Page 93 of After Indigo Irish Nights
She shook her head and started walking after Sandrine and Eoghan. “Not on your life.”
“You sure you don’t want to go skinny-dipping?” he called after her.
Surely he was teasing! She couldn’t reach her room fast enough.
And what a room… Sandrine showed her everything in detail as she tried not to gape. The ceilings were fifteen feet at least, lined with carved plaster. White billowing curtains overlooked a giant swimming pool, the one she wasn’t going to skinny-dip in. Her king-size bed was a white four-poster lined with wooden ivy and flowers that looked fit for some old French queen. The fireplace was wider than her Mini Cooper, made of carved white marble with green veins.
When she sat on the bed, she almost purred. God! Had she ever been on a bed this soft? She glanced at the bottle of rosé in a silver ice bucket. She poured herself a glass and took a sip. Nearly swooned. Jesus, this place was unreal.
But her thoughts kept veering back toward the bed and her current problems with Donal. She let out a frustrated cry and left the room, taking her glass with her. She would check out the gardens. The roses specifically. There might be a new variety for her to consider for the annual rose competition. She wanted to beat Mary Kincaid’s ass every year until one of them died.
When she reached the roses, she thought about Donal and about the roses he’d given her to show her how he felt. Love’s Magic, for one. She brushed a few tears away. Things hadn’t been the same between them since she’d told him she didn’t want to marry him or move in with him. He’d said he was okay with it, but maybe he wasn’t.
Was that why he was pulling away?
“Ireland looks pretty from the photos I saw on the internet,” a young voice said softly. “Have you ever seen a fairy?”
Bets scanned the garden and found the pink sandals peeking out from behind a rose bush. “The fairies are too small for humans to see, but the Irish like to say that you can hear them singing in their fairy forts.”
“Mama says we might go live in Ireland for a while. Linc likes it, and he’s particular. He also doesn’t mess around, Mama says. Do you like it?”
She stayed where she was, waiting to see if Greta would come out. “I do. The people are nice, and it’s really beautiful. The light is incredible, or so the artists tell me all the time. There’s always a rainbow, sometimes more than one in a day.”
“I like rainbows,” the little girl responded. “The entire spectrum of visible light. But when you try and touch them, nothing is there. Mama says you started the arts center. What’s it like?”
The sun was hot on her head, but she didn’t want to move into the shade. “We’ve only been going about a year now, but we have painting, ceramics, stained glass, and metal sculpture. We’re hoping for more artists to come and share their art.”
“Mama does glass, you know.” The pink sandals disappeared, and suddenly Greta was standing in full view, touching a flower. “She can make anything. Last week, she made me a necklace with tiny jasmine flowers. It’s hard to make flowers that tiny, you know.”
“You’re a lucky girl. Maybe you can show me your necklace later?”
Greta walked over, fingering her eyelet shirt, and came to stand next to Bets. She unfurled her hand. “Here. I like to hold it sometimes. You can’t crush them like real flower petals.”
The workmanship was exquisite and delicate. Every flower bespoke of love and an attention to detail. “I’ve never seen a necklace like that. It’s incredible.”
“Art is always incredible when you do it from your heart.” She tucked the necklace back into her hand. “What kind of art do you do?”
Nothing like that, she almost said. “Well, I started painting, and I do some knitting.”
She never seemed to keep going with anything though. She got excited about trying new things, but her interests always seemed to change. She thought of Donal. Was their excitement gone? She loved him, but it didn’t feel the same anymore. Was that how he felt too?
The only things she still liked to do were grow roses, beat Mary Kincaid, and run the arts center. What did that say about her?
“One of my true passions is the arts center. It’s been like my baby from the first.”
“You take care of things.” Greta raised her knowing eyes. “Do you like Linc?”
She stepped back in surprise, her heart rapping in her chest. “Why would you ask that?”
The little girl shrugged. “You watch him like you like him.”
Bets jolted before bunching her hands into fists at her sides.
“He’s a nice man.” Greta pulled a few jacks out of her other pocket, which flashed in the sunlight. “He remembered I like jacks. My grandma likes him too, but he doesn’t think much of her. Mama says Grandma likes to be difficult. She thinks it makes her art better. We don’t know why. The truest beauty is created out of simplicity.”
Bets needed to take a deep breath. This little girl was throwing her one curveball after another. “You remind me of one of my sons.”
“What’s his name?”
