Page 20 of Bracing The Storm

The sun is spilling bright rays through the open curtains, whispering promises of a marvelous day. Even the silence, which took me a while to get used to, has started to feel serene. Granted, it did freak me out a few times, but it’s strangely alluring not waking up in the middle of the night to the sound of police sirens reverberating from the walls, and the gut-wrenching fear they might be on scene in your own home. I can’t even imagine the good people of Gleann Searúill have ever heard police sirens coming from anywhere but a Hollywood movie.

What’s even more awesome is the knowledge that I have power. No, not superhuman powers or anything of the kind. But the kind of power that usually comes with social status or money. One phone call to my lawyer, Duncan Ellis, and the horde of women outside the driveway were gone within the hour. That’s probably the reason why Patrick Walsh has decided to crawl under a big, fat rock. He must have realized he can’t mess with me.

Mr. Big Shot Rich Guy Possibly Small Town Celebrity…my ass!

He probably persuaded his friend, Hector, and his female entourage to pretend he’s someone influential so I’d get scared and move out. That plan backfired right in his pretty face. It’s also made me realize the guy might start to play dirty.

If he hired people to pretend, what’s next?

Luckily, I’ve never been one to avoid a mess. In fact, I usually dive right in, whether I want to or not. See exhibit A, the big mess waiting for me back home. Or maybe Hectorwasgetting rid of a bunch of delusional women trying to climb the social ladder by getting their clutches into the richest guy around here. I don’t know anything about the high society in these parts of Ireland, but the Walsh estate is lavish and not your run-of-the-mill three-bed, two-bathroom cottage overlooking the bay, so that explanation isn’t as far-fetched as it might seem.

In the end, it doesn’t matter. Whoever these people were, they’re gone now. Hopefully, for good.

I jump out of bed to start my morning routine: shower, put on my minimal makeup, rummage through the meager contents of my wardrobe. Half an hour later, I’m energized and eager to venture out. With power comes confidence. I’m ready to face the world. Okay, maybe not the world, but the small village of Gleann Searúill (still can’t pronounce it, maybe if I hear it a few times, preferably in slow motion?).

The Walsh residence is situated on a small hill and surrounded by tall trees and hedges, boasting perfect privacy from the sleepy village below. I know there’s some sort of deep water nearby because I saw some big, blue splash of color on Google Maps. I can also sometimes smell the salt when the air is particularly crisp.

Squeezing into my jacket, I head out of the guesthouse and close the door behind me, leaving it unlocked. I have yet tofind a set of keys anywhere, which makes me conclude that Patrick either hid the keys or people around here don’t bother to lock their doors. Given that the nearest city is what feels like hundreds of miles away, I’d be willing to bet my non-existent paycheck on the latter.

The road winding to the village below is narrow and littered with tiny gravel that dig into the thin soles of my kitten heels and slow down my descent. I can definitely see why Patrick would be driving something like his monstrosity of a truck instead of a sleek sports car even though an Aston Martin would look so much better parked in the driveway of the lavish residence.

After what feels like an eternity, I reach the village and stop to take it all in.

It’s quaint yet picturesque, and bigger than I expected, with a rustic flair and cobblestone streets in between neat rows of small houses painted in bright colors. The little street signs are in Gaelic and read like long strings of letters that have been thrown together haphazardly. They all sound the same to me so I can’t orientate myself by memorizing them. But as I stroll past various buildings, I can make out a small grocery store, a tiny post office that also doubles as a tailor’s, and a pub. It’s barely noon, yet half of the seats are already occupied. As I peer through the tall glass front, a few punters turn to look at me, curiosity written on their faces. The elderly man behind the bar waves me in. I raise my hand to decline, though awkwardly, and turn on my heels to head in the opposite direction. Needless to say, I’m a private person and my social skills leave a lot to be desired. Places like this, where everyone knows everyone’s business and then some, freak me out, which is why I haven’t yet seen much of my new, albeit temporary, home. It’s probably also the reason why I moved from a small town in the Southwest to the anonymity of the Big Apple as soon as I was legally old enough to get thehell out. I didn’t look back until my half-brother and former boss reminded me of my roots.

Peter Reynolds.

He’s the person who destroyed my life. The dark place I don’t like to venture into. That one name that knows how to break through the fragile shell of peace and quiet I like to build around myself.

“You’re nothing and that’s what you’ll always be,” he had said with a smile, right before kicking the door in my face.

I push his name to the back of my mind where it belongs. At least I can pretend he doesn’t exist and all the problems back home are nothing but a blur of the past.

“Onwards and upwards,” I mumble and look around.

Somewhere in the distance, church bells tinkle, the sound almost lost in the noise of the hungry seagulls circling the statue of a man holding up what looks like a fishing rod. There aren’t any shops that would be advertised as such, but there’s a chalkboard sign outside a tall window promoting fresh fish. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out the place is located right at the cusp of a sea or an ocean, and fishing is a huge thing around here.

Next to the fish place is what looks like a café. I push the door open and am immediately greeted by a bell chiming over the entrance, announcing my presence. A moment later, a stunning redhead about my age pops her head through an open doorway I assume leads to the back.

“I’ll be with you in a minute.” Her voice is melodious and thick with the same accent as Patrick’s.

“Take your time,” I call out as I let my gaze sweep over the interior design. It doesn’t have the flair, extravagance or luxury you usually find back home, but there’s something about this place that instantly makes me feel welcome. The walls boast the same whitewash as the façade, the lack of color broken by afew maritime paintings. Overlooking the street outside are a few tables decorated with small vases of dried flower bouquets.

While breakfast is waiting in the kitchen back at the house every morning, I decided to skip it and my body’s screaming for some much-needed sugar. My gaze instantly goes to the small glass counter with an array of baked goods that smell so delicious my stomach starts to churn.

Screw the extra padding around my hips. Today I’m definitely treating myself to a no-frills latte and some Irish pastry.

In one of the corners are two red couches and a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf filled to the brim with paperbacks ranging from classics to this year’s bestseller list. I pick up the latest novel of a famous author and settle at one of the tables, ready to wait for the waitress to come back from her break. I’ve barely flicked through the first few pages when the redhead’s suddenly standing a few feet away, startling me.

“A new face. Are you a tourist? Or did you get lost on your way to the airport?”

“Just passing through.” I peer up at her friendly smile and instantly notice the usual curiosity in her green gaze. But it feels different, not quite as prying as usual, which makes me relax a little.

“Sinead.” She laughs and holds out a hand. “Sorry for jumping on you like this. It can get quite boring around here. In fact so boring, I sometimes forget my manners. Any new face and updates from the real world outside are highly appreciated. It makes me feel less like a maiden locked up in a castle stuck in the middle ages.”

“Lori.” I shake her hand briefly, barely touching her skin in the process. “The place looks nice. Cozy.”

She nods. “Cozy is what I was going for when I opened it a few years back. It used to be a bakery. I inherited it from mylate grandmother, together with all her secret recipes. I wanted to continue the tradition, but it didn’t feel right. The men have their pub so I figured why shouldn’t the women have their own place, somewhere to gather and socialize and engage in a little bit of gossip? Preferably something that would earn me a living in the process because one needs to eat, right?” She shrugs. “I love books but it’s a long drive to the nearest bookstore, and the ferry only comes once a week. So the idea of a café slash library was born.”

---