The Gallaghers of Ardmore Trilogy

more than an instant, and Jude had the impression of great beauty and great sadness.
    Then the woman was gone, and there was only the rain.
    Jude shivered. The windy wet cut clean to the bone, and she sacrificed her dignity by loping to the pretty white gate that opened into a tiny yard made glorious by the rivers of flowers flowing on either side of a narrow white walk.
    There was no porch, only a stoop, but the second story of the cottage pitched over it and provided much welcome cover. She lifted a brass knocker in the shape of a Celtic knot and rapped it against a rough wooden door that looked thick as a brick and was charmingly arched.
    While she shivered and tried not to think of her bladder,she scanned what she could from under her shelter. It was like a doll’s house, she thought. All soft white with forest-green trim, the many-paned windows flanked by shutters that looked functional as well as decorative. The roof was thatched, a charming wonder to her. A wind chime made up of three columns of bells sang musically.
    She knocked again, more sharply now. Damn it, I know you’re in there, and tossing manners aside, she stepped out in the rain and tried to peer through the front window.
    Then she leaped back guiltily when she heard the friendly beep-beep of a horn.
    A rusty red pickup with an engine that purred like a contented cat pulled in behind her car. Jude dragged dripping hair out of her face and prepared to explain herself when the driver popped out.
    At first she took it to be a trim and tiny man with scarred, muddy boots, a filthy jacket, and worn work pants. But the face that beamed at her from under a dung-brown cap was definitely female.
    And very nearly gorgeous.
    Her eyes were as green as the wet hills surrounding them, her skin luminous. Jude saw tendrils of rich red hair tumbling out of the cap as the woman hurried forward, managing to be graceful despite the boots.
    “You’d be Miss Murray, then. That’s fine timing, isn’t it?”
    “It is?”
    “Well, I’m running a bit behind today, as Mrs. Duffy’s grandson Tommy stuffed half his building blocks down the loo again, then flushed away. It was a hell of a mess altogether.”
    “Hmmm,” was all Jude could think to say as she wondered why she was standing in the rain talking to a stranger about blocked toilets.
    “Can’t you find your key?”
    “My key?”
    “To the front door. Well, I’ve mine, so we’ll get you in and out of the wet.”
    That sounded like a wonderful idea. “Thank you,” Jude began as she followed the woman back to the door. “But who are you?”
    “Oh, I beg your pardon, I’m Brenna O’Toole.” Brenna shot out a hand, gripped Jude’s and shook briskly. “Your granny told you, didn’t she, that I’d have the cottage ready for you?”
    “My gran—the cottage?” Jude huddled under the overhang. “My cottage? This is my cottage?”
    “It is, yes, if you’re Jude Murray from Chicago.” Brenna smiled kindly, though her left brow had arched. “You’ll be more than a bit tired by now, I’ll wager, after your trip.”
    “Yes.” Jude rubbed her hands over her face as Brenna unlocked the door. “And I thought I was lost.”
    “Appears you’re found. Ceade mile failte, ” she said and stepped back so Jude could enter first.
    A thousand welcomes, Jude thought. She knew that much Gaelic. And it felt like a thousand when she stepped into the warmth.
    The foyer, hardly wider than the outside stoop, was flanked on one side by stairs polished by time and traffic. An arched doorway to the right led to the little living area, pretty as a picture with its walls the color of fresh biscuits, honey-toned trim, and lace curtains warmly yellowed with age so that everything in the room looked washed by the sun.
    The furniture was worn and faded, but cheerful with its blue and white stripes and deep cushions. The gleaning tables were crowded with treasures—bits of crystal, carvedfigures, miniature bottles. Rugs were scattered colorfully over the wide-planked floor, and the stone fireplace was already laid with what Jude thought must be hunks of peat.
    It smelled earthy, and of something else faint and floral.
    “It’s charming, isn’t it?” Jude pushed at her hair again as she turned a circle. “Like a playhouse.”
    “Old Maude, she liked pretty things.”
    Something in the tone had Jude stopping her circle, to look back at Brenna’s face. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know her. You were fond of