Page 30 of Beside Golden Irish Fields
Angie angled back. At last! Her cousin was going to share the plans she’d only hinted at yesterday. “What are you thinking, cuz?”
“I want to create an arts center here. A place people can come from around the world to learn how to paint—or do ceramics if Megan comes out of retirement—”
“I said it wasn’t a good time for me,” her sister said in a terse voice, retreating to the edge of the room.
Bets followed her. “It’s a long-term vision, Meg. Who knows where you’ll be in a few months? Angie, I might even want to find artists to do a residence here.”
“A residence?” Angie was getting goose bumps. “That’s a great idea. More artists. More ideas. More people to come and learn from them. Oh, Bets, you could attract students from all over the world if you played it right.”
“So you’re game?” her cousin asked, cocking an orange-tinted brow.
She looked around the space, already smelling oil paint and solvent in the air. She wanted to open them and run her fingers through the paint. Brush her clothes with the colors to anchor her here and make it her own. “Am I? I haven’t been this excited about something in forever.”
Except for wanting to paint Carrick. This would balance that out, thank God.
“Good!” Bets clapped her hands. “Now all we need to do is gain more students and expand. Once we have the community on board, we’ll apply to the Mayo County council planning authority.”
Her stomach tightened. She hated to deal with local politicians, and that’s what this group sounded like. “They have some say?”
Bets put her hands behind her back and nodded slowly. “They give the planning permission. I don’t need to apply to change a part of my residence to a commercial property yet since I’m only holding two painting classes, and they’re in my shed, which is unofficially covered. Once we start growing and more artists come in to teach, we’re going to have to make things official. Insurance. Fire and safety certification. That sort of thing. But that’s putting the cart before the horse… I figure your village gallery show will be just the thing to get everyone in town on board.”
Her blood pressure went up. The stakes around her first gallery show in nearly eight years were going up by the day.
“Attracting visitors brings in money. The planning committee wouldn’t dare say no then.”
“Why would they say no?” Megan asked. “There’s no harm in teaching art classes.”
Bets’ mouth tightened. “You haven’t met my sister-in-law, Mary Kincaid. She hates me living here on her family’s land, even more so now that Bruce is gone. Plus, she’s a regular tight arse about everything and likes to stir up trouble. She’s good friends with Tom MacKenna’s wife, Orla. He’s head of the county council presently.”
Angie remembered her name vaguely. “Mary’s the one you compete with in the rose competitions, right?”
“Good memory. But I have a solid reputation, and when you bring money into town, you’re golden. That’s what our art center will need to do. So paint your heart out, girl, and I’ll work my magic.”
A shiver ran through her. She was going to have to paint better than a few trees with fingers clawing the ground to get an entire community and county council on board, that was for damn sure.
Chapter Nine
Carrick decided to enlist the Yank’s help when he sighted her sitting beside the sycamore tree.
He’d become accustomed to seeing her in the mornings this past week. No, it was more than that. He’d grown eager for it, usually because she had something clever or witty to throw his way. The day after theirdirecttalk, she’d asked if he thought of his ewes when he heard songs like “With or Without You.” He’d responded that he was one hundred percent sure Bono and U2 had been near a sheep pasture when they’d written the song.
She’d followed up the next day with more sheep humor, this one courtesy of Liam, who’d shared it with her nephew.
“What do you call a sheep covered in chocolate?” she’d asked, morning sunlight touching her face as her lush mouth tipped up.
He didn’t disguise his groan. “I thought I’d heard them all. What?”
“A candy baa,” she said, laughing so hard she had to wipe tears away.
The following day she’d startled him with a surprisingly earnest question about what asshole had started the story about black sheep being bad, something she knew to be unfair from personal experience. That had made him more curious about her, though he’d had to leave her unsatisfied. He wasn’t aware how the story had begun. But, being Irish, he knew that was the way with tales… Still, she’d been vulnerable, and he’d felt a shocking flare of anger at whoever had spoken of her so disparagingly.
His sheep bleated as he crossed the field, making his steps heavier. The Yank didn’t look up. He’d startled her yesterday, and the scream she’d given in response to his “good morning” had given him a belly laugh. God, it had felt good to tease her before she turned back to her pad, which had stubbornly remained mostly white this week. She was still having trouble but plodding on, something he respected.
Today she would start teaching art classes, and he wondered whether it was something she plodded at or sailed over. He hoped she was easy with it because, given the buzz in the village, today might prove interesting for reasons other than art.
Even from a distance, he could tell she was hard at it again. Her body curved as she bent over her paint pad like a capital C on the sheep who’d met him at the gate—she’d readCourage.
Two new sheep streaked in front of him, making him frown as he read their message.Seize. Today.
