Page 7 of Bracing The Storm

“A barn?” I repeat, hopeful. It sure beats a car or aimlessly walking down a dark street in search of anyone eager to help.

I really should have planned this better but the lawyer’s letter said someone would pick me up from the airport and drive me to the house. That person never turned up, which in turn forced me to fork out money I don’t have for a taxi that left me stranded in the middle of nowhere. That about sums up how I got here in the first place.

“Yes, a barn,” the voice interrupts my train of thoughts. “It has four walls and a roof. You can’t miss it. You can sleep there…for now. Good night.”

And with that, I assume the conversation is over because footsteps thud off and silence resumes.

“Sounds great. Thank you. I’ll definitely take you up on your generous offer.”

I return to the truck to get my backpack and suitcase. I’m not even being sarcastic. Coming from a stranger, itisgenerous of him to let me sleep in his barn. I’m grateful because roaming the streets at night is never a good idea. I might be in the middle of nowhere but living in NYC for most of my adult life has taught me a thing or two. One being, never leave your baggage out of sight. Second, don’t jump into a stranger’s car. (Well, I sort of blew that one.) Third, don’t spend the night outside. I survived in that city for years; I’m pretty sure I can survive a night in the village of Gleann Searúill.

Tugging at my luggage, it takes me forever to round the house before I reach a patch of greenery which I assume is a backyard. I can’t really tell, what with all the lights switched off and no streetlamp. I follow the path blindly until I find myself in front of another building, this one smaller than the house, and try the door.

It’s unlocked.

I push it open and enter, brushing my hand over the wall to my right where anyone would expect to find a light switch. It’s right there and I flick it on. The barn is instantly bathed in a soft, golden light. I shield my eyes until my vision has adjusted and scan my surroundings.

The guy must be joking calling this place a barn. It looks like no shed I’ve ever seen.

The place is spacious, modern, tastefully decorated with an old flair about it that instantly makes me feel at home. There’sa sofa with lots of cream and white cushions set up in front of an old fireplace. Colorful artwork adorns the walls, standing in contrast to the otherwise muted tone of the furniture. I open the first door to my left and find myself in a vast bedroom the size of my apartment back home, with a king-size bed and an en-suite bathroom. Everything looks spotless and barely lived in.

I squeal with delight and kick off my shoes, dropping onto the bed. I’m beat after the long flight and I really can’t believe my luck. This is so much better than I anticipated. This is?—

Before I can even form the thought, I’ve drifted off to sleep.

Chapter Three

“Knock, knock.”

Who’s there, I feel like asking, and smile at the cliché, the motion sending a throb of pain through my head. For a moment, I’m disoriented, unsure where I am or how I got here. The sheets are too thick and soft compared to the kind of sheets I’m used to which have seen the inside of a tumble-drier a few times too many. The chirping of birds echoes from somewhere outside. Back home all I ever got to hear upon waking was either the blaring sound of a police siren or the upstairs neighbors struggling hard not to kill each other. (In their defense, theyhavebeen married for ten years, which in wedlock years probably translates to something like an eternity. The way I see it, marriage is the best preparation if you ever find yourself in the position of wanting to try your hand at a career in politics. Not only will you excel at facing daily opposition, you’ll also be used to no one ever being interested in what you have to say.)

“Hey!” the voice calls out again. “Are you up?”

I realize the voice calling out to me is male and a bit angry. He sounds nothing like the relaxing chirping sounds coming from outside the window. If only he would just shut up so I canget back to sleep and cure the pounding sensation inside my skull.

I groan and turn. As I kick the sheets aside, I glimpse the tall figure blocking the doorway and my heart stops for a moment.

That’s when my brain finally starts working again and realization kicks in.

Someone’s broken in!

I need to call 911.

I frantically scan the bedside table for my phone. I usually leave it there to charge overnight. It’s not there. Instead, the back of my hand connects with something hard. One of those old-fashioned lamps that weigh a ton. A brief pang of pain shoots up my arm, and I let out a yelp.

Everything’s wrong, from the furniture to the size of the bedroom and the way the light falls in. My brain finally puts two and two together. I’m in a foreign country, jet-lagged out of my freaking mind, and have just spent the night in some stranger’s barn, albeit the luxurious kind.

I blink against the sun seeping through the crack in the drawn curtains.

Ireland.

Yes, that’s the country.

Barely twenty-four hours ago, I was in NYC, hauling my meager belongings, or what’s left of them, into a taxi that would take me to the airport. All based on a personal letter and a thick envelope from a prestigious law firm that was professional enough to call me into their office, offer me a cup of coffee and grant me two minutes of their overpriced time to explain the meaning of it all.

The only person who knows where I am or why I’m here is my best friend, Mia. The fact that she’s doing a yearlong internship somewhere in England and could pop over any time filled me with the necessary courage to pack my bags and takethe plunge into uncharted waters. I can’t help but question the sanity of that decision given that I’m in the middle of nowhere and London seems like light years away.

Someone is standing in the doorway, my brain reminds me.

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