The Gallaghers of Ardmore Trilogy

what I can do. I like looking at you, too.’ Oh, no, you just stand there like he’d shot you between the eyes.”
    Jude stopped, holding up both hands, shutting her eyes. Now she wasn’t just talking to herself. She was scolding herself as if she were two different people.
    Taking deep breaths, she calmed herself and decided she really wanted another of those little frosted cakes, just to take the edge off.
    She marched into the kitchen, ignoring the prissy little voice in her head that told her she was compensating with oral gratification. Yeah, so what? When some gorgeous man she barely knew had her hormones erupting, she was damn well going to comfort herself with sugar.
    She snatched up a cake with pale pink frosting, then whirled around at the loud thud against the back door. At the sight of the hairy face and long teeth, she cut loose with a squeal and the cake sailed up, bounced off the ceiling, then landed with a plop—frosting side down—at her feet.
    It took her only the amount of time the cake was airborne to realize it wasn’t a monster at the back door but a dog.
    “Jesus! Jesus Christ, what’s with this country? Every two minutes something’s coming to the door.” She dragged her fingers through her hair, setting curls free, then she and the dog eyed each other through the glass.
    She had big brown eyes, and Jude decided they looked hopeful rather than aggressive. Her teeth were showing, true, but her tongue was lolling out, so what choice did they have? Huge paws had already smeared the glass with mud, but when she let out a friendly woof, Jude caved.
    As she moved to the door, the dog disappeared. But there she was when Jude opened it, sitting politely on the back stoop, thumping her tail and gazing up at her.
    “You’re the O’Tooles’ dog, aren’t you?”
    She seemed to take this for an invitation and shoved her way in to clomp around the kitchen, spreading mud. Then she did Jude the favor of cleaning up the dropped cake before walking to the fire and sitting on her haunches again.
    “I didn’t feel like starting the fire in here today.” She walked over, holding out her hand to see what the dog would do about it. When she sniffed it politely, then gave it a nudge with her nose so it landed on her head, Jude laughed.
    “Clever, aren’t you?” Obligingly, she scratched between her ears. She’d never had a dog, though her mother had two ill-tempered Siamese cats that were pampered like royalty.
    She imagined the dog had visited Old Maude regularly, had curled up by the kitchen fire and kept the old woman company from time to time. Did dogs feel grief when a friend had died? she wondered, then remembered she’d yet to keep her promise to take flowers to Maude’s grave.
    She’d inquired about the location in the village the night before. Maude was buried east of the village, above the sea, beyond the path that ran near the hotel, and back to theruins and the oratory and the well of Saint Declan.
    A long and scenic walk, she mused.
    On impulse, Jude pulled the flowers she’d put on the kitchen counter out of their bottle, then cocked her head at the dog.
    “Want to go visit Old Maude?”
    The dog gave another woof, got to her feet, and as they walked out the back door together, Jude wondered who was leading whom.
     
    It felt very rural and rustic. As she hiked over hills with the yellow dog, flowers in her hand for an ancestor’s grave, Jude imagined it as part of her weekly routine. The Irish country woman with her faithful hound, paying respects to a distant cousin.
    It would be something she would make a habit—well, if she actually had a dog and really lived here.
    It was soothing, being out in the air and the breeze, watching the dog race off to sniff at God knew what, catching all those glorious signs of spring in the blooming hedges, the quick dart and trill of a bird.
    The sea rumbled. The cliffs brooded.
    As she approached the steeply gabled oratory, the sun shot through the clouds and splashed over the grass and the stone. The three stone crosses stood, casting their shadows, with the well holding its holy water under them.
    Pilgrims had washed there, she remembered from her guidebook. And how many, she wondered, had secretly poured a bit of water on the ground for the gods, hedging their bets?
    Why take chances, she thought with a nod. She’d have done both herself.
    It was a peaceful place, she thought. And a moving onethat seemed to understand life and death,