“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 if 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.

“Enjoy the first evening of many.” She set keys beside the wine.

“You can bet we will,” Marco told her. “Why don’t I open this, and you can join us in a glass?”

“Aren’t you the sweet one, and I thank you. But I have to get on my way. No, no, now, open that wine. I’ll show myself the door, as I know where it is.” She waved them away, walked to the door. And paused, looked back. “Fáilte. Déithe libh. A welcome and a blessing to you both.”

“Okay, this is awesome. I gotta say I figured on a cottage deal for you, girl. Now I’m all in. And I’m opening this wine right now.”

“Yes, do that. It is awesome. And she was awesome. Did you see her skin? She has to be at least sixty, even if she got married as a teenager, and she’s . . . I figured she was maybe forty.”

“If she had work, it’s top-of-the-line. Just like this stove, where I’m going to cook us a hell of a meal later. You’ve got to blog your fine ass off about this place.”

“I will in the morning, after I sleep in that amazing bed. Pour really big glasses, Marco, and let’s take them and walk down to the water. I want to take my shoes off and put my feet in the bay.”

“Put them in, hell. We’re going to take off our shoes, drink big glasses of wine, and dance in the freaking bay.”

“I’m in.”

CHAPTER NINE

Breen woke as the first soft light of morning slid into the room. She’d slept deep and—as far as she remembered—dreamless. She wondered if the crystal of pale pink hanging over the bed—one she hadn’t noticed until she’d climbed in—had anything to do with it.

She’d known a girl in college who’d sworn by crystal power. Not that she believed any of that.

All she knew for certain was she felt rested, energized, and stupidly happy. She plumped her pillows up, settled back to bask in the room, the view coming to life outside the windows, and the fact she was, for the rest of the summer, home.

Because she caught herself already writing the blog in her head, she bounded up. She pulled a sweatshirt over the T-shirt she’d slept in, thick socks on her bare feet, and went downstairs to make coffee.

She took a big white mug of it into the main-level bedroom, settled down at the laptop she’d set up on the desk.

Then just sipped coffee and sighed at the rioting flowers outside the glass door.

They’d already agreed on a day at the cottage, a lazy one. Marco would sleep in, no question. They’d explore the area—together or separately. And maybe she’d settle in for a couple of hours and work on what she thought might be a short story, or a novel, or nothing at all.

But she wanted to try. Blogging had opened the door—as she now suspected Marco had meant it to.

She booted up her laptop, then took a deep breath.

A thin, soft rain fell as we left the magic and wonder of Dromoland, she began.

More than ninety minutes later, almost without pause, she finished:

I feel more at home here, sitting at this pretty little desk, looking out at the glorious garden a man named Seamus tends, than I have anywhere in my life. If the purpose of all of this really is Finding Me, I think I’ve begun to.

She got another cup of coffee before she went over it all, chose and added photos. Agonized over whether she could and should do better. Lectured herself, then put it up.

Back upstairs, she put on workout gear, then used the dual purpose of the room for a solid forty-five minutes.

When she heard clattering in the kitchen, she bounded out to find Marco fumbling at the coffee machine.

“Good morning!”

He gave her a grunt.

“I’ve done the blog, worked out. I’m going to cook breakfast—which I can actually handle—then shower, change, take a walk. What are you going to do?”

“Drink coffee. And try to ignore my overly perky roommate.”

“I’ve got all this energy!” To prove it, she turned two tight pirouettes.

He answered that with a sleepy, sour look.

“I’ll go shower and change first. That’ll give you time to wake up before bacon and eggs.”

“Deal. Take your perky self upstairs. I’m going to take this coffee . . .” He circled a finger at the door.

“Outside.”

“Yeah, there.” He rubbed his eyes, managed a smile. “It’s annoying as fuck, but perky looks good on you.”

“Feels good. Breakfast in thirty,” she called out as she bounded from the room.

She served it on the patio. It might’ve been a bit chilly, but not too. And it wasn’t raining. Yet.

“Blog’s good, Breen.” He shoveled eggs in his mouth like a man starving. “Just gets better and better.”

“Because everything’s better and better.” She looked out at the water, softly blue as the sun pushed light through the clouds, and at the birds that skimmed along, the boat—red as a stop sign—plying its way.

“I love it here. I know it hasn’t even been a day, but I love it here.”

“It suits you.” He studied her as he bit into a slice of the brown bread she’d toasted. “What you wrote at the end of your blog? I think that’s true.”

“I hope it is. I do want that walk—and I need to get a bird book to go with my flower book. There are so many of them, and I want to know what they are. And it’s a little scary, but I want to sit down today and try to write. Not blog, but write a story. Or start to.”

He hefted his coffee mug, tapped it to hers. “Then that’s what you’ll do.”

“You aimed me that way, toward writing. Trying to.”

“Maybe.” Then he grinned at her. “You can give a girl a nudge, but she has to take the step, right? Anyway, I’ll stay out of your hair so you can concentrate. I think I’ll take a trip into the village. I can poke around, scout out someplace we can go when we want to eat out, where there’s music.”