“My brain’s doing that thing yours did. And I don’t know what to think.”
“Let me pause and consider.” Head tilted, he held a finger in the air. “Oh yeah, I got it. How about: I wrote a damn good book. Two,” he corrected. “You’re two for two.”
“She hasn’t sold it yet, so let’s not get ahead of things. But she liked it. She could even talk to me about some of it, so I know she meant it. Marco, a year ago this was all still a dream. A dream that only started to open up when I found out about the money my father and Nan sent me. When you asked me what I wanted, and I said to come here, to Ireland. And it’s all happened so fast. So much, so fast.”
“Has it really, my Breen?” Wine in one hand, he ran his other over her hair. “That book, I think some of that’s been rolling around in your head for a really long time. You just needed to, like, you know, pop the cork. And the rest, it was all in there. It was just corked up, too.”
“I could see the world I wrote about, so clear, Marco. A lot like Talamh, I know. I think some might have been memories buried in me, or wishes. And it all just poured out. I don’t know if I can ever do that again, but—”
“Stop it. I mean it. Did you write a book about this most excellent dog here?”
In response, Bollocks whipped his tail.
“Yeah.”
“And are you writing another one?”
“Yeah, it’s going pretty well.”
“And do you write a good, solid, and popular blog on a damn near daily basis?”
She let out a huge breath. “I really needed you to come home.”
“Are we going to dance now?”
“I don’t want to dance until we know it’s sold. Actually sold. Then I want to dance like maniacs over that, and your amazing cookbook.”
“Okay, no jinxies. We’ll hold off on the dancing.”
“I really needed you to come home,” she repeated. “And now that I can breathe again… When I got home, Seamus was here. He’s started our garden—the veg garden.”
“He did what? Seriously?” He popped up, hurried to the window. “Look at that! Seamus is theman!”
“It’s going to be perfect, and the idea about the opening in the fuchsias, and where you’re going to put the cottage. It’s all perfect. I want it all so much. When I first saw this cottage it just blew through me: what I always wanted. But even then, I couldn’t imagine the rest.”
She circled her arms in the air as she rose to join him at the window.
“You right here, you having Brian and being through the hedgerow. Me writing books, and having this really, really exceptional dog. Having Talamh, and Nan and everyone. A place, Marco, a family, a purpose.
“And sometimes, like after I talked to Carlee, it all just hits me, blows through me again so I can’t think. Or I start thinking: Can this be real? Or am I in some sort of weird dream? Or a coma?”
“Am I in one, too? ’Cause, girl, I have everything I ever wanted and more right along with you.”
“Well, if we’re in some sort of mutual coma, let’s just stay in it.” Smiling, finally smiling, she tapped her glass to his. “I got lots more, like about a woman named Dorcas who’s at least a hundred and fifty years old—”
“Get out.”
“At least, according to Tarryn— Oh, and I like Keegan’s mom so much, Marco. Even if Keegan and I weren’t—whatever—I know I’d just really like her. Anyway.”
Taking his hand, she walked back to sit. “Dorcas the Scholar. She has a million cats. Okay, that’s an exaggeration, but I’d bet on a hundred. And she lives in this sort of spooky fairy-tale cottage in the woods near the village at the Capital.”
“Is she a good guy or a bad guy?”
“A good guy. Strange, but a good guy. A respected scholar—the one Tarryn talked about when we all discussed the whole demon-god thing with Odran.”
“Right, right. Keegan said something about crappy cookies.”
“Beyond crappy. They taste like sawdust, and her tea tastes like tar,and I half expected Chucky to start cackling in one of the shadowy corners of her tiny cottage.”