Page 1 of An Irish Summer

Today was going to be a good day.

The weather was unseasonably warm for early May, I had just enough oat milk left in the fridge to make a latte, and my favorite

jeans were clean and folded on the top of the pile. And when I got downstairs to work, the lobby of the bed-and-breakfast

was quiet enough that I could spend some time organizing the vendors we had on file and preparing the invoices for the banquet

we were hosting next week.

Any day that I had extra time to spend on events was a good day. Especially when that day started with a cloudless, sunny

sky and the perfect coffee. I was on cloud nine.

Which is exactly where life wants you to be before it swoops in and pulls the rug out from under you.

“Chels, do you have a second?” Helen, the owner, materialized in the lobby with a wrinkle between her eyebrows.

“I, uh, yeah, of course,” I said, getting to my feet.

“Is everything okay?” I closed out of the tab I was working on and came out from behind the desk, following her into her office.

The last time I followed Helen into this office was when I applied for this job six years ago.

In the time since, we’d conducted all our business at the reception desk, in the small dining room, or in front of the bay window in the lounge.

She motioned for me to sit as Jack, her husband, entered the room and closed the door behind him.

“What’s going on?” I asked, frantically looking between them and hoping someone was going to speak before I started to assume

the worst.

“We’re closing O’Shea’s ... in a month,” Helen said. It was the last thing I heard before my blood was thundering so loud

in my ears I missed everything else. The room started to spin, and I felt for a second like I might pass out. It was only

when Jack reached out and touched my shoulder that I came back into my body and tuned back in. “The choice is yours, Chelsea,”

Helen said as she slid a brochure across the table, the words The Wanderer printed in emerald green across the top, stopping just short of my folded hands. I grabbed it by the corner if only to stop

myself from picking my cuticles, but I had no intention of opening it.

“I don’t understand,” I said. “You’re just... closing O’Shea’s? Can you even do that?” I supposed I knew they could, but

I was reeling. I’d need to hear the spiel a few times before any of it could register. I’d been working and living at this

bed-and-breakfast since I graduated from college, and I hadn’t even considered the possibility that it might not be an option

someday. And that day was apparently a month from now.

Jack rubbed the back of his neck, searching for something to say, then reached for Helen’s hand. “It’s a lot, we know,” he

said eventually, “but we’re getting old, and we can’t run the inn forever, so when the opportunity to sell came around, well,

it was the right choice, I’m afraid.” He exhaled all at once, and I wished I could do the same.

“You didn’t want to just, I don’t know, hire someone new to run it?’ Like me , I refrained from adding aloud. “Or sell it to someone who planned to keep it as an inn?”

“Unfortunately, what’s best is full closure,” Helen said, though it sounded like she’d practiced that line before this conversation.

Which I supposed was possible. Given how long we’d known one another, it was likely the O’Sheas could have predicted exactly

how this was going to go. If only I could have been so lucky.

“And you’re selling the whole building?” I clarified, knowing it was true but hoping it wasn’t. “My apartment included?”

Helen and Jack exchanged a glance as if wordlessly trying to determine which of them had to drop the hammer. In the end, Helen

lost. “Yes,” she said, not quite meeting my eyes. “Your apartment included.” After a beat, she spoke again. “But you don’t

have to be out for another month, so you have some time.”

Time to do what, exactly, I wasn’t sure. I didn’t need time. I needed a job. And a place to live. And a month was hardly time

at all.

“You’ve been the best employee we’ve ever had,” Helen said, as if that might somehow soften the blow. “You’re hardworking,

dedicated, creative. You’ve made some real improvements around here over the years. And that’s why we wanted to offer you

the opportunity to relocate to the hostel.” She gestured to the brochure with a manicured finger, and I released it from my

hand like it was suddenly on fire. “My sister said they have an opening for some seasonal work so we thought you might like

to go for the summer.”

“To Ireland,” I said. Even as the words came out of my mouth, I knew it wasn’t a real possibility. The only real possibility

was finding another job in Boston and doing it fast.

“To Ireland,” she confirmed, her smile teetering between sympathetic and overly enthusiastic. For whose sake, I wasn’t entirely sure.

“Thank you,” I said, “but I’m sure I can find something else in the city. I wouldn’t want to trouble your sister, and I don’t

know if moving to Ireland is for me.”

“You don’t have to make any decisions now,” Jack said, clocking my attitude and looking to his wife for support. “Just know

the offer is on the table. And there’s more to Ireland than rocks and bagpipes, you know. It’s a beautiful country, and the

Wanderer is a lovely property. Plenty of amenities, great managerial opportunities to get involved in and boost your résumé,

lots of networking connections with professionals all over the world.”

I tried and failed to swallow the lump in my throat. Tears collected in the corners of my eyes, threatening to escape if I

thought for another second about all I was losing.

Working at O’Shea’s was mostly all I’d known. And Boston was definitely all I’d known. How naive was I to think I didn’t need

a backup plan? A feeling dangerously close to betrayal swam in the silence between us, making it hard to look Jack or Helen

in the eye.

“Thank you,” I said eventually, afraid I would regret saying anything else.

“We’re so sorry, Chels,” Helen said. “We hope you understand.” I wanted to tell them it wasn’t an issue of understanding,

that I understood perfectly well and I was just being selfish, but it was better not to say everything I was thinking. Instead

I nodded, slipped the brochure into my tote, and headed for the door.

“Promise us you’ll think about Ireland,” Jack said before I made it out of the office. “I think it would really suit you.”

I tried to force a smile, but it probably looked more like a grimace.

Boston suited me. Knowing where I was and what I was doing suited me.

Having a plan to pitch Jack and Helen for more responsibility and a raise this year so I could save for a down payment on a condo where I would live until I was married and bought a house in the suburbs suited me.

Eventually moving into a more partner-oriented role at O’Shea’s in the next ten years suited me.

Working at a hostel in a foreign country surrounded by strangers with no real plan for the future definitely did not suit me.

Once I was out of the inn and onto the pavement, I followed my feet on autopilot to my favorite coffee shop down the block.

It was where I often did my best thinking, so I could only hope it was also where I would do my best job hunting. I might

not have been totally sure about where to begin, but I was totally sure about when to begin. If I was going to stop my life from crumbling entirely to ruins, I needed to get my résumé out there before I hit

rock bottom.

Armed with a hazelnut latte and a window seat, I opened my laptop and stared listlessly at the home screen. Even before I’d

gotten the job at O’Shea’s, I hadn’t done the traditional kind of job hunt. I’d been in this very coffee shop the week of

my college graduation when I spotted the Help Wanted flyer tacked to the community bulletin board, and I was in the B and

B’s lobby with the flyer in my hand before my coffee was ready. Helen, Jack, and I had an instant connection, and I was hired

within the week, living in the apartment on the third floor within the month. Easy as one, two, three.

I wondered if I’d ever get so lucky again. Or if my current circumstance was karma for how easy it had been in the first place.

Before I could get my pity party off the ground, I opened every job searching website I could think of and vowed to have a

few viable options saved before I finished my latte. I typed in phrases like “hospitality + general manager” and “event planner”

and even “concierge,” hoping to increase my chances of finding something. I scrolled through pages and pages of jobs with

entry-level salaries, overnight hours, unrealistic qualifications, and intentionally vague descriptions. I also scrolled through

pages of jobs in dangerous parts of the city, jobs too far outside the city, and jobs posted years ago that might never have

even been in the city in the first place.

And by the time my latte was little more than an empty glass in a puddle of condensation, I hadn’t saved a single posting.

This was going to be harder than I thought.

I closed my laptop, promising myself I’d try again first thing tomorrow with a clearer head. Maybe I just couldn’t weed out

good jobs because I was still reeling from the news. Still clouded with the heartbreak of losing the job I loved, and still

trying to accept that I had to move on, even if I didn’t know what I was moving on to.

What I did know, however, was that no matter what that next step was, it definitely wasn’t going to be Ireland.

When I left the coffee shop, it didn’t feel right to go back to my apartment just yet, especially since it wasn’t going to

be my apartment for much longer, so I followed the invisible thread to my parents’ house. No matter how old I got, or how

insane they sometimes made me, there was no denying the sense of comfort in my childhood home. And the more time the news

had to settle in, the more I needed that comfort.