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Grace paced her room. The small quarters were across the hall from Dean. He hadn’t emerged to fetch her for breakfast as he’d promised the night before so she’d changed into a sweater Moira had found for her and riffled through her purse that held her wallet and passport. She would have to leave early and without her things. Everything was wet or missing. Desiree had provided some toiletries, and Grace was grateful for that, but she couldn’t shake the nausea sitting like a boulder in her stomach. After one of the volunteer firefighters had driven her down to the village, Moira had wrapped her in a shawl and escorted her upstairs to dry off and get warm. Grace had been able to do nothing but watch from the window as midnight dropped over the mountains still being hosed with rain. Just as she’d drifted off to sleep she heard a soft knock at her door. Dean had come to check on her after all, and she’d hugged him tightly, tears streaming down her face. He’d put in so much work on the cottage and made peace with the decision to let another family move in and make new memories—have joy.
After combing her hair in the morning light, Grace checked the rearrangement she’d made for her flight one more time. Rather than an extra week, she’d leave the next day, and the Wicklow Mountains would be far behind her; a memory that should have been special, but she was leaving the village in shambles, and her heart felt shredded, too. It was more than the destroyed cottage, she knew. It was leaving Dean. It would do no good to tell him that she’d fallen in love with him. His late-night kiss after their tour of Cashel had offered her hope in the moment, and her heart had latched onto it. But her, a wife again? Maybe even a mother? Was there such a thing as temporary Irish insanity? She’d even talked herself into believing she could do something other than teach full time after all of the sacrifice and work she’d done to get her teaching certificate. Ballyven had cast a spell on her, and it was time to awaken. She had a job waiting for her acceptance in Georgia. That was the course she needed to take. She could not let any foolish fancies convince herself that she could have otherwise. Dean’s life was in Maine. He carried a grief he would never fully be able to let go of. The collapse of the cottage had made her see reality.
A knock at the door made her jump. Anxious to see the man who’d helped her turn the page in her life, she opened the door with her breath caught in her throat. Moira stood in the hall, fresh towels in her hand. “I brought you these for tomorrow,” she said quietly.
“Thank you.” Grace left the door open and motioned for her to come inside. “You don’t have to worry about me today. I can clean up the room by myself.”
Moira dropped into a narrow chair pushed under the antique writing table. She clutched the towels to her chest. “Did you work everything out?”
“Yes, the flight leaves tomorrow.”
Moira’s cheerful countenance clouded. “I hate to see you go.”
Grace dropped onto the bed across from her. “I hate to leave.” Her eyes brimmed with unexpected tears. “It’s amazing how much can happen in just a few weeks. I read, I rested, I walked a lot...”
“And you spent a lot of time with Dean.” Moira’s voice was hushed. “He seems grand since the last time he was here. Since you’ve arrived...he’s been happy out.”
Grace’s heart clicked quietly in agreement. “We do get along.”
“You seem very good for one another,” Moira suggested.
Grace smiled although the observation yanked her heart. She swiped her damp eyes. “I think it was timely. He helped me think some things through. I hope I did the same.”
“Oh, I know you did.” Moira smiled. “I watched the darkness in his eyes fade. He’s brighter. Happier. Like a man who’s found love.”
The words made Grace’s heart soar with hope, sending hot color to her cheeks. She swallowed and dropped her gaze to the floor. “Oh, no, Moira,” she stammered. “We’re just friends. Just lovely friends.” She wondered if the pub owner knew she’d shared a kiss with the village widower. One that would never be forgotten.
Moira sighed as if disappointed and climbed to her feet. “Well, how far is your Atlanta from Maine? You should stay friends. You could work together again. He has another house there that needs help.”
“Yes,” chuckled Grace. “He told me about it. The cottage was just a warmup. But I live too far away.” She sighed. “I’ve decided to take a full time teaching job so I’ll be busy.”
To her surprise, Moira frowned. “I hope you keep up your art. You were glowing at the auction. Inspiration does that.” She exhaled. “So does love.” She opened her arms, and Grace accepted a comforting embrace.
“Thank you for being so kind to me, so welcoming,” Grace whispered. “I feel like I’ve found a second home, another place I belong.”
“You’re welcome here always,” murmured Moira. “I won’t say goodbye. My heart tells me I’m going to see you again in Ballyven, and my intuition is never wrong.”
Grace squeezed her eyes shut and rested her cheek on Moira’s shoulder. “Then I hope we meet again.” Her throat knotted because she knew if she ever did return to the village, Dean Kavanaugh would not be there.
#
AFTER MOIRA SLIPPED out, Grace stood in front of Dean’s door to compose herself. He was moving around inside as if getting ready to leave. She assumed he was anxious to get back to the cottage to see the damage since the rain had stopped. It would hardly sell for what he’d wanted for it now. She doubted even a local would take on such a task.
Grace knocked gently, heart pounding in her ears. The movement on the other side of the door stopped, and just when she turned to walk away, it opened slowly. Dean looked haggard. There were smudges under his eyes that looked like shadows of soot. She cupped his cheek in her hand. “Are you okay? Did you get any rest?”
He stepped aside and let her in. “No, not much.” He ran his fingers through his hair, weary, unshaven, and yet so attractive and strong.
Tears fought to climb up her throat again. “I’m so sorry, Dean.”
“You don’t have to apologize. It’s not your fault.” He sank, beleaguered, onto his unmade bed.
Grace squeezed her hands. “It’s no one’s fault. It wasn’t God. It wasn’t punishment. It was just bad luck.” Tears welled over her bottom lashes, and she began to cry, sick in her heart. “I’m so sorry everything you worked for here is ruined.” Grace wiped her eyes. “I can sell my half of my Florida timeshare back to my ex. I was finished with it anyway. That would help cover your expenses.”
Dean squeezed her. “Oh, Grace, no. You don’t owe me. If anything, I should have had the structure checked to make sure it was still sound before I started anything else.”
She looked up, surprised he seemed incredulous. “I just want to help. It’s brought me such joy, and you worked so hard on it.”
He took her by the chin. “I did. But I wanted to be at the cottage, to do the things I was going to do by myself, because you were there.” He smiled sheepishly. “I knew you wanted to be alone, and I’m sorry. There was just something about you—is—something about you. I like who I am when I’m with you.”
Grace wiped a tear away. “I liked being with you, too,” she admitted. Her heart twisted with sadness. Saying goodbye was hard. She took a deep breath. “And I was able to work through what I needed to.”
“Even with me here?”
“Especially with you here.” She smiled at the truth she couldn’t deny, although it didn’t take the weight from her heart. “Just don’t blame yourself for this, Dean, or God. Life happens.”
Dean’s voice cracked. “Once again, something I was entrusted to take care of, I let go up in smoke, or wash away, literally.”
Grace sat back in surprise. “Dean, you can’t be serious.”
He gave a bitter laugh. “I know it’s not the entire house, but it’s hard not to wonder if God is punishing me. You said Celeste’s passing had nothing to do with me, but you were wrong. I should have fought harder. I should have taken her to Australia like she wanted for experimental tests. I didn’t do enough. I should have found a way to make it work.” His eyes watered, and Grace swept him into her arms. He buried his face in her neck. “My grandfather left me that cottage. He trusted me, the same way Celeste’s family trusted me to take care of her. I failed them all.”
Grace let out a low laugh of disbelief and held him tight. “No, Dean. It’s just a house. Thatch and stone. Drywall and plumbing. You didn’t know so much rain would wash it out, and you don’t have a cure for cancer.” He sobbed into her shoulder, and Grace squeezed her eyes to fight back her own. “Don’t hold onto your misfortunes,” she whispered. “Trials aren’t meant to be final. They’re meant to be chapters, but you have to turn the page and not get stuck there.” He held on as sounds of the pub coming to life echoed below.
Grace looked up through her tears and saw sunshine rising above the mountain peaks outside the room’s window. “We all do the best we can, Dean, and sometimes it’s just not enough. But God is. You’re going to be fine and so am I. Fix up the cottage again. Go back to your job and the house reno in Portland. Make new memories. I need to go back to Atlanta and accept the teaching position after all. The cottage will sell one way or the other. Let God take care of how.”
“I don’t have much time left to do any work on it,” he whispered in Grace’s shoulder. “It’s too much for me to take on. Bradford was right. Land is the real value here. I’m going to let it go. The cottage, the acreage—he can have it.”
Grace’s heart plummeted with disappointment. To sell out to the commercial real estate company was more than surrender; it was submission, something they both knew Dean would regret. Dean was going home, but he really had no choice. And sometimes, Grace thought sadly, the right choices weren’t always the easiest ones. Moira would be distraught. Life in the village would change. And the truth was, she would likely never see Ballyven again no matter what her friend at O’Tooles believed.
#
DUST PARTICLES TWIRLED like miniature universes when Dean pushed the door open and dropped his things inside. The Victorian house was as quiet as church ruins. He took a deep breath and exhaled, as he examined the half-scraped, once-modern wallpaper, a partially dismantled staircase, and old oak planks splotched with pieces of linoleum and carpet bits he hadn’t finished pulling up. There was an enormous amount of work before him, but at least Clove Cottage had been dealt with, and he’d said his goodbyes to everyone. This place, as he’d hoped from the beginning, would be his fresh start. Two days later, he found himself staring at the washing machine as it rattled through another cycle. He’d contacted an electrician and had an appointment with a specialist to examine the original flooring and give his opinion. Or hers. Dean reminded himself that a person could do anything she set her mind to it. The washer began to slow, and he reached for the set of hangers he’d brought to the laundry room. The plans were coming together, and he should have felt better about things, but he didn’t. His mind was distracted at work even though he’d had a break overseas. The final picture of what this house could be did not excite him like he thought it would. Plus, it was cold.
Dean shivered and stopped to rest against the window to the backyard. Snow covered the grass and draped the trees. Icicles twinkled in the sunshine. Thanksgiving was this week, which meant it would not warm up for months now. He shivered and thought of Savannah’s dancing palms and drooping Spanish moss; sunrise over the marsh and sunset over the sea; the salty air, and the smiles and friendly, familiar accents. His heart ached with a surprising twinge of homesickness. The washer stopped with a thump, and he sighed as he began to unload the wet clothes and put them into the dryer. It was odd doing laundry for one. When his mother used to do the wash for him and his father and sister it seemed like so much more. Dean’s outstretched hand wavered, and he clutched the shirt in his grip. What was he doing in such a big house with so much room? Why wasn’t he doing something to grow piles of laundry in his own life? He bit down on his lip and tossed the shirt in and slammed the door shut. Striding back through the kitchen, he made his way to the parlor and stared at the fireplace. Celeste’s single picture he’d allowed himself was on the mantel. There was also a photograph of his parents and one of the cottage in Ballyven with his sister and himself on bikes. Dean nodded slowly. This home he’d bought to bring back to life wasn’t going to do him any good if he was living here by himself. Grace had brought the cottage to life. Feeling connected to her had given him a reason to get up every day. Life, friendship, love. His family and his friends at home—they were what he needed. Dean sucked in another breath and exhaled slowly as he looked around at the many projects he’d just begun. It was time to move on.