Page 42 of Over Verdant Irish Hills

Her son swept her into his arms and twirled her around, making people start to spontaneously clap around them. “The best news ever, Mum! I just came from the fair. You won’t believe what happened.”

From the elation on his face, she had a feeling. She’d been checking the time. Old habits died hard. “Mary lost the rose competition.”

He shook his head. “No, she didn’t lose. There was no rose competition. No one else except Aunt Mary—and I mean no one—entered the competition this year. They bowed out in solidarity with you.”

She pressed her hands to her spinning head. “What?”

“Can you believe it?” Liam punched the air. “The judges said they needed at least three entries to go forward with the competition. Aunt Mary went away in a huff, Mum. Everybody saw it. Isn’t it wonderful?”

She lunged at him, and together they jumped up and down like little kids. More applause sounded around them. When they were finished, she felt light-headed. “Liam, that is the best news ever! Thank you.”

“I was looking out for you, Mum, checking it all out.” He took her by the shoulders and kissed her cheek. “You made a good choice here. The open house was the perfect thing to do today.”

She couldn’t stop smiling. “I think we should have one every year on this fair day.”

“Me too!” He waved at someone over her head. “Mum, I’m starving. Do you need a hamburger or anything?”

“No, go eat,” she said, knowing what she wanted to do.

He kissed her cheek again and disappeared into the crowd.

Walking over to one of the vases holding her prize roses, she plucked out a beautiful specimen, Love’s Magic. The giant five-inch red bloomer had been a gift from Donal. She’d won the competition with it last year until Mary had cried foul and gotten her disqualified on a technicality. About this time a year ago, she’d been so upset. But as she made her way out of the arts center with the rose in her hand, she was aware of only elation.

She wove her way through the crowds of people enjoying an Irish BBQ and folk music outside before heading down the pasture to the tree Carrick had told her Sorcha used to sit under while writing her beautiful poems.

The tall, windy sycamore glowed yellow in the late afternoon sunlight, a gift from the nature gods. She laid the rose at the base of the tree. “Thank you.”

When she turned around, Sorcha was standing in front of her, a gentle smile on her face.

“All’s well that ends well, eh, Bets?” The wind blew her dress gently around her body. “You’re well on the way to living your love for the ages. How does it feel?”

She threw out her arms finally, looking at the vast expanse of blue sky around her. “Damn good.”

“Thank you for the rose,” Sorcha said, crossing over to it and sitting on the ground beside it. “It’s a winner. Much like you are, Bets O’Hanlon. Take a look at what you’ve created. In the coming years, this open house is going to be as big of an attraction as the fair. And all because of your vision. You and Linc are going to do some incredible things together, more than you know. It’s going to be a fun ride. In love, work,andlife.”

She couldn’t wait. “What’s next?” she asked, breathless in anticipation. “Or should I saywho?”

Sorcha arched a delicate brow. “Whatever do you mean?”

“Don’t be coy.” She pointed to the arts center. “Who’s next on your little love list?”

Sorcha stood, chuckling softly. “My little love list. That’s a good one. I wonder if you’re thinking about your son still being unattached.”

Bets’ heart skipped a beat. “It might have crossed my mind.”

“You’ll have to wait a little while for that, I’m afraid.” Sorcha sashayed closer, the wind making her hair dance. “It’s Jamie who’s next, Bets, and he and Sophie are going to need everyone’s help coming together.”

“Jamie!” She clapped her hands. “That’s perfect. He loves kids, and Sophie’s daughter is an angel.”

“Greta is indeed a special child—as are all the children who will come to the arts center to learn. But there will be tough times ahead, Bets. Your faith must not falter.”

She stopped breathing. “It won’t.”

Sorcha reached out as if to gently touch her face, but her hand only passed through. But unlike in the Irish ghost stories, her touch didn’t leave a chill in its wake. Only warmth. “Hold tight to Linc, Bets, and tell him to do the same with you. Caisleán will weather what’s coming if you hold together. Youmusthold together at all costs.”

Her words caused a tremble in Bets’ belly. “Can you tell me any more?”

“No, this will be the last time we speak, but you’ll know I’m around when you smell oranges.”

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