Our Lady of Good Counsel outside Chicago. My father was a Polish-American and my mother was Irish. She came from County Clare. This is my third trip to Ireland. I love it more each time I come here,” he enthused.

  Gran asked for his cup and poured him more tea.

  Mr. Robinson spoke up next. “My name is Jim Robinson and this is my lovely bride, Helen.” He smiled at her. Declan thought it was sweet that he still referred to his wife as his bride even though they were up in years.

  “How long have you been married?” Gran asked.

  “Fifty-five years! We’re from Jackson Hole, Wyoming,” Mrs. Robinson answered. “We’ve got three daughters and seven granddaughters!”

  “No boys?” Gran asked.

  “Nope, just our sons-in-law,” Mrs. Robinson said.

  “And thank God for them,” Mr. Robinson said, looking at Declan and Mr. Peete. “If you know what I mean.”

  “What do you do in Jackson Hole?” Declan asked.

  “We’re retired. I was a detective in the state police, and Helen taught music in the elementary school for over thirty years.”

  Sitting next to the Robinsons, Grace sipped her tea and cleared her throat before speaking. “My name is Grace Kelly, and I’m an archivist at a museum in Boston.”

  Gran’s face lit up. “Grace Kelly! There’s must be a story there with how you ended up with the name of a film star.”

  Declan had wondered more than once about her backstory, and he hoped against hope that she would tell it.

  Not to be denied, Gran prompted Grace, “Come on, let’s hear it.”

  That was the beauty of being elderly, Declan thought, you could say what you wanted and ask what you wanted and expect to be answered.

  Grace smiled. “My father is a film buff. And he decided before I was born that if I was a girl, I was to be called Grace. If I was a boy then it would be ‘Gene.’ And I happened to be born on November 12th, which is Grace Kelly’s actual birthday. My father felt that it was fate.” She laughed.