Chapter 1: Irish Homecoming

She made the final turn just as the sun broke
through the clouds and the golden light spilled out onto the rolling green
hills.

The trees stood on either side of the little
house—the guardians of Rhia’s cottage and the lough that lay beyond. They
swayed in greeting just as they’d done all those years ago. 

Elizabeth took a deep breath and released the
steering wheel of the rental car she’d hired at the airport. It had taken
nearly a month to go through Magdalen’s house in Berkeley before the sale.

It would have made more sense to pay someone to
take care of it all, but she couldn’t do it. Couldn’t have strangers going
through her great-aunt’s belongings.

Mags had been gone for nearly five years and it
had taken her all of that time to go back.

“Five years . . . ,” she said to herself.

She stared at the cottage in front of her.

Five years.

Five years since she’d pulled up to this very
cottage and her life had changed forever.

Double semi-lancet arched windows flanked the
bright red front door. The pitched roof was a dark black-gray color with a
chimney. The lake was there peeking out on the right side waiting for her.

It was quintessentially Irish. Every bit of it was
blissfully the same.

She tried to remember what she’d thought then.

What had she thought she would gain there? Peace?
Enlightenment?

She shook her head, laughing at the memory. How
wrong she’d been . . . and how right.

She got out of the car and grabbed her luggage,
there had been a reason she’d come to the cottage first and not told anyone she
was coming home early.

Her brain was filled with the memories of the
past, memories of California, of the house, of the strange business with
Camille, of Mags, of the life she had spent a decade building . . . and then
after Mags’ death, mere weeks tearing down.

The large shipment she’d sent herself from
California, which included some of Mags’ personal belongings, the picture albums,
the diaries, the porcelain dishes, along with some of the larger furniture
pieces from the house in Berkeley, including her favorite blue couch, wouldn’t
arrive in Ireland for a few weeks. There would be time to finish processing it
all. Finish going through the boxes of papers and hard drives, and all that
remained.

She thought of what it would mean to finish. To
get to the end of all of Mags’ mysteries—nothing left of the woman she loved.
It was an unbearable thought.

She shook her head and took another deep breath,
trying to change the direction of her thoughts. She was home in Ireland now.
All she needed was a shower, a glass of wine, and the gleaming waters of Lough
Rhiannon. They would work together to relieve her tension and soothe her soul.

She set her luggage down, leaving it by the car
and took the small undefined path to the right of the house as she had done all
those years ago, again careful not to look inside.

The sky had turned purple and gold, a tingling
sensation ran up her spine—she anticipated the scene that awaited her on the
other side of the cottage. The breeze found her, greeted her, beckoned her
forward to the beautiful lake that had changed her. She could hear her
footsteps quickening, even as she began to lose control of her body. Lough
Rhiannon called her.

And then it was there, stretching out in front of
her in all its glory. Four or five golden rays broke through the purple expanse
of clouds, hitting the water, setting it alight in a delightful display. The
green below her feet and indeed everywhere that was not sky or water was
greener than green, a green which she’d only ever found in Ireland.

She breathed it all in, let it bathe her in its
magic.

California was still home. It was where she grew
up, where she’d shared a life with Mags. But Ireland? Ireland was a home for
her deepest self . . . her soul.

It had always been thus, she just hadn’t known it
until she’d stepped foot on the Emerald Isle.

“Hi Rhia, hi Mags,” she said faintly, letting her
words be carried by the breeze.

The wind kicked up, caressing her face and blowing
her long brown hair out behind her in wild waves.

They were finally coming home to live again,
permanently.

There would be visits to her French Château and
visits with family and friends—they would still travel—but after spending the
better part of four years flitting from place to place, never spending more
than a couple of months anywhere, they’d decided to come back to live in
Ireland.

To take up permanent residence at Castle Bannon
and be still for a while.

“A while,” she said under her breath. Mulling the
words over in her mouth.

That was the plan . . . settle down in Ireland in
their beautiful castle, the castle that had once held so much darkness for
Connor, and now held so much light.

He had redone it from top to bottom himself after
his father had died, trying desperately to rid himself of that man’s darkness,
but only succeeding when Elizabeth had waltzed through his door, healing old
wounds and giving him the life he’d always wanted.

Now they had renovated the castle again, this time
not to rid themselves of darkness, but to create a life that they both wanted
together.

That was the plan . . . to settle down. That’s
what they had decided, that’s what made sense.

Even as the thoughts crossed her mind her hand
went reflexively to the letter in her back pocket. The offer.

She shook her head trying to clear her mind,
trying to be present. There would be time for that. Time to figure out what she
wanted. Time to reconnect with her voices.

It had been so long; the buzz and bustle of life
had taken her all over the world. She had all the beautiful memories and
experiences of a life well-lived. And the photographs to prove it.

But now what she wanted was to be still and hear
those glorious inner voices again. The ones that never failed her, the ones
that always knew the right way—her direct line to the Universe.

Elizabeth closed her eyes and took in the sounds
of the lake, the calm water gently swaying and lapping against the shore, the
birds whistling their familiar tune, and the breeze rustling through the trees.

The air left her lungs all at once, a deep sigh
that signaled peace, like Shavasana at the end of a long yoga session.

She opened her eyes and gathered herself, turning
back to the cottage and making her way around the other side of the house.

She had passed the first window without looking
inside, but when she came upon the second a flash of movement caught her eye.
The defined flesh of a naked chest filled her vision first, and then she looked
up towards a face and found the electric blue eyes she knew so well.

Connor was standing there in only a pair of old
jeans, his eyes fixed on her, confusion colored his features and then a
glorious smile transformed his already beautiful face. His Christmas morning
smile.

Butterflies danced in her stomach and a warm
sensation crept into her chest, her breathing came faster, and she felt her
mouth turn up instinctively, mirroring his expression.

She was suddenly running alongside the cottage,
making her way to the front, she was sure he was doing the same.

She reached the red front door just as it opened
and found her bare chested, barefoot Irishman standing there waiting to wrap
her in his arms.