The Gallaghers of Ardmore Trilogy

plastic curtain jangling around her on its tarnished brass hooks.
    She dived into flannel pajamas and a robe before her teeth started chattering, then got down to the business of lighting bricks of peat. Surprised at her success, she lost twenty minutes sitting on the floor with her arms wrapped around her knees, smiling into the pretty glow and imagining herself a contented farmer’s wife waiting for her man to come in from the fields.
    When she snapped back from her daydream she went off to explore the second bedroom and consider its potential as an office.
    It was a small room, boxlike, with narrow windows facing front and side. After some deliberation, Jude chose to set up facing south so she could see the rooftops and church steeples of the village and the broad beach that led down to the sea.
    At least, she assumed that would be the view once daylight broke and the fog lifted.
    The next problem was what to set up on, as the little room had no desk. She spent the next hour hunting up a suitable table, then hauling that from the living room up the stairs and placing it exactly in the center of the window before she hooked up her equipment.
    It did occur to her that she could write on the kitchen table, by the cozy little fire with the wind chimes singing to her. But that seemed too casual and disorganized.
    She found the right adaptor for the plug, booted up, then opened the file that she intended to be a daily journal of her life in Ireland.
April 3, Faerie Hill Cottage, Ireland I survived the trip.
    She paused a moment, laughed a little. It sounded as though she’d been through a war. She started to delete it, start again. Then she stopped herself. No, the journal was only for herself, and she would write what came into her mind, as it came.
     
    The drive from Dublin was long, and more difficult than I’d imagined. I wonder how long it will take me to grow used to driving on the left. I doubt I ever will. Still, the scenery was wonderful. None of the pictures I’ve seen begin to do the Irish countryside justice. To say it’s green isn’t enough. Verdant somehow isn’t right either. It, well, shimmers is the best I can do.
    The villages seem charming, and so unbelievably tidy that I imagined armies of elves slipping in every night to scrub the sidewalks and polish the buildings.
    I saw a bit of the village of Ardmore, but it was pouringrain by the time I arrived, and I was too tired to form any real impressions other than that habitual tidiness and the charm of the wide beach.
    I came across the cottage by sheer accident. Granny would call it fate, of course, but it was really just blind luck. It’s so pretty sitting here on its little hill with flowers flooding right up to the front door. I hope I can care for them properly. Perhaps they have a bookstore in the village where I’ll find books on gardening. In any case, they’re certainly thriving now, despite the damp chill in the air.
    I saw a woman—thought I saw a woman—at the bedroom window, looking out at me. It was an odd moment. It seemed that our eyes actually met, held for a few seconds. She was beautiful, pale and blond and tragic. Of course it was just a shadow, a trick of the light, because there was no one here at all.
    Brenna O’Toole, a terrifyingly efficient woman from the village, pulled up right after me and took things over in a way that was somehow brisk and friendly—and deeply appreciated. She’s gorgeous—I wonder if everyone here is gorgeous—and has that rough, mannish demeanor some women can adopt so seamlessly and still be perfectly female.
    I imagine she thinks I’m foolish and inept, but she was kind about it.
    She said something about the house being haunted, which I imagine the villagers say about every house in the country. But since I’ve decided to explore the possibility of doing a paper on Irish legends, I may research the basis for her statement.
    Naturally, my time clock and my system are turned upside down. I slept the best part of the day away, and had a meal at midnight.
    It’s dark and foggy out. The mist is luminous andsomehow poignant. I feel cozy of body and quiet in my mind.
    It’s going to be all right.
     
    She sat back, let out a long sigh. Yes, she thought, it was going to be all right.
     
    At three A . M ., when spirits often stir, Jude huddled in bed under a thick quilt with a pot of tea on the table and a book in her hand. The fire simmered in the grate, the mist slid across the