Bríd shook her head. “The women in your family are so stubborn.”
“Well,” Aisling said with a wry smile, “I would have loved to have met her. Spend time talking to her. Learn about our family. Instead, I’m getting to know her through her journals. Though I do know I, too, am very stubborn.”
“Like your mother. Like your grandmother.”
“Must be genetic.”
Bríd laughed, a full, rich sound that filled the old kitchen like music.
“And don’t you worry about this town,” she added. “We may be Catholic and nosy, but you’re an O’Byrne. That name still carries weight. Anyone who gives you grief answers to me.”
Aisling grinned. “My mother used to call me her little love child.”
“And you were. She loved you as soon as she knew about you. I always believed that she left Ireland to be with your father, but also so that you would not be marked as an illegitimate child.”
And yet she had been her entire life.
“What if they threaten me with rosary beads and judgment?”
Bríd raised an eyebrow. “I’ll threaten them back with scones and confession.”
They both burst into laughter.
Aisling glanced toward the window. The house was quiet again, but it didn’t feel empty.
“I think,” she said softly, “I’m starting to feel like this place wants to be home.”
Bríd smiled. “It’s been waiting for you. You’re the next generation. The one I hope will make things right. You’re the bright shining beacon on the hill, who brings peace back into this home.”
CHAPTER10
Several days into the renovation, Aisling stared at the chaos inside the house and officially declared it: she needed out. Between the hammering, the dust, and Céilí’s suspiciously well-behaved silence, she was going stir-crazy. Even the goat had stopped antagonizing Ronan’s garden, which felt like a sign of the end times.
She’d mailed off her letter to the University in Dublin, asking about the visiting professors from the year her mother would’ve gotten pregnant. Now, all she could do was wait—and wonder if the truth would shatter everything or finally fill the hole she'd carried her entire life.
In the meantime, she needed to see people. Human ones. Ones that didn’t snort, chew straw hats, or judge her for still crying over an engagement gone down in flames. But those pity parties were showing up less and less. This place felt like peace wrapped in purpose. Michael? He would've been a front-row seat to a meltdown—emotional whiplash in an expensive suit.
She’d overheard someone at the grocer mention a local event:Reading Night at The Last Drop.Bring something you’ve written, read it aloud, and brace yourself for applause—or mockery, depending on the crowd’s drink count.
She hadn’t intended to share her writing—not here, not yet—but tonight, she was feeling reckless. Or brave. Maybe both.
Walking down the lane, the hum of fiddles and laughter spilled out of The Last Drop. Its windows glowed gold, the front sign swinging gently in the breeze. A plaque on the wall said it was named after the last drop of a perfect pint…or the last drop of gossip before someone’s reputation drowns.
How very Mountshannon.
She gave a chuckle at the thought of someone’s reputation drowning. Would hers tonight?
Inside, the room was packed. Locals sat elbow to elbow, half of them already deep into pints. The air smelled of beer, peat smoke, and mischief.
“Lass, come in,” someone called from behind the bar. “Noreen O’Byrne’s granddaughter, yeah?”
“Yes, sir,” she replied, slipping through the crowd.
“I’m Paddy. Padraig Dunne, but no one calls me that unless they’re shouting.” He thrust out a hand, warm and solid. “Come in, come in.”
He waved down the crowd. “Move over, lads, make room for the lady!”
“Thank you,” she said, smiling at the man who grinned at her like she was lunch and he was starving.
