The Gallaghers of Ardmore Trilogy

she felt. Relief, anticipation, and a wicked little thrill of accomplishment.
    She no longer lived in Chicago. She lived in Faerie Hill Cottage, County Waterford, Ireland.
    Her parents were going to faint.
    At the thought of that, she sat up, pressed both hands to her mouth to hold back the wild laughter. They’d think she’d lost her mind. And would never, ever understand that what she’d done was found it. She’d found her mind, and her heart and her home.
    And, she thought, a little dizzy herself, her purpose.
    “Gran, I found me. I found Jude F. Murray in six months or less. How about that?”
    The call to New York was harder. Because it was more important, Jude realized. Beyond the symbolism of the sale of the condo. That only meant money. The call to New York equaled her future, the future she was giving herself.
    She wasn’t certain whether her acquaintance from college had remembered her or had simply pretended to out of politeness. But she’d taken the call, and she’d listened. Jude couldn’t quite remember what she’d said, or what Holly had said back. Except that Holly Carter Fry, literary agent, told Jude F. Murray she very much liked the sound of her book and instructed Jude to send a sample of her work in progress.
    Because the thought of doing so made her stomach pitchcrazily, Jude made herself get up, walk up the stairs. Her fingers might have trembled as she sat down to type the cover letter. But she clicked her mind over to logical and wrote what she thought was both polite and professional.
    She only had to stop to put her head between her knees once.
    She gathered the first three stories, and the prologue, words she’d labored over, poured her heart into. She could feel herself getting weepy as she slid the drawings into a folder, packaged everything in a padded envelope.
    She was sending her heart across the ocean, risking having it shattered. Easier not to, she thought, stepping away to rub her chilled arms and stare out the window. Easier to just go on pretending she meant to, one day. Easier still to go back to convincing herself it was just an indulgence, an experiment she had no real stake in.
    Because once she mailed that envelope, there was no going back, no more pretending, no more safety net.
    That was it, had been it all along, she realized. It was easier to tell herself she wasn’t very good at something. Safer to believe she wasn’t clever or quick. Because if you had confidence enough to try something, you had to have courage enough to fail.
    She’d failed with her marriage, and ultimately with her teaching—two things she’d been certain she was suited for.
    But there were so many other things she’d wanted, dreamed of, that she’d locked away. Always telling herself to be sensible because people expected her to be.
    But more, deep down more, the knowing if she failed, she’d have to live with it. And she hadn’t had the courage for it.
    She glanced back at the envelope, squared her shoulders. She had it now. This time, with this dream, if she didn’t try, she couldn’t live with it.
    “Wish me luck,” she murmured to whatever drifted through her house, and grabbed the envelope.
    She didn’t let herself think on the drive to town. She was going to mail it, then forget it, she told herself. She would not spend every day agonizing, fretting, projecting. She would know when she knew, and if it wasn’t good enough . . . somehow she’d make it better.
    While she was waiting, she would finish the book. She would polish it until it gleamed like a diamond. Then, well, she’d start another. Stories that came out of her head this time. Mermaids and shape-changers and magic bottles. She had a feeling that now that she’d popped the cork on her imagination, things would spurt out so quickly she wouldn’t be able to keep up.
    There was a roaring in her ears as she parked in front of the post office. Her heart was beating so fast and so thick her chest hurt. Her knees wanted to buckle, but she made herself cross the sidewalk and open the door.
    The postmistress had snowy white hair and skin as dewy as a girl’s. She sent Jude a cheery smile. “Hello, there, Miss Murray. How’s it all going, then?”
    “Very well, thank you.” Liar, liar, liar chanted in her head. Any second she would lose the battle with nausea and humiliate herself.
    “To be sure it’s a lovely day. The finest summer we’ve had in many a year. Maybe you’ve brought us luck.”
    “I