“You’d be Aisling, then,” he said, popping the trunk. “Welcome home.”
“I’ve never been here before.”
“Still home,” he said with a shrug. “Climb in, love. We’ve been waiting for this day for years.”
She did as instructed, unsure if this was hospitality or a kidnapping in disguise.
The interior smelled like sheepdog and mint. A small hula girl danced on the dashboard.
As they pulled out of town, Aisling tried not to feel like she’d just been dropped into a folklore podcast.
“So,” he said, glancing at her through the mirror. “You’ll be staying at the old O’Byrne place?”
“Yes. Temporarily. I’m just...figuring things out.”
“Aren’t we all?” He chuckled. “I’m John O’Shea. Drive everyone in town, like it or not. And don’t worry—I already called ahead.”
She turned her head sharply. “What do you meancalled ahead?”
“Well, news travels, doesn’t it?” he said cheerfully. “Bríd Ní Riain will want to see you. She was close with your mum back when Maeve was still here. Before she left.”
“You knew my mother?”
He didn’t answer right away. The silence was thick, but not unkind.
“Maeve was lovely,” he said finally. “Had fire in her belly. She and Noreen... well. They didn’t see eye to eye on much. Still, your gran kept a candle burning in the church for her every year. We were all sad to hear of her death, especially her mother, who always hoped she would return and bring you back with her.”
Aisling stared out the window, throat tight. Her mother had never told her about living in Ireland. Never said her mother even cared. Never told her what had sent her fleeing to America.
She felt like she was stepping back in time, alone without the women in her family. One she’d never known.
“Mother never told me about living here,” Aisling said softly.
“Maeve dropped all of us. Wanted nothing to do with the people in this town. I hope you won’t feel the same.”
Why would her mother feel that way?
“I don’t plan on being like my mother.”
“Well, you’re the spittin’ image of her,” he said. “She was such a beauty.”
They rode in silence for a moment. Fields rolled past like endless waves. A cow stared judgmentally at the car.
“You’re braver than you think, you know,” John added. “Coming here. Taking the estate on. We were all so worried that no good Ronan would snatch it away.”
“I haven’t taken anything yet. I’m still deciding,” she said. “Who is Ronan?”
“Oh, you’ll meet him soon enough. I shouldn’t be bad-mouthin’ him. He’s a good bloke, and we wanted Noreen’s family to keep the estate. We were hoping for you to come to the rescue.”
“I don’t know if I’ll stay past my six months,” she said.
He snorted. “That house chose you. You’ll see. Now that you’re here, you’re going to fall in love with our beautiful land.”
It was gorgeous in a primitive kind of way compared to New York. But she’d been tired of the noise, the people, and then the implosion of her job. She needed a fresh start.
They crested a hill, and suddenly, Mountshannon came into view: a village pressed gently against the shore of Lough Derg, clustered like a secret kept too long. Whitewashed cottages, narrow lanes, ivy-covered stone walls, and a single pub with a crooked sign that read The Last Drop.
At least they had a bar.
