kettle sat on the range Marco already beamed at.
“That is top-of-the-line,” he announced.
“And do you cook?” Finola asked him.
“Yeah, I do.”
“Clever as well as handsome then. Aren’t you lucky to have such a friend? You have a nice pantry, I think, and it’s stocked, as is the refrigerator with what we thought you’d want.”
“Oh, we never expected—”
Finola brushed Breen’s surprise away. “We can’t have you troubling with such matters on your arrival. I’ve brought you a round of brown bread, baked myself fresh for you. It’s in the bread drawer there. And biscuits in the jar. Not store bought,” she added with a wag of her finger.
The warmth, the welcome simply stunned her. “It’s so thoughtful of you. Thank you so much.”
“Sure it’s little enough. And right through there you have the little room with the washing machine and drying machine, though there’s a line out the back for hanging on a sunny day.
“Now, there’s the bedroom down here, and what I like best about it is it has its own door so if you wake and fancy a walk, there you have it.”
Breen walked through in a haze of wonder and delight. If she’d designed a cottage for her stay, this would be exactly it.
She’d set up her office/gym in the main-level bedroom. When she wanted a break, she’d just step outside, into the gorgeous gardens, or beyond to the water, around to the woods.
She’d learn to cook more—and better. Marco could help with that. And in the evenings she’d curl up in front of the fire with a book.
Finola led them upstairs. Doors stood open on either end of a short hall. In the center of the hall, a narrow table with curved feet held more flowers, more candles. Breen ran her fingers over the intricately carved surface, a dragon in flight.
“This is stunning. What beautiful work.”
“It is, isn’t it? I’m proud to say I know the artist well—I should, as we’ve been married these forty-eight years. When she who made the cottage asked for something special, he crafted this.”
“It’s . . .” Breen, fingers still on the carving, turned. “Wait.”
“That didn’t get by me either,” Marco added. “Did you get married before you were born?”
Finola’s cheeks pinked as she laughed. “Ah now, listen to you! I’ve a granddaughter your age, and three more besides.”
Marco, in his Marco way, grabbed both her hands. “Tell me your secret. I’ll do anything short of sacrificing a chicken.”
“Oh now. We’ll say living happy as you can, loving hard as you can. Taking care when care’s needed. And a good cup of wine of an evening.”
“I can do all of that. All of that is now on my daily regimen.”
“And this is a good reminder.” Finola took Breen’s hand, turned up her wrist to tap the tattoo. “To have the courage to do all of that, for all but the wine take courage.”
“You read Irish.”
“As I was taught.”
A little unnerved by the direct look—Finola’s eyes were a steely blue, and somehow strong—Breen eased her hand away. “Marco got a tattoo this afternoon.”
That strong look softened into flirtation as Finola turned to Marco. “Well then, let’s have a look at it—wherever it might be.”
He shoved up the sleeve of his sweater. “It’s still a little red.”
“An Irish harp! And very nicely done as well.” She put her thumb and forefinger on either side of it to give his biceps a little squeeze. Winking, she said, “Woof!”
The usually unflappable Marco flushed.
“And now you’ll have to learn to play the harp.”
“Marco’s a musician.”
“When I’m not being a bartender.”
“Handsome, clever, and musical? What a catch you’ll be for some lucky boy. Now let me show you the bedrooms, and we’ll see if I guessed right. I’ve pegged this as yours, Marco, but don’t fret if I’ve got it wrong.”
She backtracked to the room at the top of the stairs.
The bed, plumped with pillows under a fluffy duvet, faced the windows. Its heavy head- and footboards boasted carvings of flutes and fiddles, harps and harpsichords, bodhrán drums and dulcimers.
“Wow” was all Marco could manage.
“Is this your husband’s work, too?” Again, Breen traced her fingers over the carvings. “It’s fabulous.”
“It is, and thank you. You’ve a fine view of the bay, and its roll to the sea, of the mountains as well. A good, sturdy chair and the chest of drawers as well as the closet. Your own bath, of course. The blanket—or throw is the word—is the work of my dearest friend. I think she’s made all