By the time she signed the final contract with Fergal Kenny, she was ninety percent sure she’d just committed to financial ruin with a charming accent. But at least she’d chosen the right man for the job. Darren McCarthey’s idea of “restoration” involved beige drywall and laminate countertops that screamed “sad Airbnb.” Fergal, on the other hand, respected the bones of the old place. He talked about “breathing life back into her” like the house was a sleeping giant and not a decrepit wreck held together with prayer and duct tape.
Still, seeing the final bid made her wince.
She’d officially crossed the line from “temporary guest” to “what the hell am I doing with my life?”
If she stayed, she’d need a job. If she left, she’d still be broke—but with a beautifully renovated ancestral mansion and a passive-aggressive goat who liked to eat roses and disrupt the peace.
And every time she tried to convince herself this was just temporary, something inside her whispered:But what if it’s not?
That’s when the knock came.
She groaned and headed for the door, muttering, “If this is Ronan complaining about Céilí chewing on his hydrangeas again, I swear I’m going to put a leash on that goat and walk her directly into his living room.”
But it wasn’t Ronan.
It was Bríd—Mountshannon’s guardian angel of scones and secrets. The one woman determined to make certain she was eating.
“I brought breakfast,” Bríd said with a grin, lifting a cloth-covered plate like it held the Ark of the Covenant.
“Come in before someone mistakes you for a saint,” Aisling said, stepping aside. “Tea?”
“Always.”
While the kettle boiled, Aisling set the scones on the table and pulled out two mismatched teacups. The kitchen, though shabby, was warm with sunlight and smelled faintly of hope and dust.
“Remodeling starts tomorrow,” Aisling said as they settled in. “This may be the last time this kitchen sees daylight before it’s buried in tile samples and contractor boots.”
Bríd smiled. “Who’d you pick?”
“Fergal,” Aisling said. “I liked his vision. Ronan recommended him, but I’m not sure if that makes me trust him more or less.”
Bríd let out a throaty chuckle. “Well, he wasn’t wrong. Fergal’s a good man. Darren once built an entire sunroom that collapsed in a breeze. Fergal will take care of you.”
As the tea steeped, Aisling leaned back in her chair and sighed. “I’ve been going through a trunk I found in the master bedroom. It’s like opening a time capsule. My grandmother’s journals, old photos, little mementos from a life I never knew existed.”
“And?”
“It stops when my mother leaves for college. Like the moment she walked out that door, the storytelling stopped. Nothing after that. No explanation. Just… silence.”
Bríd nodded slowly. “Your grandmother was never the same after Maeve left. She lost more than a daughter. She lost hope.”
“I read about my grandmother’s miscarriages,” Aisling said, softer now. “It broke my heart. All that loss. And then my mother… gone too.”
For a moment, they both sat quiet, steam curling between them.
“You and my mother were friends. Tell me about her from your perspective.”
Bríd’s eyes softened. “We grew up together. School, church, barefoot summers in the fields. I never thought she’d leave me. I miss your mother.”
Aisling hesitated, thinking how much she missed her as well. “Do you know who my father is?”
The question hung in the air like a dropped dish.
Bríd’s gaze flicked away. “I made your mother a promise. She never told me his name, and I never asked.”
“Nothing?”
“She only said that he was a visiting professor from America. Older than her. She fell for him fast. Hard. It was… quiet. Secretive. She said he made her feel seen.”
