Declan's Cross

“Right. I will. Thanks again.”

She shut the door and carried her suitcase and tote bag into the airport, past travelers with sleek wheeled black bags. She really did need her own suitcase. Granny said she liked the idea of her suitcase going to Ireland even if she couldn’t.

As far as Julianne knew, Andy hadn’t taken up with another woman since their falling out. That was a long time for him. But, clearly, he was back on his feet after the attack on him. He had to be restless.

She felt herself tense. There was no question in her mind that Andy would have another woman on his arm before she was back in Rock Point in two weeks.

She saw the emerald-green of the Aer Lingus sign and forced a smile.

Never mind two weeks. She wouldn’t be surprised if he had another woman before she landed in Shannon, Ireland.

* * *

Julianne figured she slept all of seven minutes on the plane, not because it was a bad flight or she was afraid of flying or nervous about Ireland, but because she was so excited. She refused to think about Andy—at least she more or less refused—and focused on the thrill of her first transatlantic flight.

She loved the green of Ireland, even in November, as the big plane landed in Shannon. She’d already changed her watch to Irish time, five hours ahead of Boston. Mentally, she told herself it was 6:00 a.m. and not 1:00 a.m.

Getting through customs was a breeze. She picked up her suitcase at baggage claim and carried it out to the main lobby, where Lindsey had indicated she’d be waiting.

No Lindsey.

Julianne checked the ladies’ room, the coffee shop and the books-and-sundries shop, but didn’t find her new friend. Shannon Airport wasn’t Logan. There weren’t many places Lindsey could be.

Maybe she couldn’t find a parking space or was running late.

Her tote bag hoisted on one shoulder and her suitcase on the other, Julianne went through the sliding glass doors, welcoming the rush of the chilly early Irish morning. She set her suitcase on the sidewalk, plopped her tote bag on top of it and stretched her arms up over her head, her muscles stiff after six hours on a plane. She wasn’t hungry, but she wanted coffee, badly.

The airport parking lot didn’t look crowded. Lindsey couldn’t have had trouble finding a parking space. Other travelers left the terminal, passing Julianne as they headed for the car rental lot or were picked up by family and friends. Airport workers went about their business.

Julianne dug out her phone. No new emails, texts or voice mails from Lindsey. What if Lindsey had gotten mixed up and was meeting her at the Dublin airport?

“What to do, what to do,” Julianne muttered, then decided to send a short text message.

After a few minutes without a response, she dialed Lindsey’s number and got her voice mail but disconnected without leaving a message. Somehow they had gotten their wires crossed.

Fuzzy-headed after the long flight, Julianne carried her suitcase and tote bag back into the terminal and bought herself a latte and scone at a small, uncrowded coffee shop. Most of the people from her flight had departed. The lobby was dead. She checked her email messages on her phone and found the one from Lindsey confirming the pickup: I’ll meet you in the lobby. We’ll stop for a full Irish breakfast and be in Declan’s Cross for lunch. Can’t wait to see you! xo Lindsey

Straightforward enough. Julianne double-checked to make sure she had given Lindsey the correct date, and she had.

She slathered her scone with butter and jam. The only thing to do at this point was to get herself to Declan’s Cross.

She finished her coffee and scone and made her way to the rental car counter. A car was available. Irish roads being what they were, collision coverage was extra and highly recommended. She had enough room on her credit card, but she’d have to find a fancier place to wait tables than Hurley’s in Rock Point, Maine, to pay it off if she didn’t want to dip deeper into the money from her grandfather. She decided to worry about that later. Father Bracken had jotted down directions to the cottage, and she’d put them in her Ireland folder.

She bought a bottle of water, a latte and another scone and somehow got everything out to the rental car lot. Her red Nissan Micra was one of the smallest cars they offered, and it had a standard transmission—a car with automatic transmission was another fortune on top of the rental fee and collision coverage. Her suitcase fit in back, just barely, and she set her tote bag on the front seat and arranged her water, latte and scone next to her. No way could she eat and drive, so she downed most of the latte while she familiarized herself with the car and got used to the idea of shifting with her left hand.

Her first roundabout nearly gave her a heart attack, but she didn’t stall out, didn’t hit anything—or anyone—and was now wide-awake with the adrenaline rush.

When she cleared Limerick and entered a pretty village, she pulled over to the side of the road. She ate the rest of her scone and checked her messages but there was still nothing from Lindsey.

A half-dozen children passed her car, giggling on their way to school. Julianne rolled down her window and smiled, letting the cool air invigorate her, reminding herself that she was a serious marine biologist and accustomed to being on her own.

She had no intention of calling or emailing Andy to tell him he was right.

There was nothing a Donovan liked better than being right.

4

AN ELFIN-FACED, black-haired Kitty O’Byrne Doyle showed Emma and Colin to their room on the second floor of the graceful, ivy-covered O’Byrne House Hotel. Once a private residence owned by Kitty’s uncle, the boutique hotel occupied a scenic stretch of south Irish coast in the small village of Declan’s Cross. “Fin Bracken is a great friend of mine,” Kitty said as she set the door key on a gleaming mahogany side table in the attractive room. “I saw you were from Maine and emailed him on the off chance he knew you. He said he did and told me I should take good care of you. That sounds like Fin, doesn’t it?”

Emma started to assure Kitty there was no need to go to any trouble on their account, but Colin grinned and said, “It does sound like him. He’s stayed here?”

“He’s had a drink or two here. We haven’t been open quite a year yet.” Kitty adjusted a tie on a drape of a tall window overlooking the hotel’s extensive gardens and, beyond, the Celtic Sea. “Fin’s well?”

“He just survived his first authentic Maine bean-hole supper,” Colin said.

Kitty turned from the window. “Heavens. That sounds ominous. Dare I ask?”

“You dig a hole, light a fire in it, add a cast-iron pot of beans and let them bake. After twenty-four hours or so, you dig them up and serve them. It’s a Maine tradition.”

“So is wild blueberry pie,” Emma added with a smile.

“I’ll be sure to try them both if I’m ever in Maine,” Kitty said. “I’ll let you two get settled. Let me know if you need anything.”

Emma followed her to the door. “Did Finian mention that a friend of ours from Rock Point is arriving in Declan’s Cross today?”

Kitty’s hand faltered on the door latch. She was in her late thirties, in a chunky wool sweater and a slim skirt in a dark blue that matched her eyes. “Yes—yes, Fin told me about her. A marine biologist. He put her in touch with a local man. Sean Murphy.” She recovered her emotions. “Your friend is staying at a cottage on the Murphy sheep farm. It’s up on Shepherd Head.”

“Walking distance?” Colin asked.

“It’s a good walk, if you don’t mind hills. Easiest is to go through the garden and out the back gate. Don’t go right—go left, all the way down to the bookshop. You can’t miss it. It’s painted red. You can go straight or go right. Don’t go straight. Turn right up the hill, continue on past the cliffs, then bear left. The cottage is just there.” She smiled, her cheeks pink. “It’s easier than I make it sound. You’ll have no trouble at all.”

Emma thanked her. Kitty glanced around the room as if for a final inspection and then withdrew. When the door closed, Colin said, “She knows who you are.”

“You beam ‘FBI’ more than I do.”

“I don’t mean FBI. I mean that our Kitty recognized the Sharpe name. As in Wendell Sharpe and Sharpe Fine Art Recovery.”

“I assumed she would, actually.” Emma walked over to the window and looked out at the sea, quiet under a blue-gray sky. “It’s a pretty hotel, isn’t it? Contemporary Irish art and clean, cheerful colors. I like it. John O’Byrne, Kitty’s uncle, left this place to Kitty and her younger sister, Aoife. Aoife’s an accomplished artist. I think some of the art in the hotel is hers.”

“They’re from Declan’s Cross?”

Emma shook her head. “They grew up in Dublin. Their uncle was the eldest of seven. I think he was in his forties already when they were born. I never met him.”

“Your grandfather did?”

“Yes.”

Colin stood next to her at the window. “Good view.”