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The next morning, Dean inhaled a plate of eggs scrambled with butter and cream then dug through the storage room of the pub before heading to the cottage. His toolbox see-sawed precariously on the back of the motorbike as he sped up the old road beneath a canopy of ancient oak, hazel, and ash trees. He drew in a breath of crisp morning air, but the cold tweaked his ears. He felt rested. Relaxed. At home. It was an odd juxtaposition when home was across the sea at the foothills of the Adirondacks, but something about Wicklow permeated his cells, connecting him to something higher than himself. That’s why he’d been so keen to bring Celeste over in the early years. They’d walked the rocky peaks talking about the future and their hopes and dreams. As far as their careers—at least Celeste’s—it had been brief, and children never came.
Dean’s heart squeezed with old sorrows. It just wasn’t in the cards, people said, in their odd ways of trying to comfort him. It’d broken her heart, but Celeste hadn’t held his infertility against him. They’d talked about adoption, even shopped agencies, until the cancer came. Then the “ever-after” that was supposed to follow “happily” came hurtling down.
Dean buzzed through the front gate of Clover Cottage and swung around the back to park the bike. The boiler was in the center of the house, and it was time to replace it. He stopped at the front door, catching himself before he rushed inside. It wasn’t his place for the next few weeks. It was Grace’s in lieu of his cousin’s seasonal time slot. He’d have to respect that even if it felt strange to see someone living in the memories he was trying to forget. He looked around at the land and distant hills. A morning fog had thinned, but some of it still hovered in little swirls over the road. There was a break in the clouds that suggested the sun might come out later. It made him feel hopeful, even happy, for some reason.
Dean knocked softly wondering if Grace had slept in. She hadn’t. The fragrance of fresh coffee hit his nose before the door opened. “Good morning!” Her cheerful greeting made his heart skip just like the morning air and promise of sunshine.
“I know this is inconvenient,” he apologized. He couldn’t help but notice there were craft supplies spread all over the table. There were stacks of curly paper in an array of colors, and he wondered what she was doing.
“Yes, I know, but you have a schedule, and you didn’t know Laura sent me.” Grace returned to the kitchen counter where she’d been slicing cheese and apples. “Are you hungry?”
“I ate, thanks,” Dean replied.
“I love the cheeses I bought at the shop. You were right. Sheep cheese is delicious. Especially this.” She held up a chunk of Knockdrinna Meadow.
Dean grinned. “Yes, it’s delicious.”
“I’m surprised I like it that much,” Grace admitted. “I’m not usually adventurous.”
“Says the woman showering in ice cold well water,” teased Dean. He held up the tool box. “I’m going to tackle the boiler today.”
Grace looked up. “Actually, I worked on it myself last night.”
“You did?” Dean felt a surprised smile stretch his cheeks.
“That’s why I stayed behind after lunch yesterday. Not just for the cheese. I needed wi-fi,” Grace admitted.
“You googled how to repair a fifteen-year-old water boiler?”
“I did.”
“And did you fix it? I was thinking of replacing it with something modern.”
“I cleaned it, and it’s much better.”
“Wow, thanks,” said Dean, impressed. “You’re amazing. I guess I can get to work painting the old water stains on the ceiling then.”
Grace shifted her gaze across the room to a spot in the parlor. “I’d recommend it if you want to sell this place. All of the rooms could use a fresh coat of paint, and you may want to consider a new roof, too.”
“Thatch is complicated,” Dean said. “I have an order coming in, but I can patch it up with tar paper and some roofing cement for now. I keep some out back in the barn.”
“You may want to let it dry out first.”
“I have something for that, too,” Dean assured her. “I should probably have a look up on the roof before I start painting anyway.” Grace nodded, and he realized he was interrupting her morning. “I’ll leave you to your day,” he blustered. “And your crafts.”
She smiled. “That’s kind of you.”
“What is that, if you don’t mind me asking?” Dean pointed at the stacks of paper.
“Quilling. It’s curling paper to make art. See?” She pulled out a piece of cardstock from under the piles of papers and laid it on the table. There was a sketch of a butterfly with paper coils pinned over the outline. The result was an amazing 3-D effect.
“That’s impressive,” murmured Dean.
“Thank you.” Grace beamed. “The artform has become popular again, and there are some brilliant artists doing amazing things around the world.”
“I’ve never really seen it before, but it’s cool.”
“You should check out some of the masterpieces online. I can’t explain how breathtaking it can be.”
Dean smiled at her. Her eyes were glowing, her cheeks shining and soft. He glanced at the divot over her top lip and found himself swallowing. Speaking of breathtaking. “I better get out outside to exchange these tools,” he stammered. She nodded and went back to work, and Dean nearly jogged out the door.
She’d been polite, but he knew popping in every day wasn’t giving her much of a vacation. She’d also made it clear that she’d come to be alone. But he knew the bogs and wild heather could be a barren landscape, and that they weren’t always conducive to finding yourself. Sometimes they could compound the loneliness until you couldn’t breathe. He should know. He’d hidden away in Clover Cottage until Celeste’s life insurance ran out and he was forced to return to the States to find a job, see his folks, and enter the world of the living. It’d been hard, but he’d done that much. Now he needed to find a way to live with the guilt of pretending his wife and marriage had never happened so he could go on. Even if it upset some of the folks in Ballyven. If he didn’t, he might as well crumble to dust like the old cottage—and never rise again.
The sun erupted in the sky, and it warmed Dean’s shoulders as he searched through the thatch on the roof to find any sodden places that needed work. He slid once, but managed to find a solid hold before falling off. It left his heart pounding, and he wished Grace was nearby. But it was more for safety, he told himself. Satisfied he’d tackled any immediate concerns, he climbed down the old ladder that he hauled from the back of the cottage. Its rails were polished from hundreds of boots rubbing across its rails through the decades, and he smiled faintly at the thought that he’d contributed to the luster, too. It was almost a keepsake, and the thought it’d go to scrap someday made him sad. There was old lumber already stacked out back. He thought they’d make nice frames for Grace’s quilling and wondered if that’d make her happy.
Dean realized his throat was dry and dusted off his hands. Just as he hoped slipping in for a glass of water wouldn’t be too much of a disturbance, Grace surprised him by coming around the corner. She wore a navy blue sweatshirt, cropped blue jeans, and a pair of sturdy walking shoes. She held up a bottle of water. “I’m heading out if you need to work inside.”
“I don’t mean to kick you out. I can work another day.”
“You’re not.” She looked up at the sky and inhaled deeply as if trying to drink sunshine into her soul. “I have that old map of the national park from the secretary.”
“So you’re just going to wander around the hiking trails?” Dean asked.
“Yes, but I’m going to take the bike.”
“They do have recommended paths these days,” Dean informed her, but he stopped short of offering to show them to her himself. He wasn’t a tour guide, and she wasn’t looking for one. Besides, with her gone, it was the perfect time to work inside without worrying that he was in her way.
“I saw lakes nearby so I’m going to have cheese and bread and look for rainbows.”
Dean helped her uncover the bikes and watched as she wheeled the one she’d ridden to the pub toward the road. “Watch out for badgers,” he teased, wondering again if he should go with her. She chuckled over her shoulder. “Okay, I’m joking,” Dean admitted, “but seriously, we do have them. Just be careful of crazy drivers. The roads are narrow and curvy, and some people drive too fast.”
“Tourists?” she guessed, blinking in the sunshine.
“Especially tourists.” Dean studied her. “Are you sure you’ll be okay? Do you want me to come along?”
“Oh, I’ll be fine. I studied the map.” Despite her words, Grace hesitated then shrugged. “But if you have the time, I wouldn’t mind the company.”
Dean flitted his gaze toward the house waiting solemnly for repairs. “Sure.”
“I don’t want to mess up your plans,” Grace faltered.
“It’s okay,” Dean assured her, surprised that he really didn’t mind. “You go ahead, and I’ll catch up.” She waved and headed off while he hurried into the cottage to clean up, grab his backpack, and refill his water bottle. The cottage had been standing for centuries. Despite getting back to his day job, the only true deadline was moving forward with his life. Wasn’t a trip into the hills progress? He would be exploring at least, instead of working to distract his mind.
By the time he caught up with her, Grace was a quarter of a mile ahead, pedaling slowly as she studied the sloping hills with a flush on her cheeks. She'd tucked her golden hair under a dark beanie, and a few strands blew in the breeze as they turned northwest toward Glendalough. She asked inquisitive questions Dean didn’t know all of the answers to, and she promised she’d find out for both of them. When he offered to make a few rustic picture frames for her quilling, she accepted with delight. He felt like they were fast friends by the time they reached Glendalough and the cemetery around the monastery, especially after she’d shared that she had an ex and a daughter who was a freshman at the University of Georgia.
“Empty nester, huh?” he teased, as they parked their bikes and climbed the stone steps to the cemetery. Her mesmerized study of the ancient burial markers slipped from her face as she gave him a sideways glance. “Yes, too soon. I’m still young.”
“You are,” he agreed.
“I was a young mother,” she explained. They walked the winding paths of the final resting places of those who’d settled, fought, and survived in the uplands, with Grace stopping occasionally to study the markers of some gone too soon. “A child,” she mused. She crossed her arms over herself. “Can you even imagine?”
Dean pushed his hands into his jeans pockets, curling his fingers. “No,” he croaked.
Grace looked at him with matter of fact interest and sincere sympathy. “I’m sorry, I forgot. It must be so hard on you.”
“I wanted them. I still do.” He caught himself, cheeks heating in the cool air. Too much information, buddy.
Grace surprised him by saying, “Me, too. I wanted more children pretty much right away, but my husband didn’t so we got a dog. Dogs.” Her voice caught in her throat. “He took them.”
“That’s hardly fair.”
“I had Nicole.”
“And you still want more?” mused Dean. “That’d be quite an age gap.”
“I think I could handle being an older mom.”
Dean nodded. She was clearly in her prime. “Age is just a number.”
“I believe that now,” admitted Grace. “Nicole and I are more like friends than mother and daughter anymore.” She grimaced. “Sometimes she shares a little too much.”
Dean laughed. He followed her as she made a beeline for the tall, narrow structure beyond the gravestones. “That’s the Round Tower,” he explained. “It was originally a monastery although it looks more like an old chimney.” He shared stories about the monks building the tower for safety and for prayer and then pointed out the remains of the church down the hill as she listened transfixed. They strolled through the remnants of medieval history until they reached a paved trail that led through the trees. Grace pointed east. “I saw a lake in this valley on the map.”
“Yes, there’re two. The upper and lower. This trail wraps around them.”
“Shall we do it?” she dared.
They walked into a tree tunnel as clouds in the distance tumbled their way toward them. Circling the small silver-blue lake flanked by ancient trees, Grace pulled off her backpack and pointed at the long grasses on the banks. “Let’s eat. I’m starved.”
“I have a fruit bar, and I brought you a surprise.”
“Oh, really?”
Dean grinned and pulled out the chocolate bar he’d meant to give her that morning and waved it in the air. “I don’t have much, but I brought chocolate.”
“You’re a lifesaver. I have plenty. We can share,” Grace said brightly.
They walked down to the water’s edge, and she peeled off her sweatshirt, mussing her hair and revealing a fitted tee shirt that clung to her hourglass silhouette. Dean sat down in the grass, already manky from clambering around in the thatch, and tried to study the scenery instead of the woman beside him.
After splitting cheese, bread, and fruit, they stared out over the water munching in companionable silence. Grace sighed happily over the piece of Belgium dark chocolate he passed to her. Her quiet thoughtfulness made it hard to resist wanting to delve more into her life. He disturbed the quiet first. “So how long have you been a teacher?”
“Not long. Just...” Grace put down a slice of her newly beloved Knockdrinna cheese and wiped her palms on her jeans. “I finished my internship last spring. I was a teacher’s assistant to be more specific, and I’ve done some substituting off and on for years. Last month I received an offer at the same school that’ll start in January, and I have to let them know by Thanksgiving.” She paused, and Dean watched her bite her bottom lip. “So I’ve taken time off to make sure it’s really what I want to do. I need to get my life in order now that Nicole’s moved out, but there’s something holding me back. I’m not sure of my direction, and I feel like God’s trying to tell me something.”
“What about your quilling? Is it just a hobby?”
Grace smiled at him. “I’ve always loved uncommon crafts like pottery and stained glass, but quilling became my passion after Nicole started high school. I’d do it for a living if I could.”
“Then why not?”
Grace was quiet a few long seconds then exhaled. “I guess after my divorce I felt like I needed something more practical and dependable. I decided to get my teaching certificate. Dreaming about making a living in the Arts seemed silly.”
“So, quilling is just a dream for now.”
Grace shrugged. “It helps me think.” She stared over the lake where the sun winked off the surface. Stiff breezes ruffled the heavy tree branches and scudded across the water. “That’s one thing I have to thank your cousin for. Laura made me realize I’ve been in survival mode for too long, sticking to my daughter like a burr and using her as an excuse not to move on. We took a quilling class together a few years ago, and I enjoyed it so much I just dove in. I’ve even had a few people pay me to make them as gifts. I like it.”
“It sounds like therapy.”
“You’re right, and I needed it.” She waggled her outstretched feet. “But I do it because I love it. I’ve earned my degree, and I have a reasonable job offer. I just want to make sure teaching science is the path I want to take so I can let go of the disappointments in the past and find myself again.”
“I can understand that. That’s why I’m selling the cottage,” Dean admitted.
Grace looked at him curiously. “What are you trying to forget?”
Twinges of guilt washed over him. “I spent a lot of time here with Celeste. She took so many parts of me with her when she died I feel like I’m just pieces of who I was—scraps—like your little paper collection. Someone else deserves it now.”
“I’m sorry,” Grace murmured. “I’m sure you can make happy memories with someone again someday if you want, but I have to agree with Moira. I don’t think you have to sell your cottage to do that.”
Dean shook his head bitterly. “No, it’s not meant to be. Life’s proven that repeatedly. I’m not going to give God another chance to disappoint me. Letting go of the cottage is the only way I can move on.