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I glance over at the writing desk beneath the window to where a squat, copper urn sits with three little shamrocks engraved by the lid. “What do you say, Mom? Up for a trip to the pub?”
Funny enough, the moment I take a step toward the door, I hear her in my head.
If she were here, she’d shake her head and say, ‘You’re not going for dinner looking like a ragamuffin, are you? What if you meet someone you know? Or better, what if you meet someone you want to get to know?’
I groan and zip back to the little bathroom to take another quick run at making myself presentable.
“Better?” I ask when I return. “I doubt very much that I’ll meet anyone I know on my first night in Ireland, and even if I meet a hot Irish charmer, I’m not twenty-five anymore. I won’t be christening my first night here with wild sex.”
I laugh and wave the craziness of that idea away. “Not that I wouldn’t love a night of wild sex. Marco thought having sex in different rooms of the house was getting wild. He was decent at his perfected moves, but I’ve lost all taste for vanilla. I want Rocky Road or Tiger Tail or something with bite to it.”
After pulling on my jacket and slinging my purse over my head, I tuck Mom’s urn under my arm and the two of us head off.
The stairs are narrow, steep, and creak as they accept my weight. I hold the railing as I descend the three flights until I’m on the first floor.
“Evenin’, Miss O’Neill. How are you settlin’ in? Is your room all right?”
I’m halfway to the door when it hits me…
Right. I’m Miss O’Neill.
I turn to smile at Hannah—the young redhead who checked me in this morning—and give her a thumbs up. “It’s lovely, thanks. And please, call me Laine.”
“Of course. If you prefer.”
“I do.” The sooner I leave Madelaine in the rear-view mirror and get familiar with my new name, the better—and the safer. “And with that settled, could you direct me to the closest pub?”
Hannah grins. “Well, if you just want to grab a pint, there’s a pub on pretty much every corner that will do, but if you want a good meal or a little fun?—”
“—Yes, both. I’m starving, and it’s been much too long since I had any fun.”
“Aye, so that would be Jimmy Frances. Take a left as you exit the inn, go down a couple of blocks, right at the church, and you can’t miss it.”
“Wonderful. Thank you.”
Cool drizzle spritzes my face as I exit and wakes me up a bit more from my travel haze. I take a left out of the Gilford as instructed and study the history and culture of the city as I explore.
It’s mind-bendy that most of these buildings are older than my entire country.
The roots of Chicago run deep—from the inventions of the telegraph and the railroad in the 1800s, to gangsters and Al Capone in the 1920s, to becoming the third largest city in the USA.
When you mention the Windy City to people, most people think about deep-dish pizza, sports teams, and Oprah.
But Ireland has centuries on us.
Centuries of mythology, culture, and traditions of their own. It’s humbling.
And, if my plan works…it will also be liberating.
I’m trading depositions and dirty deals for disappearing in Dublin, and retaking control of my life.
I press my palm against the cool metal of my mother’s urn and push the betrayal and resentment away. “You warned me from the beginning, didn’t you, Mom? I’m sorry it took me so long to get out.”
Turning right at the church, I lift my gaze to follow the spires rising toward the night sky and study the rosary window. With the lights on inside the church, the scene set in the stained-glass glows.
It’s a mosaic of brilliant colors illuminated from within, casting an inviting light onto the cobblestone path below. Each pane tells a story, the images intricately detailed and alive with hues of ruby red, emerald green, and sapphire blue, forming a striking contrast against the dark, rainy sky blanketing the city.
It’s stunning.
