The Emerald Isle (7 page)

By the time I reached the farm and my assigned bedroom, I felt completely drained. Knowing that Taylor and Maddie would want to spend some time alone with her parents, I locked the door, lowered the window blind, and stretched out beneath a spotless Irish counterpane to lose myself in sleep.

Sometime in the middle of the night I awoke, sat up, then convinced myself to go back to bed. All the travel guides had told me that the fastest way to combat jet lag was to acclimate as soon as possible to the new time zone, so I lay down and prayed I’d wake up at seven to a big breakfast featuring pots of coffee and caffeine-laced edibles.

“And though I’m not sure what I’m doing here, Lord,” I whispered to the darkness, “I’d appreciate it if you’d guide my steps. Ireland may be an island of rock, but now I feel like I’m walking on quicksand. So guide my path and guard my tongue—and help me see why it was so terribly important that I come on this trip.”

I heard no answer from the blackness and no inner Voice, only the moan of the wind over the night-blackened emerald hills.

W
hen I opened my eyes again, bright summer light had highlighted the edges of my window blind. I looked at my watch—8:00 A.M. Time to get up and begin a new day.

I pushed myself upright and looked around the room that would be my home for the next few weeks. Last night I had been so tired I barely took notice of my surroundings, but sixteen hours of sleep had reenergized my body and awakened my curiosity. The room I slept in was small, neat, and clean, with a pair of faded floral prints on the wall over the bed and bureau. My suitcases occupied most of the available space in the center of the floor.

I climbed out of bed and walked around the suitcases to a tall wardrobe standing near the window. I opened the mirrored doors and found only a half-dozen hangers on the rod inside.

If I hadn’t already known, I might have guessed this was one of the rooms the O’Neils offered to their bed-and-breakfast guests. There wasn’t a single personal memento, knickknack, or photograph in sight.

Sighing, I raised the window blind, then gasped at the sight of a window box brimming with bright flowers—bleeding hearts, petunias, and peonies. I leaned onto the windowsill and drank in the morning air. Aunt Kizzie would have loved this.

Beneath my window, a door opened and closed. A brown-and-white Jack Russell terrier ran out, barking as he sprinted toward a group of buildings beyond the house. Looking down, I saw Mr. O’Neil
step forward, pause for a moment to light his pipe, then tuck his hands into his pockets, puffing on his pipe as he followed the dog.

A feeling of guilt swept over me as I leaned back into my room. If Mr. O’Neil was up and about already, chances were good that Maddie and Taylor were up too. They’d think I was a layabout if I stayed in my room much longer.

I dug for the tiny luggage key that would unlock my suitcases, flung them open, and took a moment to hang a few wrinkled blouses in the wardrobe. I arranged them, from right to left, in the order I thought I’d wear them. One thing I learned from my mother is that a woman who wears a well-rotated wardrobe always seems to have more clothes than she actually does. And since I had limited myself to two suitcases for this two-month trip, I intended to rotate my few sweaters, blouses, and jeans extra carefully.

I pulled clean underwear and a pair of jeans from the bottom of one bag, then plucked a summer sweater from my second suitcase. Cracking my bedroom door open, I glanced down the hall. The bathroom that served both bedrooms on this landing stood just to my right, and from the open door to the room next to mine, I guessed that I’d have the bathroom and shower to myself. I darted into the bathroom and locked the door.

After showering and dressing, I combed my wet hair, applied a light dusting of makeup, then pulled on my socks and hiking boots. I stepped out into the hall again and double-checked the room next to mine—as I suspected, it was unoccupied. I passed another hallway as I made my way to the staircase, and saw doors to my left and right, one open, one closed. Occupied? As I made my way downstairs I heard the rumble of voices, but there was no one in the sitting room to the right of the staircase or the dining room to the left. Not knowing where else to go, I followed a hallway off the foyer to a swinging door marked Private.

Taking a deep breath, I pushed it open and saw Mr. and Mrs. O’Neil sitting at the kitchen table. They looked up, startled into silence by my approach.

“Um—good morning,” I said, feeling more like an interloper than ever. “Am I early or late for breakfast?”

“Our guests eat at nine,” Mrs. O’Neil said, pushing back her chair. “If you’ll go into the dining room, I’ll make your breakfast.”

“Please don’t go to any special trouble for me.” I stepped closer to the table and let the door swing closed behind me. “I just wanted to say that I appreciate your allowing me to stay here. I know the bed-and-breakfast is your business, and I’m sure you’ll lose some income by having me take up one of your bedrooms. So I’d like to help if I can. I can do my own cleaning, and I’d like to help with the cooking if you want me to.”

Mrs. O’Neil averted her gaze as a shadow of annoyance crossed her face. I stepped back, knowing I had somehow offended her.

“I’ve been handling the B&B by myself for nearly ten years, so I think I know how to manage things.” Her forcefully polite words rang in my ears like thunderclaps. “And I’d rather not have a stranger meddling in me kitchen. Maddie says you’ve come here to work on a project—”

“The O’Connor book,” Mr. O’Neil interjected. “She said you’d be spending much of your time up in County Roscommon.”

Totally bewildered by this frosty reception, I tried to smile but only flinched uncomfortably. “Well—yes, I will have to go up there to have a look around. But I was really planning on staying here every night. Maddie said everything I’d want to see was within a few hours drive of Ballinderry.”

Mr. O’Neil looked at his wife, then both of them looked at me.

“All the same, today you shall have your breakfast with the guests.” Mrs. O’Neil’s thin, dry lips curved in a fleeting smile. “Tomorrow—well, we’ll see what happens tomorrow. But the other couple ordered breakfast at nine. They’ve come to Ireland for the riding.”

She moved toward the stove, and Mr. O’Neil picked up his newspaper, both of them dismissing me. I turned toward the foyer and the public rooms, my mind spinning in confusion. Several things had just become apparent, and most obvious was the fact that the O’Neils
didn’t—and wouldn’t—consider me family. They saw me as an outsider, a guest, and I would likely remain so until I left. They were hoping I wouldn’t get in the way, and the more time I spent working on my book, the happier they’d be.

With half an hour to kill before breakfast, I crossed the foyer to the front door, then stepped out to do a bit of exploring. The farmhouse, which I’d barely glanced at yesterday afternoon, was a long rectangular structure, with a centered front door and four windows on each side, two on each of the first and second floors. Mounds of colorful flowers spilled from boxes at every window, and a thin beard of ivy covered the upper walls as high as the roof. A graveled parking lot led from the road to a small stone porch before the front door, but a soft, green lawn spread beyond the parking lot to a charming little creek that curved through the grass. The house and grounds were beautiful, but the walled garden at the side of the house took my breath away. Peering through the garden gate, I saw an actual orchard with clusters of apples and pears hanging in abundance.

I laughed in simple appreciation of the glorious sight. In my entire lifetime I couldn’t recall ever actually seeing an apple hanging from a tree, much less a pear. Yet here they were, waiting to be plucked, as natural and pretty as you please.

There was no sign on the garden gate, so I assumed guests were free to wander in it. I opened the gate and stepped inside, marveling at the profusion of tropical plants and flowers. Somehow I’d imagined that Ireland would suffer hard winters—after all, the Irish were famous for sweaters—but these plants wouldn’t be able to survive freezing temperatures for prolonged periods. I made a mental note to correct another of my misguided preconceptions.

The garden ended at an ivy-covered, four-foot-tall stone fence; beyond it I could see other stone fences that probably served as cattle pens. To my left lay a patchwork of green pastures, dotted with black and white cattle; the house stood to my right. Directly in front of me were barns, cattle pens, and a large open area of trampled brown earth.

I debated climbing over the wall for a little more exploration, then decided against it. If I wandered into a place where I wasn’t welcome, my already-dour hostess would grow even sourer. And since I had to remain here for two months, I knew I’d better do all I could to keep the peace.

I turned instead toward the house. The rectangular building visible from the front concealed other structures that had been added on to the back, probably as generations of the O’Neil family grew. Maddie had mentioned that the main house was over two hundred years old, so these rear buildings had to be later additions. Several chimneys poked up from the tin roof, and by process of elimination I figured out which windows belonged to the roomy kitchen where I’d met the O’Neils this morning. Other rooms stretched out behind it, and lace fluttered from several of the windows. If the front house contained the public spaces used for guests of the B&B, these back rooms had to be where the O’Neil family actually lived. Taylor, I realized, stayed in a room in the
family
section of the house.

I checked my watch, saw that it was nearly nine, and moved back toward the front door. As I crossed the graveled lot, I saw the small house Taylor had mentioned as a place where I could work in privacy. Roses rambled over its yellow stucco walls, and fuchsia and lupine grew as high as the square front window. I walked up to the rough door and knocked softly, and when no one answered, I opened the door and peered inside. A couple of chairs sat in the center of the room, while a heavy oak desk squatted against the far wall. A daybed sat in the corner of the room, piled high with pillows and a white linen counterpane. Though the building’s design was primitive, I saw electrical and telephone outlets on the wall, so Taylor was right—this would be a good place to work.

I reentered the house just as an older couple came down the staircase. The man and woman looked older than the O’Neils and seemed quite distinguished. Her shoulder-length silver hair was tied neatly at the nape of her neck, and she wore jodhpurs and a soft sweater. He, too, wore clothing that reeked of casual elegance, and suddenly
Mrs. O’Neil’s comment about the other guests and riding made sense. This couple had come to the country to ride
horses.
And since the O’Neils did not keep horses, these people would soon be heading out for the day.

I nodded good morning to them, then followed the man and his wife into the dining room. Mrs. O’Neil had set a beautiful table for three, with an elegant silver teapot occupying the center of the table. I moved to the empty place and sat down to eat with people I didn’t know.

The silver-haired woman gave me a polite fellow-guest’s smile as she picked up the teapot. “Shall I pour?”

“Please.”

“We are Hans and Aleen Christoffels.” The woman spoke in a careful, educated accent. “We are from the Netherlands. Are you American?”

“Yes.” I accepted the cup, thanked her with another smile, then reached for the sugar bowl.

“We didn’t hear you come in last night.” Aleen clasped her hands below her chin. “We thought we were the only guests in the house.”

“I’m sure I was already dead to the world when you came in.” I sprinkled a teaspoon of sugar into my tea, then began to stir. “But I’m traveling with two friends—surely you saw them?”

“The young couple?” Hans accepted a cup of tea from his wife. “I thought they were part of the family. They stayed in the kitchen until after midnight, laughing and talking.”

I tasted my tea, then stared down at my plate. “They are part of the family—at least she is. The young man is her fiancé. I’m just along for the ride.”