Page 60 of Beside Golden Irish Fields
“Liam was the one who took me over to meet him,” Megan said before she could answer. “I rode on his motorcycle.”
Angie whipped her head around to look at her sister. “You did what?”
Megan shifted on her feet. “It was kinda fun actually.”
“Can I ride on Liam’s motorcycle too?” Ollie asked, jumping up from the ground and tugging on the hem of her sister’s shirt.
Megan’s mouth twisted. Yeah, she knew she was in a pickle. “Let’s start with a pony ride and see.”
Ollie muttered what sounded like, “Figures,” and came over to Angie. “I’ll take your bag for you. I promise to be real careful.”
Megan was always telling him to be careful not to drop things. “There’s nothing fragile in there, Ollie. Don’t worry about breaking anything. Come on, let’s go meet Kade. And Winston and this dog your mom likes.”
When they arrived at the cottage, they entered through the back and stowed her things before exiting through the front door. Kade stood on the front lawn holding the leads for two ponies. A Jack Russell terrier took off for Megan, and her sister lifted him up and laughed as the dog licked her face.
Man, Kade really was a miracle worker. Megan hated getting dirty, and she would have thought dog spit would be on her no-no list. She’d even turned down Ollie’s repeated wish for a dog. What had happened to her sister after their fight?
“Hiya,” Kade said. “You must be Ollie. That’s Duke. Come meet Winston and Majestic. Angie, I thought you might enjoy going riding too. It might help unlock your painting mojo.”
“I actually painted this morning. Felt like the dam broke clear open.”
Yes, that was a good way to put it. Something inside her had given way, and the flood of imagination had poured into her like that gentle, sun-dappled rain. God, she hoped it would still be there when she could be alone again.
“Glad to hear it! If it’s not too nosy, what broke it open?”
She was aware of Megan’s regard. Yeah, her sister suspected it involved Carrick—her painting had been of a man’s hands—but she didn’t know any of the details.
“Putting myself first for a change and having someone put me first too,” she decided to say, wanting Megan to understand.
She turned her head and met her sister’s gaze. Sadness and vulnerability emerged in Megan’s eyes. Funny, Angie remembered Megan giving her that same look at her wedding to Tyson. Just before leaving the reception, she’d gazed at Angie with fear in her eyes.
As if she couldn’t take the next step without her.
Even then, their pattern had been set, and it had been forged in steel these past eight months. They were both responsible for it, but it had to stop. “Kade, I’ll take a raincheck if that’s okay. I’m going to keep painting. Ollie, you have a brilliant time riding Winston. If you need me after, I’ll be in the studio. See you later.”
She waved to Kade, who gave her an encouraging nod and a charming smile. Then she stepped back into the cottage to gather up her supplies.
Angie Newcastle was back in business, and this time it was going to stay that way.
Chapter Eighteen
The house didn’t look right anymore.
As Carrick stared at the expanse of the open second floor living space, all he could see were the flaws and things he wanted different. The pink rays of dawn couldn’t soften the imperfections his mind was cataloguing.
“To think, this design used to be my crowning achievement,” he said, gripping his hammer.
“You were visionary to put the parlor, kitchen, and dining area on this floor for the view.”
He turned his head. Sorcha stood at one of the large picture windows. Her white dress billowed in a wind he didn’t feel, and her brown hair swayed to a rhythm not of his world.
“You’ve never visited me here before,” he said, dropping the hammer and walking to her. “In our house.”
“Your house,” she corrected, a somber smile on her oval face. “Ah, it’s a grand one for sure, but it has to be divorced from me or it will never be finished.”
“Fitzgerald’s Folly.” He swore. “I’m a laughingstock for it. To think, the Taj Mahal was built by a husband for his deceased wife. No one laughed at Shah Jahan.”
“That you know about,” Sorcha said gently. “Besides, the Taj Mahal was built as a mausoleum. Not a house.”
