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Grace insisted that Dean stay for lunch after they chased the goats off. He wanted to climb up on the roof and check the damage so he agreed, but Grace hoped he didn’t think she wanted him to linger on purpose. After they shared the last of her cheese and canned soup from the Walsh’s shop, she dusted off her hands and sat back in her chair. “I was thinking of calling a cab and leaving the village today.”
“Where are you going?” Dean asked in surprise. He didn’t want her to leave the cottage without him, he realized.
“I need to see a castle.”
“There’s plenty to choose from.”
Grace nodded. “I saw a lot on the map along the coast, but I don’t want to go that far. I’d rather travel west.”
“There’s five or six around the county. How about Castle Howard, though it’s more of a house?”
“Yes, I circled that one. What’s Cashel?” she asked.
“A giant ruins up on a big, steep hill. It’s impressive and comes with lots of stories.”
“Like what?”
“Oh, you know, life and death with romance and intrigue.”
Grace grinned. “Sounds good to me.”
Dean shook his head. “It’s a bit of a drive for a cab. How about we take the motor bike?”
“Really?” Grace studied him, wondering if she’d made him feel obligated.
“Or you could borrow it,” he allowed. “I know you want to be alone.”
A part of her deflated, but Grace pretended not to be bothered that he was indifferent, so with a forced smile, she said, “You and O’Tooles have proven that, and I can’t refuse a personal tour guide to walk with me through the ruins if you have time.”
“I’ll help you watch out for pixies,” he promised.
She chuckled. They packed their things and found a jug of gas in the shed. Grace wondered why on earth she’d practically asked him out for a date until she climbed onto the bike and wrapped her arms around him. He felt warm and safe, a connection to something more than life. She could feel his heartbeat over the whipping wind as they drove backroads dotted with sheep and livestock. At one point, he brought the bike to a stop for a herd of sheep to ramble across the street, and Grace chuckled at the streaks of colored paint marking them for identifying purposes.
“Some sweater that will make,” she called out, and he laughed.
“At least they keep them sorted.”
As the rainbow of sheep pattered by with a herding dog nipping at their heels, Dean slid off his helmet. He lifted a hand in greeting to a distant farmer watching from a four-wheeler on the top of the hill, and the man gave him a suspicious, slow nod.
“I’m going to assume his are the pink ones,” Grace decided.
Dean twisted around, his face close enough to brush her nose. She wondered what it’d feel to press her forehead against his chin and flooded with heat at the thought. Their eyes met, and Grace swallowed and looked away, relieved when he pointed across the meadow where the sheep were being led. “They get pretty mixed up easily. See the holes in the wall?”
She squinted. There were round openings in the rock walls lining the fields. They were the perfect size for children or small animals to walk through. “They make holes for the animals?”
“Yes, for the sheep. They’re too big for cows and horses.”
“Smart.” Grace surveyed the miles of hills surrounding them.
“Most of these walls are hundreds of years old,” Dean informed her. “Who knows, maybe older. You can see they’re patched up here and there.”
“To trap pixies,” teased Grace.
Dean winked at her and slid his helmet over his head as the sheepdog chased the last straggler into the new pasture. With a crank of the throttle they took off again, clutched together on the humming bike like the best of friends—or more. The road wound up and around the emerald view then smoothed out. Dean slowed, and Grace spotted a welcome sign. She peered at a string of Gaelic and then the translation beneath: Welcome to Cashel. Overhead on a towering hill, ancient ruins of stone towers and walls reached for the sky in a desperate attempt to stay upright. Grace’s breath caught in her throat. “Wow,” she breathed.
They zoomed into a visitor lot, and Dean jumped out to pay for parking, ignoring her insistence that he accept a few euros. They hung their helmets on the back of the bike, and Grace slipped into her backpack, glad she’d brought a bottle of water. “It’s huge,” she said, gaping up at the ruins on the hill.
“Yes, but it’s more than one structure. There’re churches and gravestones and a round tower like we saw in Glendalough.”
“I can see why they built it up there.” Grace turned in a slow circle, imagining the view of the low-slung pastures that spread out for miles around the little village.
“It was originally the home of kings before the Norman invasion,” Dean explained. “St. Patrick came a few centuries later.”
“So St. Patrick was not born here?”
“No,” said Dean. “He started in Britain and was carried into Ireland as a slave.” They started up the steep driveway that wrapped around the base of the castle ruins.
“I didn’t know that,” Grace admitted.
“Yes, he didn’t have it easy, but he had faith I suppose.” Dean drew in a small breath at his own words, and Grace gave him a sideways glance. They walked together up the hillside and entered the grounds. An enormous, empty cathedral was open to the sky without its rooftop and the remains of skeletal buttresses reaching for one another.
“Is that the round tower?” Grace pointed across the property.
“Yes, good eye,” Dean said in approval. “It was built by monks before the Church came.” There were also chapels with sandstone and fragments of frescoes, and towers, and keeps. After wandering through the remnants of the buildings, they strolled through the green grass among ancient Celtic grave markers with ornate crosses. Grace swept her gaze over the distant fields below for as far as she could see. “I certainly can see why they felt they were close to God.”
“It was only for the rich in the end, you know, the wealthy, the royals.
“That’s a shame. God’s for everyone.”
Dean fell quiet again and moved off toward a gravestone. Grace walked around the burial site in silence, sensing he needed a few moments alone and hopefully, to hear something new in his heart. When he joined her again, she nudged him and pointed toward the bustling village below. “I’m starved. Are you hungry?”
Dean nodded and reached for her. Grace found her fingers fit easily into his hand. Her stomach did a surprised swan dive as tenderness for the man beside her wove through her. She let him lead her down the hill and only pulled away when he reached to shake hands with a tour guide. While they chatted, Grace stepped back to examine the cathedral’s village with its rows of small stone houses and the crowded streets lined with shops and inns. A nippy breeze whipped past her, and she crossed her arms over herself. There was something purifying about wind laden with history and time. It seemed to suggest the possibilities for new moments and memories. And at this time and in this place, this was something she would treasure. She drew in a contented breath and glanced back toward the graveyard up the hill. New marriages. New births. New families. New stories. Grace gave a small shake of her head. No. Not for her. Not now. The feelings burgeoning inside of her for Dean had to remain...platonic. Besides, like he already knew, all stories came to an end eventually.
“Let’s get you a sweater.” Dean’s voice surprised her, and she spun around. He held out an arm, and she linked hers through his instead of taking his hand. He was a nice person, but he was just passing through her life. She should not like dancing with him so much. Or the light in his eyes. Or the sound of his voice.
“Sweater, yes,” Grace repeated. He pointed at a small shop at the bottom of the hill where tourists milled around a coffee stand. The word Textiles was emblazoned across the top of the building. She shivered. “Let’s go,” she agreed. They started off again as Grace resisted the idea that a trek to Ireland could offer more than memories or clarity. She could not allow herself to have feelings for someone here. She would leave soon, and probably never see Dean again.
#
AFTER SPENDING TWO hours buying thick wool sweaters, browsing a pottery shop, and eating lunch in the basement dining room of a bed and breakfast, Dean cajoled Grace to put on her sweater and new cap. They walked back to the base of the castle to retrieve the motor bike as the sun shot shafts of orange and violet light across the heavens. It was a long trek back to the cottage, but since lunch, Dean had felt wired, as if the afternoon with Grace had recharged him. He was warm from sauteed fish and cream sauce and satisfied from a generous serving of potatoes. Grace had insisted on dessert, and he’d bought her a chocolate orange muffin that made her eyes shine with pleasure. It'd stirred something in his heart and gave him the crazy idea of inviting her to dinner at his home in Maine sometime. He promised to cook for her, just like he used to do for his family and friends, and she’d smiled and agreed as if she’d really come.
They rode in silence, the sound of the motorbike and whipping wind the only conversation, the feel of her pressed against his back, a subtle whisper. Sometimes her arms dropped around his waist, and he’d clench the handle bars tighter; other times her legs pressed against his thighs, a contact so tender and human that it fired the energy already coursing through his veins. Dean watched darkness fade in the east as he drove into the night aware of every breath he needed to clear his thoughts. The smell of smoking chimneys in the cold air topped off his contentment. The scent reminded him of warmth and comfort, family and friends. It was the harbinger of the holidays and the deep snowfall of later winter. His sudden ache for such things again made him realize he wasn’t just walking among the living while barely existing anymore. Dean felt alive again, as if purpose was waiting just around the corner. His throat tightened at the realization that it didn’t matter where or how he lived. He could feel alive as long as he found things to appreciate. Like walks among shadowed castle ruins. Dinners in village pubs. Pipes to fix. Roofs to repair. Suddenly, letting go of the cottage seemed like dying. Forgetting. He’d held onto Celeste tightly, but he’d promised her he would go on, and he hadn’t. It was time to live again. There was still so much to do, to enjoy and to love.
He was sore by the time they reached the cottage gate, but he slid off the bike and helped Grace off in the darkness. The moon was suspended in a sliver overhead, and as his eyes adjusted, he found her glowing just enough to be discernible in the night.
“It's late. I’m sorry I dragged you so far away,” she said in a quiet voice.
“I suggested it.”
“Well, I appreciate the tour.” She smiled, the moon glow making a halo around the crown of her head. “Thanks, Dean.”
“You’re welcome.” He stared, aware a layer of her still clung to him like a pleasant shadow, a cloak of care.
“I—" She dropped her gaze as he searched hers. “It’s been awhile.”
“Maybe you needed to be in Ireland for more than you realized,” whispered Dean, knowing instinctively that he was speaking of himself.
She gave a gentle nod. “Who wouldn’t? The pace is slower here, the perspective wider. I think I’d like to extend my stay if you’re okay with that. I want to help you finish the cottage. Paint it, I mean. Let me help. You need it if you’re going to get back to Maine in time, and I feel...” Grace met his eyes again and gave him a long gaze. “Somehow, seeing the cottage finished will help me see that life really does go on. I don’t know how to explain it. I’ve been stretched emotionally for so long, I just couldn’t find the courage to relax.”
Dean nodded, feeling solemn. He understood. If she left too soon something about them would be left undone. “Life does go on, and we don’t have to do it alone.”
“I believe I told you that first,” Grace teased. “You don’t have to let go of what you treasure, but you do have to unstick yourself, climb out of the bogs life puts in front of you, and keep looking for rainbows. It applies to both of us.” The curve of her lips invited him nearer, and Dean couldn’t resist taking a step closer. He wanted to feel her life force again.
“I think I’m ready,” he said in a low tone. His heart was pounding the truth into him. He’d left something behind in Cashel on the winding roads, drifting smoke and icy breezes. Grace was new and familiar all at once. Smart and attractive. No, beautiful, with a gentle patience he admired. She blinked at him slowly, and for a split second he thought he saw yearning deep in her eyes, the same yearning he felt and denied, like she had been waiting for someone or something for as long as he had. She was brave to choose living on her own while allowing people in. She was brave to trust in God wholeheartedly even though some other man had left a hole in her. Dean flooded with admiration, affection and something more that startled him. Before he could stop himself, he leaned in and pressed a light kiss on her lips—simple, honest, innocent. His pulse was speeding like the motorbike he’d just shut off. Her surprised look made him smile. “I’d forgotten there was so much in this country to see. So much more of the world between Portland, airplane cabins, and the crossroads of the village. Thanks for reminding me, Grace.” His chest tightened, and Dean realized he was close to tears. He cleared his throat. “I was so caught up in my own history, I forgot I still had life left to live. So do you. You know that, right?”
Grace glanced toward the cottage, and a faint smile touched her lips. “I can assure you, I’ve completely quit stressing about the job offer, not to mention, I wasn’t attacked by wild goats this morning, and I have you to thank for it.”
Dean chuckled, and Grace crossed her arms over herself creating a barrier between them that he couldn’t find the courage to breach. “Goodnight. I guess I’ll see you later then,” Grace whispered.
Dean grappled with his feelings, trying to compose himself. “You might hear me up on the roof again in the morning. Please don’t blast me with Croce.”
She laughed. “You and the goats are going to get over your distaste of Croce. Mark my words.”
“I suspect I’m going to get over a lot of things,” Dean replied. He watched her let herself into the cottage and flick on the light before he climbed back onto the bike. When she gave him a wave from the window, Dean turned over the engine and started for the pub with a heart lighter than it had been in years.