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The small taxi whirred away before Grace Meriweather could change her mind, and she instantly regretted she’d tipped in advance. She’d only climbed out of the car to assure herself the crumbling Irish cottage on the side of the road couldn’t be the right address, but the driver had tossed out her bags and sped off. Now she was abandoned in the cold, gray rain in the middle of nowhere instead of her Atlanta apartment where at least she knew the lay of the land. Examining the dilapidated stone house beyond an ancient rock wall, Grace realized she should have stopped at the pub in the last village they’d passed as the driver had suggested. He’d seemed to know the narrow uphill dirt road from Ballyven wasn’t going to end well. She shuddered as water droplets pelted the top of her head, thin sweater, and the new designer carry-on suitcase.
“Great.” Grace clumped to the door, boots squishing the thick grass of an overgrown yard until she reached the rotting eaves over an arched door. Laura Jennings, I am going to wring your neck! Her best friend had offered her a vacation in her cousin’s home outside Ireland’s Wicklow National Park in exchange for Grace’s timeshare in Florida. It’d seemed like the perfect plan. Laura could enjoy the beach instead of the Irish countryside she was already familiar with, and Grace could explore something exciting and new instead of the old timeshare she had to share with her ex. With her daughter now in college and a job offer, it was time for Grace to turn the page that she’d been stuck on for too long. She needed fresh memories to crown her new independence. But this place...was not a vacation home. She checked her watch. At this exact moment, Laura was probably enjoying fruity drinks and giggling with glee over how she’d bamboozled her into swapping Clearwater’s beaches for a sheepherder’s shack dubbed, “Clover Cottage,” in the wilds of Ireland.
Grace squeezed a lever on the door and shoved, but it didn’t budge. It looked rusty so she gave it a tug then put her shoulder into another push. Nothing. Rain hurtled over the archaic grassy roof spattering her luggage. With a grunt, Grace balled her fist and hammered on the door. A housekeeper was supposed to drop by and leave it unlocked. She took a step back and looked to see if the taxi had turned around. She could meet him for a return trip to the tiny village of Ballyven. Besides a lodge-like pub, she’d seen a small grocery store, a few scattered houses, and a narrow, tall church—all signs of civilization. But there were no sounds of an oncoming automobile, just the quiet growls of distant thunder.
Grace fumbled for the phone in her back pocket. There wasn’t a signal. It was just her and the remote getaway Laura had promised, but this was not the idyllic stone manor Grace had imagined. There was no pea-gravel driveway or elegant rose garden to stroll while she deliberated on her life as an empty nester. Instead, she was staring at a ramshackle hobbit house with water gushing off the roof like Niagara Falls. Disbelief burned her throat, and she fought a wave of panic. This was not a vacation swap. It was a survival show.
The wind nipped her skin through her sweater, and Grace hunched over with a groan. She noticed a small window a few feet away. It was pitch black and lonely inside. Her chest tightened when she realized darkness was creeping in fast. Taking action, she sloshed to the window and tried to jimmy it open. It gave a few inches, and she managed to get underneath it and push up with all of her strength. It slid open with a moan, and she heaved herself up onto a narrow window sill with elation and threw herself inside. She’d made it. Oof! But only halfway. Dangling half in and half out with arms paddling the air, Grace groaned at the ridiculous predicament as rain soaked the back of her suede leggings.
What were you thinking, Gracie? She’d never been out of the United States, not even to Canada. Why had she thought she could fly halfway across the world to Ireland all by herself? She’d hardly understood the officials in customs although they were supposed to be speaking English. Panic fumbled at her chest. She should have stayed at home where she knew her limits; taken the job offer and started a career path in education while waiting patiently for her daughter to visit. She didn’t need a new life, she should have kept a grip on what she had left of the old one even though it included an ex.
Breathe. Grace heard Laura’s voice in her head and sucked in a deep breath to calm herself. It brought an aroma of stale toast, old coffee, and scorched wood. Weirdly, she found it comforting and suspected they were full of memories. With renewed determination, she cupped her hands over her head and dove headfirst onto a hard stone floor in the darkness “Ow.” It didn’t echo. That was good. The neglected cottage was gloomy but warm, old but clean. Ish.
Dripping like a wet towel, Grace climbed to her feet and let her eyes grow used to the dim light. At first glance, the inside was not much better than the outside. Glowing embers winked through the ashes heaped in a medieval-looking fireplace, an outdated sofa was pushed against the wall, and an old secretary lined with books that most likely explained how to grow cabbage and shear sheep stood rigidly beside it.
Another gust of wind sliced through the back of her clothes, and Grace shivered. She closed the window and was immediately satisfied when the rain muffled. Scanning the room, she saw a turntable and a pile of old vinyl records then she spotted the front door. There was a mid-century electrical switch beside it, and with a flick of her wrist, a faded yellow chandelier came to life. She studied her humble surroundings with a sinking heart. The cottage was a tiny rectangle with a kitchenette and table to the right and the parlor she’d fallen into like Alice into Wonderland on the other. Grace felt isolated. And wet.
“Suitcase!” She yanked open the door after two hard tugs. Her travel bag glistened with water. She rolled it inside and shuffled backward to a spindly chair at the table to sit down. “Okay, it’s rustic,” she said aloud. “I can do this.” She shuddered in her wet clothes, remembering Laura had warned there wasn’t any central heat or air. It hadn’t seemed important four weeks ago, but now it was late September, and she was at a higher latitude than she’d been in Georgia. Grace exhaled in surrender and got to her feet to explore. She’d lived for others for so long. Now was the time to decide what to do with the rest of her life while she was far across the sea.
A Victorian-era lamp clicked on in the parlor when she twisted its knob, and oil landscapes appeared on the walls. She moved over to the fireplace and found rolled newspaper and dark blocks that looked like dirt stacked beside a matchbox. She dropped to her knocking knees and lit a match. Watching the paper curl with a flame, she prodded small pieces of kindling with a fire poker then returned to the kitchen and rifled through a cardboard box on the counter. It contained cocoa and tea, as well as a small box of plain cookies labeled biscuits and a bag of potato chips called crisps. The chips and cookies were open, and she drew her brows together. The help had helped herself, Grace decided, but she couldn’t blame the woman. It was at least a forty-minute walk to civilization if she was from the nearby village. Grace’s empty stomach growled in protest. She’d have to eat the cleaning lady’s leftovers because she’d finished her last sea salt caramel candy bar. A hot meal would have to wait until tomorrow.
Her bladder complained next, and Grace swore she’d never forgive Laura if the only ladies’ room was an outhouse. To her relief, she found a humble bathroom with a gurgling toilet tank down a hall, and across from it, what she assumed was a bedroom. Grace turned the knob on the door and reached inside for a switch. Like the bathroom, the air smelled faintly of cedar and soap and something else she couldn’t identify. She flicked on the light. A bare bulb with an exposed wire dangled from the ceiling. Beneath it was a small bed with a crocheted blanket her great-grandmother would have loved. A guttural cry from the bed made Grace jump back, and she screamed. A man sat up from under the covers and pulled the granny blanket up to his chest like a modest school girl. Grace stood motionless, the blood in her veins iced over. It was the wrong address. She should have known. “Oh, no!” Grace raised her hands in surrender. “I mean no harm.”
“Who are you?” the stranger demanded.
She shook her head in disbelief at her predicament, and the heat melted her frozen blood cells and carried them to her cheeks. “I’m in the wrong house. I’m so sorry!”
“Can I help you?” The stranger straightened, his voice grizzled and hoarse. Cropped wheat-colored hair splayed out like dried pasta. He squinted.
“I’m Ms. Meriweather,” she blurted in self-defense. “Grace? Laura Jennings’ friend. I thought this was the right place, but it’s not. I was looking for Clover Cottage?”
“This is Clover Cottage, but...” The man’s eyes widened as he swung his legs over the side of the bed in a swift motion.
Grace stepped back in alarm. “Laura’s cousin lets her stay here once a year,” she exclaimed. “She said I could come instead. I have reservations.” She fumbled in her back pocket as if she had paperwork there, but it was in her bag.
The man put his hand on the waist of his rumpled jeans. He slanted his head as if she were joking. “Laura canceled a month ago. She said she wasn’t coming.” The curtains behind him looked like brown mustard. Was he the cleaning lady? Squatter? Serial killer?
“Yes, and you’re...?” Grace sputtered, trying not to sound impolite, much less frightened. He ran his fingers through his hair like he needed to filter through a brain fog and stall for time. She suspected he’d been in a deep sleep before she’d blinded him with the lightbulb.
“I’m Dean Kavanagh. This is my house. Laura is my delightful cousin.” He took a step forward and offered his hand, but Grace remained where she was. “If she called today, I wouldn’t know because I don’t get a signal here,” Dean continued. “Besides, I can’t find my phone half the time anyway.” He smiled a little at his self-rebuke.
“You’re the cousin?” The name Dean was familiar, but Grace had pictured a woman when Laura mentioned a housekeeper would unlock the cottage.
Dean dragged his palms down the sides of his cheeks as if exasperated. “I came over for the season since she canceled. I needed to get this place fixed up anyway.”
“Oh, no. I don’t have a backup plan—or a car. Laura and I swapped cottages.” Grace’s confusion mingled with her fatigue and made her feel unsteady. “She’s at the beach, and I opted for this because I thought it’d be a nice, solitary retreat.”
Dean snorted. “Oh, it’s a retreat all right, if you don’t mind tending a fire, no internet, and a leaky toilet that runs twenty-four hours a day.” He gave Grace a steady stare. “It’s dark out. I can walk you down to O’Tooles.”
“O’Tooles?” Grace stared helplessly.
“The pub.”
“Oh, yes.” Comprehension flooded her mind. “I saw it on the way in. I’m starved.”
“They’ll have dinner there,” Dean promised. “They also have a couple rooms they rent out.”
Grace calculated a month’s worth of her budget on a hotel room. Not only would it add up, but she’d also be sleeping over a bar, no doubt, which meant zero privacy, peace and quiet. She might as well be back in Atlanta. “Taking Laura’s slot was the only reservation I made. She was supposed to take care of it with someone named Moira, who is not a cousin, I see.”
“Moira? No, she runs O’Tooles. She watches this place when I’m not in the country.”
Grace realized Dean was as American as apple pie. No accent. “So you didn’t expect me.”
He shook his head. “I only got the message Laura wasn’t coming.” He frowned, and Grace’s heart sank. She’d thought she’d managed all of the fine details, but she’d failed miserably. “I should have double-checked. Triple. Is there anything else to rent nearby where I can be alone?” She’d have to cut her trip short now and probably stay somewhere more pedestrian because a pub would not do.
“No, there aren’t any hotels nearby.” Dean had the decency to look sorry. “There’s just the pub unless you want to go into the city. Wicklow is a half hour one way, or Glendalough is a few miles in the other direction.”
“The monastery.” Grace lifted her chin. “Laura mentioned a few places there.”
“Yes, but I’m sure they’re booked. I’m sorry. I’m from Maine,” explained Dean. “I have a lot to do here so I can get back to my job in Portland as soon as possible.”
Grace shivered. The damp was seeping into her bones. Her stomach rumbled to remind her that she still hadn’t eaten. “I guess we have a problem.”
Dean’s gaze flitted over her as if trying to sort her out. “I suppose I could move my things back down to the pub, especially if Laura promised you this place.” He sighed at the inconvenience, and though Grace didn’t think she deserved to feel too badly, she did.
“If it’s not a problem, I’d appreciate it.” She glanced around the room. “I think. How often do you come to Ireland?”
“Twice a year,” Dean replied, “but it’s gotten to be too much.” Grace saw his jaw tighten.
“I’m sorry. It must be difficult to maintain a property from so far away.”
“Yes. That, too.” Dean turned to pull up the blanket on the bed. “But what do you expect? It’s old, empty and useless, and there are several things I need to do before I can sell it.”
“Right away?”
“I’m using my vacation time from work. I have to be back by the first weekend of November.”
Of course. He had a life in Maine, a job, and probably a family, too. “I’ll be gone before you know it,” Grace promised. She was only staying a few weeks.
Dean looked disgruntled, but he didn’t argue. “I hope you understand I’ll have to hang around and work while you’re here, but I’ll keep out of the way.”
“Oh.” Grace saw her solitude slipping away, but she couldn’t argue when he’d already agreed to take care of the misunderstanding. It would be hard to relax and ponder the pros and cons of the job offer from the school system with a handsome handyman about making a bunch of racket. “Well, it’s only fair, and I appreciate it.” She met his eyes and found them a light shade of blue-gray that reminded her of a summer storm. A tremor coursed through her again, and she remembered it was late, and he had a long walk back to the little village she’d passed in the rain. “I guess I can sleep on the couch tonight,” she offered, glancing at the bed he’d already rumpled. “It’s pouring.”
Dean shrugged. “I have a motorbike. It’s around the back. I’ll go.”
Grace tried not to show her relief. He was attractive and friendly, but a strange man did not belong in the place she was staying overnight even if he was the owner. “I don’t mind you coming by when you need to if I can just keep the key.”
“Right. It’s on the—"
“Counter,” finished Grace, anxious to have the cottage to herself. He was nicer than she would have been in such an awkward situation. It was nice, but they didn’t know each other at all. “And I know how to start a fire,” she assured him.
“Then I guess I’ll leave you to it.” Dean glanced at the ceiling. “I’ll be at O’Tools if the roof caves in.”
Grace followed his gaze to a damp spot overhead. “I hope you’re joking.” She stepped into the hall to let him pass and followed him to the kitchen. When he saw her luggage, he stepped around it staring at the water puddle. “I’m sorry. I know it’s dark out now,” Grace apologized.
“I know my way.” Dean pulled a rain jacket off a hook beside the door and slid his long arms into it. “I’ve been running around these mountains since I was a kid.” Standing in a beam of light under the chandelier, Grace noticed there were shimmers of red tinting his blond locks. “Kavanagh,” she repeated. “Very Irish.”
“Yes. Tell Laura I’ll be in touch.” Dean gave her a polite smile that looked like it took some effort, and she knew she wouldn’t be the only one who planned to give Laura a piece of her mind. “And Grace?”
“Yes?”
Dean dipped his chin at her. “Enjoy your stay.”
The kind wishes made her feel a spark of hope, despite the fact this was not the idyllic vacation she’d envisioned. Any expectations to Eat, Pray, Love were jumbled in a pile like building blocks thrown to the floor. “Thank you.”
“Okay.”
Grace gave him an embarrassed smile knowing she’d just thrown a wrench in his life. She knew all about wrenches. When the door slammed shut, she fell into the kitchen chair, exhausted. At least the old shack offered shelter and a bed, and Dean had been gracious and accommodating despite his initial shock. Like most of her life’s unexpected surprises, this wasn’t what Grace had wanted, but it could have been worse. With a feeble burst of energy, she reached for the suitcase and rolled it to her knees. Fumbling with the zipper, she yanked it the wrong way, and it pulled off-track. A ripped seam she hadn’t noticed before splitting open along the side, and with a whimper, Grace pulled it apart to find all of her clothes damp and cold.