Page 115 of Beside Golden Irish Fields
Ollie laughed and made a mooing sound. “But you’re pretty clean now. Aunt Angie, how are you feeling?”
“Much better,” she said, glancing at Megan.
“She’s going to nap,” her sister said, standing up.
“I was going to bring your paints,” Ollie said. “When I told Liam you couldn’t paint, he said you can, only you might need to finger paint with your good hand or your toes. Wouldn’t that be funny? To paint with your feet? Some Irish guy did that, Liam said.”
She was glad to be reminded of Christy Brown. “When you’re older, we’ll watchMy Left Foot. It’s about an Irish painter and writer who did his art with his left foot because he was disabled.”
“He should go on a pony ride at Kade’s farm,” Ollie said. “He can help anyone.”
Angie nodded. “How about we paint for a while, and then I’ll nap?”
Megan ran her hand over Ollie’s head. “Sounds like a plan. You two can have a paint fest. I think I’ll bike over to Kade’s and see Duke while you’re working. I love that dog.”
“Mom, we need our own dog,” Ollie said as they left the room.
Angie lay back. The image she wanted to paint was crystal clear in her mind. The frumpy, fallen phoenix’s body would be muddy brown with vibrant canary yellow, cadmium orange, and naphthol red flames burning at the edges. Its death was going to be beautiful, and in her heart, she would imagine another painting, one where the new phoenix rose from the ashes bright and radiant in chromium green and phthalo blue with scales of golden light—reminiscent of the colors in Ireland that had helped her find her voice.
Then she was going to burn the paintings. She wasn’t going to do this die and be reborn shit anymore.
She was just going to be a beautiful, happy, larger-than-life bird, content with herself.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
No one came to visit.
Carrick stewed for days after he’d gone to see Angie, recovering in the cottage. He’d needed to know she was out of danger, and he’d gone with a trumped-up reason and a passel of meaningless flowers to make sure. She’d already known the truth, of course. The Yank had seen it in his eyes in the hospital. Then again, they’d always understood each other. He was glad she hadn’t demanded explanations from him. Such a conversation would only hurt them both.
But his family and friends were different. He’d braced himself for interference. But no one bothered him over the next five days as he worked much of the day and night.
Not even Sorcha.
He didn’t know what that meant. He didn’t know how to take that. They’d always encouraged him to move forward, and the Yank had certainly looked to be the way for him. How could they have simply stopped?
Something had to be wrong.
Hell, part of him wanted them to poke at him, fight with him.
He drove to Kade’s first, around the time his friend usually fed the horses. Duke ran over to him, followed by Ollie. The boy could give him an update on Angie. Didn’t he wonder how she was? Didn’t he miss seeing her sitting beside the tree every morning painting even though he knew she was hurt so badly she couldn’t paint now?
And what was he supposed to do with all of the paint supplies and finished paintings she had at his new house? He’d have to deliver them, he supposed. Except she didn’t have space in her current studio. Maybe she could still paint at his house when he wasn’t working there?
“Hi, Mr. Fitzgerald,” Ollie said mournfully, kicking the ground.
The kid didn’t seem happy to see him. Did he know about he and Angie going their separate ways? Correction. About him deciding they were finished? “Hi, Ollie. How’s it going for you?”
He lifted his shoulder. “Okay. I was getting Duke.”
“Hey, Carrick,” Kade called, setting aside a pitchfork. “Ollie, can you run up to the house and get another bottle of water for us? I’m dying of thirst.”
“Sure thing, Kade,” Ollie said, giving him a somber look and running off.
“He knows about me and Angie, I take it,” Carrick said, planting his feet.
Kade rubbed his hands on his brown pants. “He’s a smart kid. Well, enough gossip. How are you? Did you get your money for Baron and pay Bets?”
“Gossip, is it?” Carrick swore. “Why aren’t you poking at me? Offering me a pony ride? Why aren’t any of you coming by my houses or pastures to kick me in the arse?”
