Prologue: Letter From Ireland
Dear Ms. Marina Arias,
As we approach eighteen months since Ms. Marisol Arias’ passing, I am compelled to write yet another letter urging you to address the issue of your inheritance. By the conditions of your aunt’s Will, your presence is required for the reading and acceptance of the bequest. It is vital that you arrive in Ireland by the 1st of December, as stipulated by the Will’s provisions. It is the final deadline.
Please contact Duffy & Associates Solicitors at your earliest convenience to confirm your travel arrangements to Dingle. We sincerely hope you can attend to this matter and honour Ms. Arias’ last wishes.
On a personal note, Marisol was a friend. She talked about you and your travels together often. I could understand your desire for more time when I first approached you after the funeral, but now there is none to be had. Please come now and settle the matter.
It is what Marisol wanted.
Kind Regards,
Colm Duffy
Solicitor
Duffy & Associates Solicitors
Dingle, Ireland
Chapter 1: A Different Life
A few rays of sunshine broke through the gray sky. Marina walked the length of her corner office to take in the view, as she did every morning.
She took a sip of her espresso and examined the Bay Bridge, before taking a few steps and looking towards Coit Tower. A handful of seagulls flew past the tower and out towards Pier 39.
Many stores were already decked out in holiday decorations, even though it was only the middle of November. She thought of the lights and garlands at Pier 39 and the Macy’s Christmas tree at Union Square, before finally taking a seat in the high-backed armchair that faced the Golden Gate Bridge.
She set the espresso down on the table next to her and picked up the small sketchpad. Absently, she drew the outline of the Golden Gate Bridge, and the gray sky with the sun attempting to break through the clouds.
The large ring on her right hand shifted. The purples, blues, and pinks of the mermaid ring she wore on her middle finger caught the LED light from above. She balanced the sketchpad on her knees and adjusted the ring.
It was silver, open at the top, with one end curling down gracefully towards her knuckle, while the other edge rose upward, forming a shimmering mermaid’s tail in hues of purple, blue, and pink. From the base of the downward curl to the tip of the tail, it took up most of the lower part of her finger. Inside the band, the inscription read: beautiful girl, you can do amazing things.
Her aunt had bought it for her at a market stall in Ireland when she was eighteen. It wasn’t worth much, and yet it was worth its weight in gold. Marina hadn’t worn it in years, but after Marisol’s death, she’d put it on and hadn’t taken it off since.
Just then, someone knocked on her office door, signaling the start of the work day.
“Come in,” she said without looking up.
“Good morning,” Thomas said from behind her.
She set the sketchpad down on the table beside her, picked up her espresso, and moved to sit at her desk.
Thomas took the seat in front of her. He smoothed his dark blue suit then placed a hand at his temple. Waiting.
He gave her a knowing look.
“What?” she asked defensively. He could always tell when something was wrong.
Ever since she could remember, his role had been more than the Chief Operating Officer of Arias Infinity Creative Advertising. Ever since he’d stepped in to help run the company after her parents died when she was twenty, he’d been family. He’d kept everything running at AIC until she could graduate from Berkeley and take over as CEO.
She shook her head, remembering that everything was about to change. “Oh, Thomas.”
“No, don’t start that again,” he wagged a finger at her, “you’ve been the CEO of this company for fifteen years—you’ve barely needed any help at all.”
She bit her lip, “You know that’s not what I mean.”
He leaned forward, “I know, Mari. But I’ll only be a plane ride away, Hawaii isn’t Mars. You will always have a place with us.”
“How’s Michael liking the new house?” she asked.
“He loves it and he’s glad he flew over a month before me.”
“Mmmm,” she understood, taking another sip of her espresso. “So he can decorate everything without you?” she teased.
“Exactly!” he laughed. “We are serious about you coming over, though. Yesterday he called me and asked if I thought you’d like deep purple curtains for the guest room he’s already designated as yours.”
She smiled. “Well, that’s what you get for marrying an interior designer.” She stopped to think, “Wait, he said that? He said deep purple?”
Thomas laughed then rolled his eyes and shook his head, “Nooo, he said majestic aubergine with hints of royal amethyst and the slightest whisper of plum.” He finished with a flourish of his hand, waving it in the air for emphasis, the way Michael did.
They both laughed.
Michael was always authentically himself—very few people in the world were like that. Her aunt Marisol had been one of them.
“I’m happy for you guys,” she said earnestly. “You’ve worked hard all your life, you deserve this. I’m just going to miss you that’s all—I love you both.”
He leaned over and patted her hand affectionately, “We love you too.”
There was a knock on the door. Agnes stepped inside. “Good morning. Ms. Arias, you asked me to inform you when the team on the new restaurant account had finished the layout for their latest campaign?”
“Yes, thank you. Let them know I will be by in an hour for final looks.”
“Of course,” Agnes gave a short nod, then closed the door.
“You know,” Thomas clasped his hands together, “at some point, you’re going to have to start delegating more.”
“What? I like overseeing the final designs.”
“I know.”
He leaned back in his chair and sighed. “You’ve always been more interested in the creative. It’s what lights you up. It’s not too late, you know.”
“Too late for what?”
“To make a different choice. You took over your parents’ company when they passed because you had to, and you’ve done an amazing job these last fifteen years. They’d be really proud of how you’ve taken their small company and made it grow into all this.” He motioned to the corner office and the view.
“Awww, thanks,” she smiled. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”
“That’s sweet, but yes you could have. We’ll have none of that false modesty here.”
She pursed her lips together. “I could not have done it without you,” she said it slowly so he would understand.
He shooed away the compliment before trying again. “The offer from SMR is still on the table. If you ever wanted to make a different choice, to sell—Mari it would be OK. Running an advertising company doesn’t have to be your career forever—I know it was never your dream.”
Marina glanced out the window to her right, at the birds, and the sky.
Thomas cleared his throat.
She stared back at him. Wanting to push the thoughts of a different life away, she’d had to push that part of herself away, push it down—pack it in a box and never think of it again.
He looked into her eyes, his voice was soft but deliberate, “You can have a different life.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “Do you really believe that?”
He tilted his head. “I’m sixty-seven and I’m retiring to Hawaii—where I’ve never been by the way—so yes, I think we can all have a different life if we want to.”
Marina looked down at her desk, placing her finger in the sand of her small Zen garden, and moving it around in a spiral.
A lingering silence began.
She knew he was going to ask.
He cleared his throat again, “Now are you ready to talk about what’s really bothering you? The fifteenth was yesterday.”
“Why yes it was,” she stated matter-of-factly.
“I presume it came?” he asked gently.
“Yup . . . like clockwork,” her mouth set in a line, the tension radiated through her jaw. She handed him the letter.
Thomas took a moment, then spoke softly. “Mari, you can’t run forever.”
She looked at her hands. “Can’t I?”
“Honestly, how can you be so bold and fearless in business—in every aspect of your life—and be such a scaredy-cat in your personal life?”
“Are you scolding me?!” she said with mock indignation.
“I wouldn’t dream of it, kiddo. But c’mon. Why are you fighting against this so hard? You haven’t been back to Ireland since you were a teenager. Since before . . . your parents.” His voice grew even softer.
“I went back for Tía Marisol’s funeral!” she protested.
“For what? A few hours?” he pushed.
She couldn’t argue. She had purposely booked her flights so she could fly in and out.
“It’s just . . .” she bit the inside of her lip, “once I do this . . .”
“You’ll have to admit that she’s gone,” he finished for her.
She nodded. “That they’re all gone.”
She’d lost her parents within days of turning twenty and then she’d had Marisol for sixteen years, and now at thirty-seven, she had no one left.
“You will always have me and Michael,” Thomas said, reading her mind. “Family is more than blood, Mari.”
She nodded again, trying to give him an appreciative smile. Her eyes turned to the photo on her desk—it was one of her favorites. She was nineteen and wearing her hot pink T-shirt with the words Just Try written on it in white. Marisol wore a vibrant purple sundress and a silver necklace with a Celtic Tree of Life design set against an abalone shell background that managed to catch the light in the photograph. They had their arms around each other, their faces pressed together, cheek to cheek, and they were both smiling widely. The colorful Dingle buildings stood cheerfully behind them.
Still looking at the photo, Marina took a deep breath and picked up the phone, dialing the number for the solicitor now engraved in her mind after eighteen months of letters.
The line rang three times.
“Colm Duffy, solicitor. How may I be of service?”
“Mr. Duffy, it’s Marina Arias—Marisol Arias’ niece.”
“Yes, of course. I am so pleased you phoned.”
“You win,” she said simply. “I’ll be in Dingle in two weeks, on November 30th.”
“Wonderful!” He sounded more than a little relieved. “I’ll inform the other party.”
Marina had a sinking feeling, “Other party? In your letters you never mentioned—”
“Yes, yes, another is required at the reading, but they are much easier to coral than yourself.”
“I don’t suppose you can tell me who—”
“Marisol gave strict instructions,” he cut her off. “You’ll just have to come over to find out,” he said cheerfully.
She could almost hear the smile on his face.
Her heart was stuck in her throat, “The other party wouldn’t . . . by chance be . . . Ronan O’Leary, would it?” she tried.
“Ah, you’ll be getting nothin’ out of me, so you won’t,” he chuckled.
Thomas stood up and moved closer to the phone. He mouthed the word, “Ronan?”
She gave him a panicked look.
“We’ll be seeing you then, on the 30th!” Colm Duffy punctuated the date. “Have a grand evening, Ms. Arias. Oh, I forgot you’re in California! Well, have a good one this mornin’!”
“Thank you,” she said weakly, sinking into her chair as he hung up.
Memory after memory flooded her mind. Moonlit walks along the harbor. Working in Marisol’s gallery side by side. The way his blue eyes bore into hers. The first time they kissed, the first time they . . . she pushed the memories aside, the way she’d learned to do for the last eighteen years.
They’d been kids.
She’d been so different then.
“So . . . Ronan?” Thomas interrupted her thoughts. His voice crescendoed on the one word, making no attempt to veil his interest.
“Stop! It was a long time ago.” She stood up and walked over to the window to stare at the Golden Gate Bridge.
Thomas came to stand beside her. He glanced at her then bumped her playfully with his shoulder. “You’re blushing.”
Marina crossed her arms, shook her head, and let the air escape her lungs all at once.
Marisol . . . what are you up to?
Chapter 2: Ronan O’Leary
Two weeks passed in a flash.
She and Thomas had one final week together at AIC. He oversaw the installation of the new COO, Sheila, and then stayed on for a few days to make sure the transition was a smooth one. His retirement party at the St. Regis was an eight-hour bash befitting his forty years at the company.
It had been a proper send-off.
They’d both cried, but it was a cathartic sort of change.
The end of an era.
Marina made sure everything was set up for her week-long trip back to Ireland. Everyone at AIC knew what to do and she had already overseen most of the work for the large holiday campaigns.
Before she knew it, she was boarding a flight from SFO and making the trip she had been avoiding for most of her adult life.
She’d slept most of the flight from San Francisco to Dublin and even dozed for the short plane trip from Dublin to the small airport in Kerry. Still groggy, she walked to the curb and found the driver dressed in black who held a plain white sign with her name on it.
He was an older gentleman with rosy cheeks and white hair. He looked like a talker.
Oh no.
She’d purposely booked a private company so she wouldn’t have to make small talk with a cabbie.
After a few minutes on the road and no major inquiries from her driver, Dan, she was beginning to hope that she might get the quiet one-hour trip from the airport she needed.
But once they passed the village of Firies, Dan transformed.
“Is it your first time in Ireland?”
“No,” she answered simply, hoping he wouldn’t press the point.
As if on cue, “Are you very familiar with our fair isle, then?”
“I spent a couple of summers here as a teenager.”
“Is that so? Did you stay with family?”
Marina looked out the window, focusing on the lush green hills.
She’d traveled all over the world, but the green in Ireland compared to nothing else.
She’d dreamed about those hills sometimes. The memories of the past started to edge their way into her brain.
How young she had been.
How different.
Dan cleared his throat, bringing her back to the present.
She looked towards him, he was examining her in the rearview mirror, waiting for a response.
There was no hope of riding the rest of the fifty minutes to Dingle in silence, so she relented.
“My aunt is an artist. She’s from California like me, but she traveled the world and met many people. When I was eighteen, she inherited an art gallery in Dingle from an old friend of hers.”
Something about what she’d just said nipped at her brain . . . she was an artist from California. She hadn’t gotten used to referring to her aunt in the past tense.
“I spent the summer with her here when I was eighteen and then again when I was nineteen.”
“Oh, so you’ve been coming to Ireland for some time, then. Strange, I’ve not seen you—I live in Dingle, you see.”
“No, I haven’t been back since I was nineteen.”
“You aren’t close with your aunt, then?”
“No, I mean yes, we are close.”
He looked puzzled.
“We see each other at least a couple of times a year. She flies to California, or we meet in Paris, Rome, London . . .”
Past tense. Past tense. Past tense. The inside of her brain screamed at her.
“I just haven’t been back . . . here.”
Dan squinted, putting something together.
“You must be Marisol’s niece!” He slammed his hand against the steering wheel and gave her a large grin in recognition. “I remember you now! You used to go around with,” he searched his memory, “that O’Leary lad, Ronan!” He snapped his fingers, pleased with himself. “Thick as thieves, you were! Quite a name and fortune he’s made for himself! Good on him! I remember now,” he said again.
She turned back to the green outside the window and tried to relax the tension that had started to build in her jaw. They’d just entered a medium-sized town which was cheerfully decorated in green garlands and white lights.
The streets were bustling with people and the colorful shops displayed Christmas trees in the windows.
Her eyes went from the shops to the signs. A billboard showed Irish rock star Kilian O’Grady’s face larger than life, his signature mop of brown curls partially obscured his eyes.
Marina focused on the scenes of life outside the window, trying not to fall into her grief.
He took in her expression. “We were all very sorry about Marisol. A great loss, she was. Always got you to see life differently, like. To see things from a different angle,” Dan paused as if he was trying to find the words, then he snapped his fingers. “Always gettin’ ya to see things in a different light. Such a lovely, vibrant woman—brought such life to the town.”
“Yes, she was,” Marina said softly under her breath, watching the green hills flash by. The sadness in her voice was clear even to her own ears.
Dan left her to her thoughts after that. Giving her only a hearty, “Welcome back,” once they’d reached their destination.
She watched as Dan drove away, up the colorful waterfront main street, away from the harbor.
The light had started to fade. She pulled her mid-length black wool coat more tightly around herself, then turned to face the gallery.
The building itself was large and sat on a corner, which allowed windows on two sides, providing plenty of natural light for the gallery on the first floor and for the three-bedroom apartment above where Marisol used to live—and where Marina had her own room—had being the operative term. It was probably filled with storage boxes and dust by now.
She hadn’t stepped inside since she was nineteen years old. Having arranged everything for Marisol’s funeral from afar, and only being on the ground in Dingle for a total of three hours for said funeral, she hadn’t had to confront her past then.
The Tiffany-blue façade of The Arias Gallery was just as she remembered. Elegant script delineated “Arias” while “Gallery” was written in a more plain font.
She sighed. From the outside, it looked exactly as she remembered.
Something inside her constricted. This place had been a home all those years ago, but it had also represented the feeling of home—even while she’d been away.
Would that still be true after this trip back?
She took a step towards the large glass windows, wanting to peek inside before having to face it all, when her phone buzzed in her pocket.
“Hello?” she answered.
“Ms. Arias, Colm Duffy here. Do we have an ETA on your arrival? It’s just that I have another meeting at 5:15 and I would like to begin the reading promptly at 4:30.”
She looked at her phone. It was already 4:25. In all her sleeping, she must have miscalculated the time—she thought it was only 3:25.
“Yes, Mr. Duffy, I’m sorry. I’ve just arrived. I’m outside Marisol’s gallery. I’ll be there in a couple of minutes.”
“Excellent,” he said, then hung up.
Her heartbeat started to race, she could hear it in her ears.
A moment before she’d started to feel the chill in the air, but now she was feeling hot.
She thought she’d have a moment to freshen up and compose herself before having to face Marisol’s last words . . . and whoever else might be at the reading.
She examined herself in the reflection of the gallery window. She placed her large purse on her suitcase, freeing her hands, and straightened her mid-length black wool coat before smoothing her royal blue cashmere turtleneck underneath.
She tucked one strand of her long brown hair over one ear and brushed her fingers through the rest. She slapped her light brown cheeks a couple of times, hoping to wake up fully.
Then, after taking a quick glance around her to make sure no one she recognized was looking, she took out a rose-colored lipstick and quickly applied it.
After brushing her hands through her hair one final time, she set off up the small main street.
Mr. Duffy’s office was one block up and then a left on Green Street.
She stiffened slightly as she walked past O’Leary’s Pub next door to the gallery. Her back straightened just a tad, and she was suddenly very aware of her posture.
All she could hear was her heeled boots hitting the brown brick sidewalk beneath her feet, and her large suitcase dragging noisily behind her.
As she walked, the blood started to pump through her system properly, waking her up. There was something else, too.
Adrenaline.
She tried to breathe in deeply, but facing two things she’d been avoiding—one for eighteen months, the other for eighteen years—made her skin feel alive and her lungs feel like they were full of air and empty at the same time.
She wasn’t sure if she was going to be ill or if she was going to jump out of her skin with excitement.
She registered the emotion. Excitement?
She didn’t even know for certain that the other party was Ronan . . .
. . . until she rounded the corner and caught sight of him thirty feet away.
He was leaning against a building with his hands in his pockets, but she could still make out his tall, athletic physique beneath the light gray coat and dark jeans.
