up again in the morning, just start again where she left off.
Because it was amazing to ride along on the current of the story, and she didn’t want to give that up.
Dazed, she walked out to find Marco at the stove, something in a pot filling the air with delicious.
“I didn’t hear you come back.”
“You were in deep, girl. I’ve done made us some potato and ham soup, got the fire going—it’s raining and cooled down some, and I’m trying my hand at making soda bread. Don’t judge it harsh, as I’m a bread-baking virgin.”
“I didn’t help. What time is it?”
“It’s glass of wine time for you.”
She glanced at the time. “Holy crap! I didn’t realize. You didn’t have to do all this, Marco. I figured we’d go into the village for dinner.”
“I had my fun, and I’ve got a couple spots picked out for tomorrow night.” He poured her a glass of wine from the bottle he’d set on the counter. “You know I like to cook it up when I’ve got the time, and this Philly boy ain’t never made potato soup and soda bread.”
She had to admit he looked as happy as happy got as he topped off his own wine.
“I had a sandwich the size of Utah in a pub,” he continued, “and lots of conversation. Did a little shopping. Found a bird book for you, a cookbook for me—and used my book to try out what’s for dinner.”
When he uncovered the shaggy round of bread with a deep X in the center, she studied it.
“You actually made bread. From . . . flour.”
“Buttermilk, too. I bought freaking buttermilk. Looks pretty good, right?”
“Looks great, smells great. Why aren’t we eating it?”
“Because this soup needs more time, and we’re going to use that to sit by the fire, drink some wine while you tell me about your writing day.”
“Actually, I think I went into a fugue state.”
He covered the bread again before giving the soup another stir. Then he took her hand, grabbed the wine bottle, and steered her into the living room.
“Like I said, you were in deep when I poked my head in.”
“I wrote fifteen pages, Marco.”
“That’s a lot. That feels like a lot. Can I read them?”
“I . . . not yet. I haven’t even read them. I started to.” Like him, she propped her feet on the coffee table. “Then, I don’t know, I felt like I should just walk away for now, let it all . . . simmer like your soup, I guess.”
“Sounds smart. You’re going to be a natural at this.”
“I don’t know about that, but it felt good, and that’s enough for now. It all feels good.”
So did eating soup and bread in the kitchen, and snuggling up with a book in front of the fire. And waking up in the morning to another day.
She wrote her blog, thinking of it as a warm-up act, then spent an hour on her book. Only an hour, as she set a timer. She’d have weeks and weeks of alone soon, and didn’t want to miss the time she had with Marco.
They ventured out, visiting sights and villages, then had dinner in a pub in Clifden with music—and conversation.
She found two people who remembered her father, and his music, but not with the clarity of Tom from Doolin.
They fell into a routine. Breen rose early to write, then they’d have a day out to ramble with a pub meal and music, juggled with days closer to the cottage and dinner at home with Marco walking her through simple recipes.
No matter how hard she tried to stop time, the ten days flew.
On a drippy day that mirrored her mood, she drove her best friend back to Shannon Airport.
“I don’t know what I’m going to do without you, Marco. Maybe I should—”
“Don’t you even start to say maybe you should go back to Philly, too. You just gave me the best two weeks of my life. Don’t go spoiling it.”
“It’s one thing to talk about spending a whole summer here, by myself. It’s another to actually do it.”
“You’re going to be more than fine. You think I could go if I didn’t know that in my gut? And I’ll tell you what you’re going to do. You’re going to write your ass off, learn to cook some more—you’re doing okay there.”
“Because you stop me before I screw up.”
“Screw up, eat a sandwich,” he said with a shrug. “You’re going to take those crazy long