“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 surface.

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.”