Chapter 3

Laine

Jet lag is kicking my ass.

Lying on the quaint little bed in my cozy little room at the Gilford Inn, I pull the knitted coverlet over my head and close my eyes.

The sun was barely poking above the horizon when I landed at Dublin airport by way of London, Heathrow, earlier this morning. Seven in the morning here was two in the morning Chicago time. I was good to myself and laid down for a nap so I could pop up and hit the ground running.

There will be no popping.

There will be no running.

There will be eating, though, because that plastic chicken and pasta medley they served on the plane isn't cutting it.

All I need to do is get up…

My eyes drift closed again, and I give in to exhaustion. Maybe it's not jet lag. Maybe it's perfectly natural for a body to shut down after escaping months—and even years of hellish stress.

Maybe this is my system reboot for a new life.

If that's the case, then I deserve it…

The next time my eyes open, it's dark outside.

I have no idea how long I've slept, but my ‘catch up' nap seems to have made matters worse. I'm no more rested than I was when I first curled into bed, so I give up trying.

Although, lying here for the foreseeable future is tempting. For the first time in years, I have no commitments and no one to hold me accountable for my time. But my stomach is now cannibalizing itself, and I seriously need to eat.

With a groan and a couple of unladylike curses from my youthful days, I salvage what energy I can, tame the insanity of my new mahogany brown waves and wipe off the raccoon smudges of yesterday's eyeliner.

I briefly toy with the idea of starting fresh with new makeup, but why bother? I don't need to impress anyone. I don't even know anyone in this city, or in all of Ireland.

Not even my great-aunt.

But, although I've never met the old girl, I'm thoroughly looking forward to it. My mother loved her Auntie Maeve and wanted nothing more than for the two of us to connect.

Headstrong woman that she was, it looks like Mom will get her way in the end.

I glance over at the writing desk beneath the window to where a squat, copper urn sits with three little shamrocks engraved by the lid. "What do you say, Mom? Up for a trip to the pub?"

Funny enough, the moment I take a step toward the door, I hear her in my head.

If she were here, she'd shake her head and say, ‘You're not going for dinner looking like a ragamuffin, are you? What if you meet someone you know? Or better, what if you meet someone you want to get to know?'

I groan and zip back to the little bathroom to take another quick run at making myself presentable.

"Better?" I ask when I return. "I doubt very much that I'll meet anyone I know on my first night in Ireland, and even if I meet a hot Irish charmer, I'm not twenty-five anymore. I won't be christening my first night here with wild sex."

I laugh and wave the craziness of that idea away. "Not that I wouldn't love a night of wild sex. Marco thought having sex in different rooms of the house was getting wild. He was decent at his perfected moves, but I've lost all taste for vanilla. I want Rocky Road or Tiger Tail or something with bite to it."

After pulling on my jacket and slinging my purse over my head, I tuck Mom's urn under my arm and the two of us head off.

The stairs are narrow, steep, and creak as they accept my weight. I hold the railing as I descend the three flights until I'm on the first floor.

"Evenin', Miss O'Neill. How are you settlin' in? Is your room all right?"

I'm halfway to the door when it hits me…

Right. I'm Miss O'Neill.

I turn to smile at Hannah—the young redhead who checked me in this morning—and give her a thumbs up. "It's lovely, thanks. And please, call me Laine."

"Of course. If you prefer."

"I do." The sooner I leave Madelaine in the rear-view mirror and get familiar with my new name, the better—and the safer. "And with that settled, could you direct me to the closest pub?"

Hannah grins. "Well, if you just want to grab a pint, there's a pub on pretty much every corner that will do, but if you want a good meal or a little fun?—"

"—Yes, both. I'm starving, and it's been much too long since I had any fun."

"Aye, so that would be Jimmy Frances. Take a left as you exit the inn, go down a couple of blocks, right at the church, and you can't miss it."

"Wonderful. Thank you."

Cool drizzle spritzes my face as I exit and wakes me up a bit more from my travel haze. I take a left out of the Gilford as instructed and study the history and culture of the city as I explore.

It's mind-bendy that most of these buildings are older than my entire country.

The roots of Chicago run deep—from the inventions of the telegraph and the railroad in the 1800s, to gangsters and Al Capone in the 1920s, to becoming the third largest city in the USA.

When you mention the Windy City to people, most people think about deep-dish pizza, sports teams, and Oprah.

But Ireland has centuries on us.

Centuries of mythology, culture, and traditions of their own. It's humbling.

And, if my plan works…it will also be liberating.

I'm trading depositions and dirty deals for disappearing in Dublin, and retaking control of my life.

I press my palm against the cool metal of my mother's urn and push the betrayal and resentment away. "You warned me from the beginning, didn't you, Mom? I'm sorry it took me so long to get out."

Turning right at the church, I lift my gaze to follow the spires rising toward the night sky and study the rosary window. With the lights on inside the church, the scene set in the stained-glass glows.

It's a mosaic of brilliant colors illuminated from within, casting an inviting light onto the cobblestone path below. Each pane tells a story, the images intricately detailed and alive with hues of ruby red, emerald green, and sapphire blue, forming a striking contrast against the dark, rainy sky blanketing the city.

It's stunning.

I draw a deep breath and fill my lungs with the cool dampness of the evening. Even the smell of the air in Dublin is uplifting in a new and exciting way.

"Onward and upward."

Music and the steady rumble of voices drift out of a dark green building farther along the street. My stomach growls at the prospect of a hot meal.

I glance up at the black and gold sign painted over the door. Jimmy Frances Pub.

This is the place.

The paint on the pub's wooden exterior is peeling, but the flowers in the window boxes are full and beautiful, adding the pop of color needed to keep the exterior looking cared for.

Two couples exit the double doors as I move to go in, and I duck under the gentleman's arm as he holds the door for me. "Evening Miss."

"Good evening."

The doors bump to a gentle close behind me and I straighten, hit by a wall of warmth. The air is heavy with Celtic rhythms and the scents of pub fare and beer. It takes a moment for my eyesight to adjust, but I move to the ‘wait to be seated' sign and do just that.

"Ginny's on her break, duck. Sit anywhere you like." I follow the man's voice to the brawny fellow with tattoos and a scruffy beard wiping down the weathered wooden bar.

He's in his late fifties now, but still has the frame of a man who was built like a brick shithouse in his youth. A boxer maybe…He looks like a fighter.

"Perfect." I scan the seating, searching for an empty spot.

The place is busy, the golden glow of hanging lights illuminating groups of people chatting and laughing from the bar to the tables to the booth wall that runs down to the back.

Shaking the raindrops off my long hair, I walk towards an empty booth about halfway back. After carefully setting Mom down, I toss my purse along the bench seat and take off my damp jacket to hang it on the hook at the end of the booth.

Settling in, I reach for a menu from where they stand wedged behind a condiments caddy, and eye up the posters and photographs hanging haphazardly over every inch of the wood-paneled wall.

All the faces smiling back at me are enjoying their time here in the pub, and I wonder if they are famous people or regulars. Not being up on the Irish celebrity scene, it's impossible for me to know.

My stomach growls and I get back on track, opening the menu with focus.