Page 20 of Beside Golden Irish Fields
She tugged on her jeans, reminding herself to take it one step at a time. The roads here would be great for walking, and she didn’t think her brain would tell her it was exercise. Liam had mentioned bike riding, and back in the day, Angie had loved to bike through the French and Italian countryside.
When she left her small bedroom, she clipped her hair up and listened for sounds that would indicate anyone else was awake. Ollie was in the loft, which was more an attic with small skylights, only accessible by a ladder. Megan had taken the front room under him. Angie had the room by the one bathroom and kitchen at the back of the house. Never say Irish cottages were large, she’d decided yesterday. The kitchen had a half-fridge like she’d had in her college dorm and only a few shelves, so she was grateful Bets and Liam had offered to buy their groceries. Otherwise, she’d be shopping every few days! Then there was the parlor, which doubled as a dining room. It boasted a tiny wicker settee along with a small table tucked against the wall with benches.
But the white concrete walls were charming, she supposed, decorated with family pictures and a few pastoral paintings from local artists. The pot-bellied stove in the parlor made her think ofLittle House on the Prairie.
She turned on the tea kettle to make herself a cup and plopped a Lyons tea bag in her trusty aluminum travel cup. Striding over to the small portable stool she’d acquired from the main house, she grabbed her painting bag. She’d bought the woven bag at the market in Aix-en-Provence in college, and it bore oil paint smudges in turquoise, phthalo green, and burnt umber, which warmed her heart as she stroked them.
“I’m going to paint today,” she told herself in an almost shy but excited little whisper.
Then she thought about Ollie. Who was going to get him breakfast? Megan hadn’t made a meal since Tyson had died. Would today be a good chance to shake up their routine? Something had to give. She hadn’t thought her arrangement with Megan would go on so long, or that Megan would stay this depressed—the grief as heavy as it had been immediately after she heard the news. They’d discussed antidepressants, but her sister said they made her even lower. She’d tried them before. When Tyson had gone on his first mission.
Angie struggled not to feel guilty for wanting things to change. She knew her sister was going through a lot, but so was she, and they all needed to dig their way out of this. Well, Ollie would find her if he was hungry. He had the granola bar stash she’d bought for him, and she’d pick up some cereal later. Obviously not Lucky Charms. That had been a great story.
Jesus,Angie, you’re procrastinating. Are you painting or what?
“Yes,” she said out loud. “I sure as hell am.Focus. Ignite. Create.Do it!”
Bets would give her a tour today, and Angie couldn’t wait to see the easels and other equipment she’d selected online set up in the former shed turned studio. Teaching was as much second nature to her as was management.
More irony. Before, painting had been like breathing, and teaching and management hadn’t interested her whatsoever. Then Randall had talked her into taking that initial teaching job at the visual arts center, saying it would help her grow as an artist.
She’d trusted him in that, too. He was her husband, after all. She’d thought he’d said it out of love. In hindsight, though, she realized Randall had been jealous of her success. Having her teach was his way of sidelining her.
At the beginning of their marriage, his paintings had made more money, but hers had quickly gained worth in the first two years. A memory flashed into her mind. “You can paint in your spare time, sweetie,” he’d said as he frowned at his current canvas.
But that hadn’t happened after she started teaching—which, yes, she was great at—and by the time she was promoted to director, she hadn’t painted other than in demos in over a year.
Idiot.
His creative fire had guttered out too, and they’d both retreated into themselves. Spent less time together. He went out drinking and smoking and doing God knows what else while she taught her night classes. They made love less. Fought more. She gained weight from all the extra eating she did. He grew more sullen. Got high to “help his creativity,” which she hated.
When he blamed her for silencing his artistry, his vision, and said he couldn’t understand how he’d ever loved her or found her attractive, she’d been decimated. Hadn’t she given up everything to help and encourage him as a person and an artist?
It hadn’t taken her long to find someone else who’d claimed to support her art. Her two-year relationship with the charismatic corporate lawyer she’d taught in a painting class, Saul, had seemed so promising in the beginning. He’d thought her good enough to teach at the Smithsonian and had promised to introduce her to the right people.
In the end, he’d been in love with the idea of having a girlfriend in the arts, someone he could brag about to his clients at galleries and Smithsonian events in Washington, D.C. He’d liked the way she dressed and how professional she came across, a boon to her rock-bottom self-esteem. He’d also expected her to paint, apparently, and when her inspiration failed to return, he’d left her.
Angie had made a lot of mistakes. She knew that. She’d changed herself to suit them, eager for love and the security of a relationship and a home. When she was young, her mother had told her that taking care of people made them need and like you, and her mother’s life had seemed to bear that out. To this day, her mom received tear-jerking thank you notes and presents from patients and their families. It wasn’t surprising Angie had fallen into the trap of believing her.
But love wasn’t like nursing. Or at least it shouldn’t be. In the end, when her exes hadn’t wanted or needed her caretaking anymore, she’d been left with nothing.
That was over, she told herself as she left the cottage and wandered across the property. Trees lined the yard where the drive to the manor lay, some festooned with brilliant white flowers. It was like being surrounded by a magical forest. As she walked to the back, a wide expanse opened before her. This was the view from her bedroom. But now she could see a beautiful three-story white house on the hill above the pasture off to the left. Oh, what views it would have.
She assessed her own view before settling on a tall, windy sycamore tree at the edge of the pasture where Carrick’s sheep grazed. She would paint that! She and trees had always had a good relationship, going back to her tree climbing days as a kid. She headed off, feeling a gentle wind caress her face. Goodness, the air smelled sweet. There was something almost citrusy about it.
She wouldn’t care that these were Carrick’s sheep. In fact, she planned to enjoy the messages. God, she still couldn’t believe his mom was one of the Lucky Charms. They would be running into each other all the time.
But not at dawn. This was her time.
Before going to bed, she’d given herself a talking-to about her attraction to Carrick. It meant nothing—she’d been caught up in the moment was all. She was in Ireland! Then there was the light and the countryside and those messages. If she’d met his brother Jamie on the road before him, she’d have been drawn to him instead.
She had nothing to worry about.
A few sheep trotted over as she reached the fence line and then turned sideways to show their words.Light. Brings. Change.
“Holy shit.” She blinked in shock. “That’s a little eerie. Okay, Universe, or whatever I’m supposed to call you… I might start actually believing there’s something out there again if you keep this up.”
The sheep bleated and turned around, their white faces regarding her while they chewed. A curious lamb came to the fence, its small head peeking between the slats. How adorable!
