“That would be great. There are lots of places to see, and we can plan routes.”

“But not today.” To prove it, he shot out his legs, crossed his ankles. “Close to home today.”

“Exactly. Remember that pledge we made the night we moved into our apartment?”

“Oh yeah. If neither of us find the love of our lives, you and me live together forever.”

“Still on?”

“Damn straight, girl.”

She’d be happy with that, Breen thought as she set out on her walk. In a lot of ways, Marco was the love of her life. Just minus the sex. And sex wasn’t that big a deal—especially when you weren’t having it anyway.

She walked along the narrow strip of beach first, letting the wind stream over her hair, her scarf, her jacket. And letting her mind roll toward the story she wanted to tell.

Maybe she didn’t know exactly how to start, but it was time to sit down and try. In fact, it was past time. Though she looked with considerable yearning toward the woods, she walked back to the cottage.

No excuses, she told herself. She had an empty cozy house without distractions and a solid space of time. Maybe it was good the entire idea of trying to write, of trying to be a writer made her anxious.

Maybe she’d write better nervous.

She took a jug of water to her desk, opened her laptop.

She spent what felt like hours staring at the screen, fingers poised on the keyboard.

Then her fingers began to move.

A blue moon rose the night the visitor came to call, and Clara’s life changed forever.

That first sentence cracked open a dam inside her, and Breen wrote in a flood for two hours.

When she surfaced, she found herself astonished to see she’d filled eight pages with words.

Some of them—most, she thought—were probably terrible. Or worse, even worse, just silly. But she’d written them.

She poured a glass of water, downed it. She got up, paced the room, walked outside, paced some more. And realized she wasn’t done.

This time she got a Coke to fortify her, used the little buzz to write for another two hours.

Though it terrified her, she went back to the beginning, began to read. She caught herself second-guessing, fiddling, even considering tossing it all out and starting again.

Then realized she had to stop, step away, let it all just sit. She’d pick it up again in the morning, just start again where she left off.

Because it was amazing to ride along on the current of the story, and she didn’t want to give that up.

Dazed, she walked out to find Marco at the stove, something in a pot filling the air with delicious.

“I didn’t hear you come back.”

“You were in deep, girl. I’ve done made us some potato and ham soup, got the fire going—it’s raining and cooled down some, and I’m trying my hand at making soda bread. Don’t judge it harsh, as I’m a bread-baking virgin.”

“I didn’t help. What time is it?”

“It’s glass of wine time for you.”

She glanced at the time. “Holy crap! I didn’t realize. You didn’t have to do all this, Marco. I figured we’d go into the village for dinner.”

“I had my fun, and I’ve got a couple spots picked out for tomorrow night.” He poured her a glass of wine from the bottle he’d set on the counter. “You know I like to cook it up when I’ve got the time, and this Philly boy ain’t never made potato soup and soda bread.”

She had to admit he looked as happy as happy got as he topped off his own wine.

“I had a sandwich the size of Utah in a pub,” he continued, “and lots of conversation. Did a little shopping. Found a bird book for you, a cookbook for me—and used my book to try out what’s for dinner.”

When he uncovered the shaggy round of bread with a deep X in the center, she studied it.

“You actually made bread. From . . . flour.”

“Buttermilk, too. I bought freaking buttermilk. Looks pretty good, right?”

“Looks great, smells great. Why aren’t we eating it?”

“Because this soup needs more time, and we’re going to use that to sit by the fire, drink some wine while you tell me about your writing day.”

“Actually, I think I went into a fugue state.”

He covered the bread again before giving the soup another stir. Then he took her hand, grabbed the wine bottle, and steered her into the living room.

“Like I said, you were in deep when I poked my head in.”

“I wrote fifteen pages, Marco.”

“That’s a lot. That feels like a lot. Can I read them?”

“I . . . not yet. I haven’t even read them. I started to.” Like him, she propped her feet on the coffee table. “Then, I don’t know, I felt like I should just walk away for now, let it all . . . simmer like your soup, I guess.”

“Sounds smart. You’re going to be a natural at this.”

“I don’t know about that, but it felt good, and that’s enough for now. It all feels good.”

So did eating soup and bread in the kitchen, and snuggling up with a book in front of the fire. And waking up in the morning to another day.

She wrote her blog, thinking of it as a warm-up act, then spent an hour on her book. Only an hour, as she set a timer. She’d have weeks and weeks of alone soon, and didn’t want to miss the time she had with Marco.

They ventured out, visiting sights and villages, then had dinner in a pub in Clifden with music—and conversation.

She found two people who remembered her father, and his music, but not with the clarity of Tom from Doolin.

They fell into a routine. Breen rose early to write, then they’d have a day out to ramble with a pub meal and music, juggled with days closer to the cottage and dinner at home with Marco walking her through simple recipes.

No matter how hard she tried to stop time, the ten days flew.

On a drippy day that mirrored her mood, she drove her best friend back to Shannon Airport.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do without you, Marco. Maybe I should—”

“Don’t you even start to say maybe you should go back to Philly, too. You just gave me the best two weeks of my life. Don’t go spoiling it.”

“It’s one thing to talk about spending a whole summer here, by myself. It’s another to actually do it.”

“You’re going to be more than fine. You think I could go if I didn’t know that in my gut? And I’ll tell you what you’re going to do. You’re going to write your ass off, learn to cook some more—you’re doing okay there.”

“Because you stop me before I screw up.”

“Screw up, eat a sandwich,” he said with a shrug. “You’re going to take those crazy long walks you love so much, text me every damn day. And find you. You do that for me, Breen.” He squeezed her hand. “You find you, then you can bring you home because I’m going to miss the hot holy hell out of you.”

“I already miss you. I couldn’t have done any of this without you.”

“That goes both ways.”

Her heart sank, just sank out of her body when she made the turn for the airport.

“You’re going to drop me at the curb, like we said.”

“I can park and come in, and—”

“No way. We’ll both cry like babies. I got myself a manly tat, I can’t be crying like a baby.”

“I’m going to cry anyway.”

“Do me a solid, Breen.”

Already sniffling, she drove toward departures. “You know I will.”

“Have fun with all of it. Just let go and have fun. I want to picture you sitting at that desk writing and having fun with it. Sitting outside with some wine, looking at the water, and having fun with it. Maybe getting yourself out for a night at the pub and flirting with some sexy Irish guy, and having fun with it.”

“I’m going to try.”

“I’m gonna Yoda you. There is no try. Okay now, you’ve got Finola’s number if you need anything at the cottage, and you know how to work the stove and oven. Don’t forget to lock up at night even though.”

“I won’t. Don’t worry about me, Marco.”

“Shit, course I’m going to worry about you some. It’s part of my job.”

She pulled up at the curb, remembering how thrilled they’d both been when they’d arrived. “You’ve got your passport, your tickets, your—”

“I got it all.”

He got out to retrieve his bags while she got out and tried not to wring her hands.

“Text me as soon as you land. The minute.”

“I will, and you text me when you get back to the cottage. I’ll be in that first-class lounge, thanks to my best girl.” He set down his bags to grab her into a hard hug. “If you can’t sleep or you get nervous, you call me—right out call. Okay?”

“I will. I love you. I’ll miss you.”

“I love you back, and I’m going to miss you so hard. Now I’m going before I start blubbering.” He kissed her, squeezed her again, then grabbed his bags.

He hurried toward the doors, then turned around once. “You have fun, girl, or I’m gonna be really pissed.”

Then he was gone.

She drove through rain and tears back to the solitude she didn’t know if she was ready for.

The sun broke through minutes before she reached the cottage. And the rainbow shimmering over it had tears flowing again.

She wanted Marco to see it, so she got out of the car, used her phone to try to capture it. Standing there, she sent it with a text.

A good omen for your safe travel, and my next phase. I love you a rainbow’s worth.

He responded:

Love it—def blog worthy. Sitting here like a rich bastard drinking a beer and eating freaking canapés. Go take a walk under the rainbow. Love you.

Okay, she thought, maybe I will.

She grabbed her purse to take inside, and there changed into the classic Wellingtons Marco had talked her into.