Page 54 of An Irish Summer

“No bother. Eamon’s a good lad. Does a favor for us every now and again, and we do the same.”

I nodded, trying also to listen to the other staff members as they prepared us for the self-guided tour.

“Don’t bother,” Collin said, tracking my gaze. “I’ll tell you everything you need to know.”

“How can I be sure?” I asked. “What if you decide to withhold critical pieces of Irish history?”

“Withholding isn’t exactly my strong suit,” he said, ushering me through a doorway with his hand on my lower back. The gesture tightened everything in me, and I missed the sensation before it was over.

Wandering through the castle felt like wandering through time—if you could overlook the velvet ropes and signage plastered on the walls. Each room was historically accurate, all gaudy curtains, gold-framed mirrors, and ornate upholstery.

We explored studies and drawing rooms and great halls; all the while Collin spun an elaborate history of the abbey. I listened as he told me of the early days, the Henry family, and the time they spent entertaining in their home.

“Must be nice,” I mused. “No nine-to-five, no pressure, just rich people hobbies and the most gorgeous estate.”

“You think that sounds nice, now?” Collin asked. “Not having a job and that?”

“If I was rich and this was my house, absolutely,” I said.

“So, your work is about making a lot of money? Is that why you’re so keen to find a job in Boston?”

“Everyone needs to work to make money. And with money comes stability.”

“But at what cost?” he said. I kept my eyes locked on a marble bust to avoid looking at his. “Don’t you think making less money and having more time for yourself might be worthwhile? More stability in the long run, no?”

“I have plenty of time for myself,” I said, wondering if that was actually true.

“Enough that you’re happy?”

This time I turned my gaze fully on him, but he remained staring at some artifact neither of us cared about.

“Why are you so concerned?” I whispered over a voice from a hidden loudspeaker chronicling the lives of Mitchell and Margaret Henry.

“Part of my job,” he whispered back. “Gotta keep the guests happy.”

“And you want to talk to me about working too much.” I shook my head, and he fought a smile.

“Keeping people happy hardly feels like work,” he said. “But I do make sure to give myself a break when I can. If I’m not taking care of myself, then I can’t take good care of the guests.”

“And right now is about taking care of the guests?” I teased. “I thought you weren’t working today.”

“I only said that to keep ya happy.”

I smacked him in the arm, and he let go of the laugh he was holding. “And for what it’s worth,” I said, “it is about the work. I love helping people make the most of their vacations.”

“I’m going to choose to believe you,” he said, “but only because it’s what Margaret Henry would do.”

I scoffed, and neither of us said anything else.

We continued roaming the castle, dragging our feet on the glossy wood floors and resisting the urge to touch everything. Collin spoke only to tell me bits of history, and I didn’t speak at all.I listened to stories of ladies reading and sewing in the morning rooms, lavish dinner parties, the history of the Benedictine nuns.

“This,” he said, opening his arms as we entered what was labeled “The Gallery Saloon,” “is where the residents had happy hour.”

A laugh slipped out of me into the silence, earning a glare from a security guard.

“I’m serious,” Collin said. “They met here for before-dinner drinks. And probably again for after-dinner drinks. And midmorning drinks, and all the other times they spent drinking without anything better to do.”

“Sounds like the Wanderer.”

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