Page 7 of Promise Me This

He shakes his head, chuckling. “Far enough to be washed up for dinner, apparently. Now there’s only one inn in town, so I assume that’s where you’re headed. Unless you’re staying with one of those friends you don’t have.”

I glare at him, earning a full-on cackle.

“Bridge Street Bed-and-Breakfast it is, then.”

My gaze drifts out the window, lazily tracing the shapes of the two-story buildings lining the street in various shades of pastels. When I arrived earlier, I moved with blinders on, focused solely on my destination. I forgot to pay attention to the local market where we’d stop in to grab the ingredients to make crepes sprinkled with sugar and layered with slivers of strawberries. The pub near the riverfront where we’d eat lunch when we first got to town for the weekend passed by without me noticing. The imposing stone church used to drop my jaw with its incredible architecture. Now its proximity causes my lungs to squeeze so tightly I’m afraid I’ll never breathe again.

“We’re here.”

Padraig’s voice snaps me out of my trip down memory lane, and thank God for that. I go to pull a few euros from my wallet when his hand lands gently on my forearm, halting any of my movement. He’s shaking his head, having anticipated my protest before I can form the words.

“I have to pay you, Padraig!”

“I told you, call me Podge. And you already paid me this morning.” He removes his hand, using it to scratch at his dark hair that’s taking on more gray streaks than I’d imagine he likes. “Any friend of Cal’s is a friend of mine.”

“I told you, we’re not friends.”

“I think that, too, sometimes.” A mischievous smile plays on his lips, softening his angular features. “But he always proves me wrong. Now go on! There’s paying customers out there waiting.”

I hesitate for a second longer before he makes a shooing motion and I resign myself to owing him. With one foot already out the door, I call over my shoulder, “Thanks, Podge.”

“Anytime!”

The car accelerates away behind me as I step up to the turquoise door of Bridge Street B&B. Luscious green vines climb the white facade, nearly covering the gold lettering that marks this place as the only hotel in town. It’s only been a few hours since I stopped by to store my luggage, but it feels like it’s been years. My bones are heavy in my body, dragging me down. I trudge forward, opening the solid wooden door with a grunt and a prayer that my room is ready now.

The makeshift check-in counter at the front of the foyer is unmanned. It’s nothing more than a console table with a fat notebook on its surface and a key box mounted to the wall behind it. My luggage still sits in the corner where I watched the owner tuck it away this morning. Not a good sign.

A lilting voice reaches my ears from farther down the hallway, so I follow its trail. My gaze travels over the cream-colored walls, which are decorated with pictures of the local fishermen’s boats docked along the river. The gallery is broken up by a set of double doors on my right that open into an intimate living room lined with bookshelves. The owner is nowhere to be seen, so I close the doors behind me and continue on. The corridor’s tall, wooden-paneled ceilings leave lots of wall space for the boat portraits, some of which are so old and tattered the edges are fading into a vignette.

I pause to study a particularly weathered image of an elderly man standing proudly on the bow of his boat. The riverfront surrounding him is still wild in many places, yet to be developed into its modern state, but I can just see the spire of that ancient church in the distance. Surrounded by so much history, I’m reminded that all this existed long before my own personal tragedy, and will go on long after me. It makes the pain slightly easier to bear when I remember it is finite.

I find myself at the foot of a broad, wooden staircase with the hallway continuing off to the right and an ajar door to my left. That familiar voice trills on the other side of it, so I push it open, revealing a cozy kitchen complete with ornately carved wooden cabinets and doilies on every surface. The frazzled woman who accepted my luggage earlier turns to me from where she’s leaning against the counter across the room, and I see a phone pressed to her ear. A glimmer of what appears to be amusement flashes in her eyes when she catches sight of me. “I’ve got to be going now. Talk to you soon.”

With that, she ends the call, sets the phone down on the counter, and turns to face me while settling her hip against it. The movement strikes me as somewhat familiar, tugging at a memory, though I don’t know which one. She smooths her wild silver curls back from her face and smiles at me. “Got caught out in the rain, did ya?”

A blush warms my cheeks, which is honestly a welcome relief from the chill that has taken over my body. “Unfortunately, yes.”

“Happens to the best of us.” The corners of her mouth twitch into a smirk. “I’m Siobhan, by the way. You were in such a hurry earlier I hardly had time to catch your name, let alone tell you mine.”

The heat spreads to my ears. “Sorry about that. I’m Le— well, as you said, you already know my name.” I tug at the hem of my shirt, pulling the soggy fabric away from my body.

“That I do.” She studies me for a moment, her cool green gaze traveling from my rain-flattened hair to my damp Keds. “So, Leona, are you traveling with anyone? Friends? A husband, perhaps? We get a lot of honeymooners along the Wild Atlantic Way.”

I glance down at my left hand, half expecting to see the solitaire diamond I wore there for the past five years still resting on my finger. Even the tan line it left on my skin has faded and evened out, all records of our marriage washed away. I can still see Nick’s face the moment I placed it in his outstretched palm, an expression of relief that echoed my own softening his features.

Siobhan clears her throat, reminding me there’s a question still hanging in the air between us.

“No,” I reply softly. “Just me. I came to visit someone I used to know.”

My own words reach my ears, breaking me in their honesty. My throat constricts, and all I can think is I better not start crying in front of this woman. I beg my own heart to just let me get into my room so I can fall apart in peace.

Siobhan hums something like understanding before stepping forward, away from the counter. She’s wearing a flowy tunic-style top that sways with each step. “Well, unfortunately it is just me running this place and I’ve not gotten to your room yet. We had a full house last night, unusual for this time of year. I’ve been scrambling this morning, but I’ll get right to it. It’ll take me thirty minutes or so.” Her gaze travels over my damp clothing once more. “I can make you some tea or coffee to warm you up while you wait?”

Panic quivers just below my breastbone, threatening to become a full-on earthquake. If I’m left alone with my thoughts for more than a couple minutes, I’m going to break down. I can’t do that in this kitchen where people might see me. Before I can think better of it, my survival instincts take over. “I can help; I don’t mind.”

One of her barely-there eyebrows quirks up. “You sure?”

I nod, probably more vigorously than necessary, but I’m desperate. “I used to clean houses with my mom in high school.” Not to mention the late-night cleaning sessions when I couldn’t sleep, haunted by my own grief. Nick would wake up to a sparkling house, grinning like he’d won the lottery by getting a wife who’d rather scrub an oven than rest. “I find it relaxing.”

---