2. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Mac

5 days earlier

T he plane ride is long and crowded, and my relief at finally touching down in Dublin is almost overwhelming. As I step off the tarmac and make my way through the bustling terminal, I can't help but feel a mixture of excitement and trepidation. I'm finally here, in Ireland, a place I've only dreamed of visiting. The airport is a whirl of accents and hurried footsteps as travelers make their way through customs, collect their luggage, and disperse into the city beyond.

After what feels like an eternity, I find myself standing by the luggage carousel, watching the endless stream of bags circle around. Mine finally appears, a familiar dark red suitcase that has seen better days, though it's the first time it's touched foreign soil. I grab it, the weight of it reassuring in my hand.

It's stuffed not just with clothes, but with an art case of my painting supplies—brushes, art paper, and my pallet of watercolor paints. The case itself even converted to an easel. Everything I need to escape, even briefly, from the life I left at home in America.

I hoist my backpack higher on my shoulder to adjust to the weight before starting my adventure. People are all around, so I keep it close because it holds my valuables, including my digital and Instax cameras that I don't want people bumping into.

Wheeling my luggage away from the carousel, the crowd around me finally begins to thin out. Most of the passengers have already collected their bags and disappeared into the bustling city, allowing me to breathe easier. I scan the area for the person who's supposed to pick me up, my eyes darting from face to face.

Then, I spot it—a sign with "McKenna" scrawled across it in neat, if slightly crooked, letters. My heart skips a beat, and I make my way toward the woman holding it. She's standing near the entrance, looking around with a nervous energy that I instantly connect with. As I get closer, I notice her attire—navy pants and a white shirt that were clearly chosen to look professional, though the fit is slightly off. The pants are a touch too long, and the shirt has a wrinkle or two that hasn't been ironed out.

What really catches my attention is the dusting of flour along the edges of her brown hair. It looks like she hastily wiped at her face before rushing out the door to pick me up. I can't help but smile at the thought. She isn't a professional or anything of the sort; she's just a real person, like me, caught in the midst of life's little messes.

I have always had a sixth sense about the people around me, some sort of internal warning system that tells me if a person is friend or foe. Well, most people. My abusive asshole of an ex was one of the exceptions. I never was able to get anything from him, which perplexed me, but also made me think maybe we were a good match. I was very wrong.

My special gift has saved me more times than I can count though, and helped draw me to others that I end up clicking with so well. I have a strong feeling this will be one of those people who will easily become a good friend.

Shoving that thought aside for later, I make my way to the woman.

"Bridget?" I ask hesitantly as I approach, my voice sounding foreign even to me in this new place.

Her face lights up with a warm, welcoming smile that seems to erase any nervousness she might have felt. "You must be McKenna, then?" she says, her accent lilting and soft, as she lowers the sign and extends her hand.

I smile back, taking her hand in mine, and notice the lingering softness of flour on her skin. "Please, call me Mac," I say, giving her hand a gentle shake.

"Lovely to meet you, Mac," she responds, her smile widening. Without missing a beat, she reaches for my luggage. "Let me take that bag for you."

Before I can protest, she's already grabbed the handle, her fingers curling around it with determination. A soft "oof" escapes her lips as she pulls it towards herself, the weight of my belongings clearly more than she expected.

I chuckle, feeling a bit guilty. "Sorry about that—it's got my painting supplies in there too."

She laughs along with me, a light, genuine sound that eases the last of my travel-worn nerves. "No worries at all. We'll get you settled in no time."

As we make our way through the airport, Bridget leading the way with my heavy suitcase in tow, I feel a sense of anticipation building. Soon, I'll be at the little cottage overlooking the cliffs, with a scenery worth painting. It's near a tiny village that feels a world away from everything I've known.

The hum of conversations and rolling suitcases fades into the background as we step outside into the crisp Irish air. A cool breeze carries the faint scent of rain and something earthy that I can't quite place but immediately love.

Bridget directs me toward a little blue car parked a short distance away. It's well-worn but charming, with a few scratches and dents that speak to years of faithful service. The car almost seems to smile at us, its headlights gleaming under the overcast sky.

"Here we are," Bridget announces cheerfully, popping open the trunk with a quick press of her key fob.

I help her hoist my heavy suitcase into the back, the weight causing us both to grunt slightly before it settles into place. Bridget brushes her hands together, attempting to dust off nonexistent dirt, and then unlocks the car doors. I slide into the passenger seat, placing my backpack carefully at my feet. The interior is cozy, smelling faintly of vanilla and something spicy—perhaps cinnamon.

"Welcome to Ireland," Bridget chirps as she buckles her seatbelt and starts the car. The engine hums to life, and a traditional Irish tune softly fills the space from the radio. "You know, Mac, with your looks? You'll fit right in here. Your hair and eyes are stunning."

I feel a flush of warmth in my cheeks, and I duck my head slightly, a little shy about the compliment. Growing up, my hair was the source of relentless teasing—kids would call me names, saying it looked like I had a fire on my head with all the different tones of red, copper, and blonde strands highlighting it. And my eyes... Well, they've always unnerved some people, though I never understood why. As far as I can tell, they're just blue eyes, even if they have a small ring of amber around the edges.

"Thank you," I manage to mumble, brushing a strand of fiery hair behind my ear, a smile tugging at my lips as I take in my surroundings. Outside, the sky is a patchwork of grays, and I can already tell that the landscape beyond the city will be breathtaking.

Bridget expertly navigates us out of the busy airport, merging seamlessly into traffic. After a few moments of comfortable silence, she glances over at me with curious eyes.

"So, Mac, what made you want to visit our little village all the way from America? You do know it's not one of those tourist places, right? We're pretty isolated, and barely ever get visitors."

I let out a soft laugh, appreciating her straightforwardness. "I did notice that. Honestly, that's part of the appeal."

She raises an eyebrow, intrigued. "Oh? Running away from something, are we?"

Her playful tone makes me chuckle, but the truth behind her words settles heavily in my chest. I gaze out the window for a moment, watching as the cityscape begins to give way to rolling green hills in the distance.

"Something like that," I admit, my voice quieter.

Bridget seems to pick up on the shift in my mood and gives me a quick, concerned glance before returning her focus to the road. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to pry."

"No, it's okay," I assure her, taking a deep breath. "It's just a very long story."

She offers a sympathetic smile. "Well, we've got a long drive ahead of us. If you feel like talking, I'm all ears. If not, we can enjoy the music."

I consider her offer, weighing the idea of sharing my story with a stranger. But something about Bridget's warm demeanor and the anonymity of being so far from home makes it feel safe.

"I met a man, isn't that always how it goes?" I begin slowly, my fingers fiddling with the zipper on my jacket. "He seemed perfect at first. Charming, thoughtful, always surprising me with flowers and gifts. Said all the right things."

Bridget nods silently, her eyes steady on the road but her attention clearly focused on my words.

"After six months, I moved in with him. That's when things started to change. He'd make me feel guilty whenever I wanted to spend time with my friends or family. Started criticizing my clothes, my choices, little by little. It was so gradual that I didn't even realize what was happening until one day, I looked in the mirror and didn't recognize myself."

I pause, swallowing the lump forming in my throat. The memories are still raw, but speaking them aloud feels strangely liberating.

"I lost touch with my friends, and any contact with my family was done in secret. They were worried, of course, but I always brushed it off. Then one night, after we'd been out with his friends, he got drunk and angry. Accused me of flirting with his best friend just because I laughed at a joke. When we got home... he hit me. More than once."

Bridget's hands tighten on the steering wheel, her knuckles turning white. "Mac, I'm so sorry," she says softly, genuine empathy lacing her words.

I offer a small, shaky smile. "Thank you." Taking a deep breath, I continue. Something about this place already has my anxiety fading, and the story I thought would be difficult to share comes out naturally.

"The next day, I packed whatever I could fit into a bag and left. Went back to my parents' and ignored his calls and messages. Spent the next few months trying to piece myself back together."

"And that's when you decided to come here?" she asks gently.

"Yes," I reply, feeling a bit of lightness returning to my voice. "My grandmother reminded me of the stories she and my great-grandmother used to tell about growing up in Ireland. My great-grandmother actually came from the area near your village before moving to America with her little girl, my grandmother. Apparently I look just like my great-grandmother when she was my age. It felt like the right place to go—to find myself, experience a part of my heritage. I feel almost like I'm reconnecting with her."

Bridget's face softens into a smile, her eyes shining with understanding. "Then you've come to the perfect place. Our village may be small, but it's full of heart. And the cliffs... well, you'll see. They're something else entirely."

"I can't wait," I say, feeling a genuine sense of excitement bubbling up inside me for the first time in a long while.

We lapse into a comfortable silence as the car continues its journey, the city fading away behind us as we drive deeper into the countryside. The scenery becomes increasingly picturesque, with lush green fields dotted with grazing sheep and ancient stone walls lining the winding roads. The sky begins to clear, allowing shafts of golden sunlight to illuminate the landscape and cast everything in a warm, inviting glow.

Bridget points out various landmarks along the way, sharing little anecdotes and bits of local history that make me smile and feel even more drawn to this new place. She tells me about the annual harvest festival, the local pub that's been around for over a century, and the old castle ruins that supposedly house a resident ghost. Her stories are lively and engaging, and I find myself relaxing more with each passing mile.

After a couple of hours, we turn onto a narrow road that winds through a dense forest. The trees arch overhead, their branches creating a natural canopy that filters the sunlight into dappled patterns on the ground. The air seems fresher here, filled with the rich scent of earth and foliage.

Eventually, we emerge from the forest, passing through a small village that seems straight out of a story book. The streets are lined with quaint cottages, a tiny grocery store, and a pub with a cheerful sign swinging gently in the breeze. Bridget points them out with pride. "That's the local pub I mentioned, and there's the grocery store—just about everything you might need is within walking distance of the cottage."

I take in the sight of Ennisvarra, feeling an overwhelming sense of contentment. This is exactly what I'd hoped for—a peaceful retreat where I can lose myself in my painting and leave my past behind.

As we continue driving, the village is replaced by more trees and a narrow road. The car bumps along, and I can feel the anticipation building with every turn.

"We're almost there," Bridget announces, her voice tinged with excitement.

Finally, after what seems like both a moment and an eternity, the landscape opens up to reveal a breathtaking view of the sea. The water stretches out to the horizon, shimmering under the late afternoon sun. Jagged cliffs rise majestically from the shoreline, their rugged beauty both awe-inspiring and humbling.

I gasp softly, pressing a hand to the window as I take in the stunning vista. "It's even more beautiful than I imagined," I murmur.

Bridget beams, clearly pleased by my reaction. "Wait until you see the sunset from the cottage. It's like nothing else."

We don't travel much farther before a quaint little cottage comes into view. It's constructed of weathered stone, with a thatched roof and ivy creeping up the sides. A small wooden fence encircles the property, adding to its charm.

Bridget parks the car in front of the cottage and turns to me with a wide smile. "Welcome to your temporary home away from home, Mac."

I feel a swell of emotion at her words, my eyes prickling with unshed tears. "Thank you, Bridget. This is... perfect."

We step out of the car, and I take a deep breath, filling my lungs with the salty sea air that feels like a fresh start. The sound of waves crashing against the rocks below mingles with the distant cries of seabirds, creating a symphony that soothes my weary soul.