The subtle prickles of static are sharp and exciting as I let myself tell her what’s really on my mind.
“Yuh know, I hadn’t actually thought of it that way. Look at you, yuh big horn dog, going right for the monster dick and taking no prisoners. Poor Chad is going to be crushed.”
“Good. He sucked, and you deserved so much better from the beginning. What do we say to Chads?”
“Not today in my vah-jay,” she intones.
Our little spoof of the fantasy TV show tagline never fails to bring a smile to my face.
“Good. OK, I’m going to go. I’m getting a lot of weird looks in the airport, and I think it’s just better to rip the Band-Aid off.”
“OK, I’m here if you need me. I’ll keep my phone on hand, and Mom would love to hear from you. Yuh know, signs of life and all that,” she says before smacking a kiss against the receiver. “Love ya, sister.”
“Love you, sis.” I hang up before I can analyze the burning starting in my eyes and the lump that suddenly welled up in my throat.
I miss her already. This whole time I’ve been fighting the urge not to miss them, but like a ton of bricks and a bad cold had a sinister lovechild, it always manages to catch up to you in the end.
Once I’m out of the airport, it’s impossible not to notice how much cleaner it is here. Even in the city just outside the airport. The drizzle that hangs in the air makes each lungful thicker, but nonetheless, it’s sweet.
Maybe Ireland is where I’ll magically discover myself and achieve nirvana and all that jazz. If anything, I can make some good art. I’ve always loved painting clouds. Rain clouds are a particular favorite of mine. The nuances within the many layers of swirling gray have never been something I’ve been able to resist. There’s something so beautiful, so powerful and wild about the rain.
I take a steadying breath before making a mad dash for the open-air taxi stand. Once under the light covering, I rock on my heels a bit, trying not to keep my eyes on any one person for too long. I don’t know a lot about Irish mythology and legend or local lore, so I’m being cautious not to offend anyone or anything as I slip into the back of my cab.
“Where ya headed?” the older gentleman serving as my cabby asks, glancing back at me through the rearview.
“I know it’s a long way out, but I’m headed to Colbéliard. Would you be able to take me there, or should I try something else?” I ask, suddenly feeling foolish.
A low, sharp whistle flies out from between his lips, but he nods.
“I can take you. It’s two hours at a minimum on the roads, and with weather like this, it’s a guarantee that the time will stretch on. It’ll cost yuh.”
His words are gentle, well meaning, but they stir up a bit of rage within me. I’m a woman who was born and raised in New York City. If I can handle a ninety-nine-cent slice going up to one fifty, then I can damn well manage the cost of a taxi.
“Uh, yeah,” I say, trying to sound confident. “I just got here, and I’m already exhausted. If you’re willing to do it, I can pay whatever.”
“I can tell you’ve just arrived,” he says, nodding toward the airport. “Locals usually know better places to be on a Friday night.”
I hiss through my teeth. Of course it’s after midnight. It’s still Thursday back in NYC. Being in a different time zone than my family feels like the least weird thing to happen in the last twenty-four hours somehow.
“Right, um, OK. Let’s do this…”
Chapter 4
CHARLOTTE
When the signfor Colbéliard comes into view, I give a playful cheer, pleased that the ride didn’t feel as long as I had expected after all the day’s travel. Stepping out of the cab, I groan as every ache in my body intensifies from staying in one position so long.
“Are you sure you can’t drop me off closer?” I ask, voice bordering on a plea.
“Cab won’t fit through the narrow roads, love. You’ll be fine on your feet. The country air will do you well after all the recycled stuff you breathed on that plane,” he says with a little wave.
Huffing, I shut the door and take a step onto the sidewalk. The driver doesn’t linger, pulling away from the curb and heading off in the same direction he came.
As I drag my suitcase from the mouth of the little town all the way to the other end, where the castle looms, I find myself out of breath. I have never considered myself athletic, even if I’m a master of jumping to conclusions. Give me a comfy couch, some five-dollar wine, and a paint set over a marathon any day. I may have city legs, but cobblestones for every street is killing me. Onthe plus side, I’ve never felt so free among the open spaces of lawns and gardens.
Growing up in the city, I only ever saw green in the parks of wealthier neighborhoods or in small private gardens in the backyards of those lucky enough to have them. It’s hard to imagine the world is like this, but it’s right in front of me and I can’t help but gape at it. The land the castle sits on looks wild in the darkness, and the space from the gate to the castle proper is lush and beautiful, paved with stones covered in thin layers of green.
I suck in a deep lungful of air, crisper and cleaner compared to anything in NYC, as I withdraw the thick bronze key from my coat. It’s the only one Michael gave me, so let’s hope it works.