The Gallaghers of Ardmore Trilogy

didn’t take any talent to scrub a floor or wash windows. That, at least, she knew was well done.
    It had rained during the night, and fog had slithered in from the sea. But the air had cleared that morning to bright sun and summer warmth that lured out the birds and the blossoms.
    All she could do now was hope the weather held.
    She had those sparkling windows open wide to keep the house airy and welcome. The scents of Old Maude’s roses and sweet peas tangled together and slipped through the screens. The fragrance smoothed out Jude’s stretched nerves.
    Flowers! She bolted out of the chair. She hadn’t cut any flowers to arrange in the house. She raced into the kitchen for the shears, and Finn raced after her. He lost purchase on the newly waxed floor, skidded, and ran headfirst into the cabinets.
    Of course then he needed to be cuddled and comforted. Murmuring reassurances, Jude carried him outside. “Now, there’ll be no digging in the flower beds, will there?”
    He gave her an adoring look, as if the thought never crossed his mind.
    “And no chasing butterflies through the cornflowers,” she added and set him down with a little pat on the butt.
    She picked up a basket and began to select the best flowers for cutting.
    It was a task that relaxed her, always. The shapes, the scents, the colors, finding the most interesting mix. Wandering through the banks and flows on the narrow rock path with the hills stretched to forever and the country quiet sweet as the air.
    If she were to make her home here, permanently, she thought, she would extend the gardens in the back. She’d have a little rock wall built on the east side and cover it with rambling roses or maybe a hedge of lavender. And in front of that, she’d plant a whole river of dahlias. And maybe she’d put an arbor on the west side and let some sweet-smelling vine climb and climb until it arched like a tunnel.
    She’d have a path through it, so that she could walk there—with camomile and thyme and nodding columbinescattered nearby. She would wind her way through flowers, under them, around them, whenever she set out to walk the hills and fields.
    There’d be a stone bench for sitting. And in the evenings, when work was done, she’d relax there and just listen to the world she’d made.
    She’d be the expatriate American writer, living in the little cottage on the faerie hill with her flowers and her faithful dog. And her lover.
    Of course, that was fantasy, she reminded herself. Her time was already half gone. In the fall she’d go back to Chicago. Even if she had the courage to pursue the idea of actually submitting the book to a publisher, she would have to get a job. She could hardly live off her savings forever. It was . . . wrong.
    Wasn’t it?
    It would have to be teaching, she supposed. The idea of private practice was too daunting, so teaching was the only option. Even as depression threatened at the thought, she shook it off. Maybe she could look for a position in a small private school. Someplace where she could feel some connection with her students. It would give her time to continue writing. She simply couldn’t give that up now that she’d found it.
    She could move to the suburbs, buy a small house. There was nothing forcing her to stay in the condo in Chicago. She’d have a studio there. A little space just for her writing, and she would have the courage to submit the book. She wouldn’t allow herself to be a coward about something that important. Not ever again.
    And she could come back to Ireland. A couple of weeks every summer. She could come back, visit her friends, rejuvenate her spirit.
    See Aidan.
    No, it was best not to think about that, she warned herself. To think of next summer or the summer after and Aidan. This time, this . . . window she’d opened was magic, and it needed to be cherished for what it was. All the more precious, she told herself, because it was temporary.
    They would both move on. It was inevitable.
    Or he would move on, and she would go back. But she had the pleasure of knowing she’d never go back to just how things had been. She wasn’t the same person anymore. She knew she could build a life now. Even if it wasn’t one of her fantasies, it could be satisfying and productive.
    She could be happy, she thought. She could be fulfilled. The last three months had shown her she had potential. She could, would, finish what she’d started.
    She was mentally patting herself on the back