Page 3

I turned from him and sprinted down the street, vaguely aware of people staring. But they weren’t people; they were nothing more than twisted shapes and pulsating waves of color. Enticed by the pinwheel’s hypnotic haze, I sank deeper into the vortex. My perception skewed and spun out of control. I clutched my backpack and kept moving, distancing myself from his intense gaze.

I knew what I saw. Colm’s father died a peaceful death in his living room—quick and painless, his favorite show blaring on the television. There was no point in telling him. What would that accomplish?

I escaped through the next available doorway and found myself in the local apothecary. I moved through the aisle until I could go no further. The young girl, dressed in a white shop coat, approached. “Can I help you, miss?”

“I’m not sure.” I scanned the colorful display. Condoms of every size stared at me. Large. Standard. Snug. Latex. Polyurethane. Lambskin. Natural. Organic. Fair Trade. Vegan. Ridged. Flavored. Studded?

Snug and cozy worked for me. A girl could always wish, couldn’t she? Beside the condoms, there was a vibrant display of ancestry kits. Go figure. Discover your heritage, they said. Learn about your ancestors, they said. Find new family relations. Why had I not considered that before?

“How does it work?” I held the DNA kit, turned the box over, and scanned the directions.

“It’s quite easy. Your saliva goes into the tube, and you send it in.” She studied me with rising interest.

“That’s it?” I nibbled the inside of my lip, considering the pros and cons. Did I want my DNA out in the big wide world? What if there were more like me?

“Aye. Would you like those, miss?” Her singsong voice encouraged me to take the plunge.

“Okay, sure. Can I do this right now?” I ripped open the box and dumped out the contents.

“Of course. That’s the collection tube and the return envelope. We can post it from here.” She motioned at the stacked pile of outgoing mail.

“You can? Okay.” I held the tube to my mouth and then spit, gob drooling from my lower lip.

“I did this myself.” She gave me a tissue. “I found cousins I never knew I had.”

* * *

A ccording to the etching above the doorway, the Black Horse Pub and Inn, a patchy array of uneven rubble stone, was established in 1866. Double-hung windows fitted with green muntin bars adorned the Inn’s face. Flower boxes bursting with pink and purple pansies sat on every sill. English Ivy clung to the rough stones, creeping in all directions.

A girl wearing a yellow rain slicker, a black checkered miniskirt, and red rubber boots balanced on a rickety ladder. She leaned into the rough stones and, with one hand, twisted a lightbulb into a hanging lantern.

The skies opened, throwing liquid sunshine upon the earth, slashing the pavement and overflowing the gutters with water.

Rain poured down my face, washing away the last mud splatters. I raised my arms, welcoming the cleansing shower, laughter bubbling inside me. I smiled for the first time since ruining Colm O’Donnell’s day.

And then the rain stopped. Sunshine splashed diamond glitter over the black pavement. A rainbow arched over the horizon: bold yellow, pink, and blue bands. I took in the flock of seagulls perched on the ridge of each rooftop. Their enthusiastic screeching filled my heart with an odd sense of happiness.

“Hello, are you Calla?” She clambered down from the ladder, her raincoat glistening with raindrops. Water fell in streams through her auburn curls. She showed no signs of being perturbed by the sudden downpour.

“Yes. I am. I have a reservation.” I covered my eyes, blinded by the sparkling pavement.

“I’m Saoirse. It’s me you’ve been speaking with when you call. It’s a fair day, isn’t it?” She spoke in lively beats.

“Sursha? Yes, it’s nice to meet you. Is it always like this? Sunshine and rainbows?” I looked down the empty sidewalk, searching for a sign of the tall copper-haired Celt.

“Aye, it’s a grand wee country. Come in. Come in. How was your flight?” She brushed her hands across her short skirt, her gaze following mine.

“The flight went well, but the drive was problematic. I almost hit a flock of sheep.” I bit my lip, picturing the black-faced sheep that caused my predicament.

“Nasty beasts. They own the road.” She peered at me through shining amber eyes. “Why are you covered in mud?”

“Well, I had a small accident. I drove off the road and into the bog.” I twirled a muddy tendril of hair behind my ear. “Colm O’Donnell drove me into town.”

“Oh, bad luck to you.” Her smile didn’t reach her eyes.

“Do you know him?” The question popped out of my mouth.

“This is a small town, and the ceilings are low.” She smirked.

I lifted my eyebrows, and she explained the innuendo.

“Not much happens in this town that’s not talked about.” She laughed. “The O’Donnell clan is well known here.”

I wallowed in guilt—the big Irish clan would soon grieve one of their own.

“Look at ye, poor thing. Are ye all right? Are ye hurt?” She sang with concern, surveying me, searching for signs of damage.

“I desperately need a shower.” I opened my coat, showing the mud stains the rain hadn’t washed away.

“Aye, and likely a spot of tea?” She smiled. “One thing we have is hot water.”

“Both sound great. Thank you. It’s been a long day.” I fell into step behind her.

“Good day, Pádraig. How are you this fine morning?” She gestured toward the burly fellow crossing the intersection.

I stared at his copper hair, the dark frames perched on a strong nose, his square chin. My grin faltered, and I struggled to stand upright.

“Same as yesterday and the day before.” His voice boomed from across the street.

I appreciated his style—the boxy jacket layered over a cable-knit sweater, fitted trousers, and glossy loafers. Not a tree farmer.

“Did Orlaith call in the order? We’re running low on just about everything.” She sang back.

“Four o’clock, luv. No worries.” He headed for the stone bridge, which spanned a flowing river.

I scanned each storefront. The Fat Bastard bakery sat halfway up the big hill. My heart sank watching the bubbly personality stride in the other direction.

“That’s Pádraig. He’s the baker in town. His scones are magic. Once you try them, you’ll be hooked.” She searched the roadway.

“Paa-drig? Is he Colm’s brother?” I rested my palm on my forehead—thinking of him hurt my head.

“Yes, there are many O’Donnells.” Her smile wavered but then returned.

Two—and three-story commercial buildings, roofed in slate and painted in muted shades of pink, blue, and green, lined the busy street of Ardara. Smoke curled from each chimney, emitting an earthy aroma I recognized: bog. The bog served as more than a distraction. It provided a heat source. It was an industry.

A rumbling engine distracted me from my revelation. A red farmer’s tractor pulled an open trailer stacked high with white bags filled with dark lumps of turf. A black and white dog bounced to and fro in the tractor’s cab.

She waved at the dark-haired driver.

My intuition answered my question—the O’Donnells were integral to the community.

“Well, thank goodness you found us. What an adventure. You must be starved.” She bounced along in front of the tractor.

“Thanks. I am.” I stepped sideways, avoiding a puddle.

I followed her beyond the pub’s entrance through the archway in the stone wall. A long breezeway led to an interior courtyard. I hugged my arms around my chest, unprepared for the cold kiss swirling within. The quiet space breathed peace. The sky seemed so distant. Looking up, I followed a catwalk around the perimeter of the stone building.

“Wow. This is amazing.” I motioned to the upper railings fashioned after sprawling tree branches and the narrow staircase climbing upward. I ran my fingers over a perfect leaf, a budding bloom.

“Thanks, I created them.” She shrugged, then rubbed her forehead.

“You made this? Here?” I asked, admiring the intricate craftsmanship.

“I enjoy working with my hands.” She motioned toward a blue door, peeking through the hungry vines. “That’s my workshop. Sculptures are my favorite, but I do all kinds of things. Fancy gates. Candle holders. I do commission work.”

“Ooh, can I see?” I dropped my backpack onto a wrought-iron table in the courtyard’s center. The twisted legs resembled the gnarled roots of an oak tree. “Wow. This is amazing.”

“You want to?” Her eyes danced with flecks of amber light.

I expected a dark space, but to my surprise, white walls glowed with fluorescent light. A tiled floor shone beneath my feet and hosted everything a metal worker could need: a forge, a press, a welder’s mask, a vise, gadgets, and tools for fabricating iron. Sprawled across an oversized desk were sketches of the most intricate designs I had ever seen.

“These are exquisite.” I traced one with my finger, a lover’s arch, a simple design of intertwined leaves.

“Thanks. This is where you’ll find me when I’m not in the pub.” Her words held notes of sadness.

“Are you managing the place on your own?” I recalled our numerous phone conversations. She had answered my calls day and night.

A stabbing pain pierced my brain, a wave of nausea threatening my vision. I threw my hand to my forehead, stilling the pulsing sensation.

“Yes and no. I have Orlaith, thank goodness. We’re one of the few pubs serving food. Well, until eight p.m. After that, all hell breaks loose.” She looked at the ceiling. “You’ve arrived at a quiet time. Most of the touristy shops are closed. They won’t open till after the long weekend. Some will open for Bealtaine.”

“Bealtaine? How do you celebrate? There aren’t many Celtic celebrations where I’m from.” My thoughts traveled to the hurling game Colm invited me to. Visions of him pounding through grass and mud in athletic shorts and a tight-fitting T-shirt danced through my mind.

“We celebrate all the pagan holidays—loads of craic. People take caravans out to the dunes. We have a bonfire on the strand. We love feast days. You’ll have to come.” She studied me.

“The strand? Umm, okay, sure.” My heart raced. What did I agree to? And why was everyone so friendly? I exhaled, releasing the tension in my shoulders. Stretching my wings, so they said. Was that my new mantra? God knew I needed one. I stared wistfully at the balcony. Behind those red doors were hotel rooms with a bed, a bathroom, and, hopefully, hot water.

“We don’t see many folks this time of year. What brings you to Ardara?” She glanced at me with curious eyes.

I had the distinct impression she considered my visit strange.

“I’ve inherited a property not far from here.” I chewed on the tip of my fingernail, wondering the same thing myself.

“You’re not just visiting, are you? You’re moving here?” Her forehead puckered into three distinct lines.

“Yes, I’m the sole beneficiary of Mr. Dermot Sweet’s estate. It seems we’re related somehow. I have an appointment in a couple of days with the lawyer.” What was I thinking? Moving away from the only home I’d ever known.

“Sweet? Calla Sweet. Jesus feckin’ Christ. No way. I didn’t put it together.” She planted her hands on her hips.

“You knew him?” I asked in a quick voice. Who were you, Dermot Sweet? And, for that matter, who was I?

One constant remained. My ability to see another’s death followed me here and raised its ugly head at the first opportunity. Colm’s confusion would by now have turned to grief.

“Dermot tipped the bottle from time to time. He was a nice man, though. He supplied the pub with honey.” She smiled.

“Honey? He was a beekeeper?” I held my breath, feeding my delusions with happy thoughts.

“Aye. He was very particular about his hives. It was like they were a part of him. I guess you could say he spoke to the bees. I do miss him, though. He made me smile.” She closed the lights and locked the door.

“I have no idea why he left his property to me. The lawyer had no idea.” I shook my head sideways. “It’s all very mysterious.”

“Well, I love a good mystery! Listen, you won’t need to buy a car. Dermot collected vintage cars and old trucks. You’ll be the proud owner of some prize-winning relics.” She led me to the staircase, rising to the second floor.

“Oh, cool.” The steel rungs rattled as I followed her along the catwalk.

“You’re in the Garden Suite,” she said, handing me the key. “Your stay comes with dinner daily, which we serve between five and eight p.m. For breakfast, I would suggest the East End Cafe. They serve a superb Irish breakfast.”

“Great, thanks.” I ran my thumb over the rectangular slab of driftwood emblazoned with a black horse. “Do you have any other guests?” I glanced at the welcome mats positioned before each door.

“No, not right now. Come down when you’re ready. Orlaith just cooked up a big pot of cockles. You won’t leave hungry, I promise you.” She laughed and walked away.

“Cockles?” I tilted my head at the unfamiliar word.

“Saltwater clams. We gather them when the tide is low. Oh, do you have any food allergies?” She peered over her shoulder.

“No,” I said, feeling glad. Saoirse wore her heart on her sleeve, and I would hate to disappoint.

* * *