7. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Mac

A fter making it back to the cottage, I decide to eat some fruit to tide me over until dinner while standing in the warmth of the sun that streams in through the window. It's so easy to feel in awe of the beauty that surrounds me. Already I wish I could stay here, hidden away from my life back in America. There is so much nature here to get lost in.

After finishing eating, I gather my art supplies, feeling the familiar excitement of creating something new. I decide to set up my easel just outside the cottage, facing the cliffs that rise dramatically above the crashing waves. With my paper propped and a chair dragged into place, I settle in, the breeze tugging at my hair as I begin to sketch out the scene.

My pencil glides across the paper, tracing the jagged lines of the cliffs and the rolling waves below. As the sketch takes form, I feel myself sink into the moment, lost in the rhythmic strokes of my hand. When it's ready, I dip my brush into the watercolors, watching as the pigments spread in soft, fluid motions. I would have preferred to use my acrylics for their boldness, but I'd had to settle for watercolors this trip. They were easier to transport, and I didn't want to risk my acrylic tubes splitting open on the journey here.

I smile to myself, knowing I can always add acrylic accents when I get home. Perhaps that will allow me to relive these moments, layer by layer. I imagine painting the white spray of the water as the waves crash into the cliffs, the vibrant streaks of the birds as they circle overhead.

The sun warms my skin, the soft sound of the wind and distant sea settling into the background. I lose myself completely in the work, each brushstroke a meditation on the beauty before me. This place feels like another world—untouched, wild, and free.

Occasionally it almost feels like the trees behind me are watching my progress, their tall leaves reaching out to take glimpses at my work over my shoulders. The feeling of being watched isn't oppressive, nothing like the way Nathan used to watch me. It's easy to dismiss the feeling as my imagination, the warm tingling feeling on my skin, nothing more than the warm breeze like the sun is breathing against the soft hair that escapes my hair tie.

I get so lost in my art that I once again start singing softly to myself and the hours slip by unnoticed. Even the regular pauses for water and to let the paint dry become part of the rhythm. The colors blend and swirl on the paper, capturing the essence of the cliffs and the endless ocean beyond. But soon, I find myself squinting, struggling to make out the details as the light begins to fade.

It's already late afternoon, and I know I can't keep going in the diminishing daylight. I frown up at the sky as though it's betrayed me by doing what it naturally does at the end of each day. Reluctantly, I gather my supplies, carefully moving everything back inside the cottage.

I clean and dry my brushes, wipe down the easel, and set the paper aside to fully dry. My jeans and knit sweater, which I've worn since my morning exploration, now sport small flecks of paint, but I decide it's still acceptable attire for dinner at the local pub. The rustic charm of the place means a few stray paint marks won't draw much attention.

As I get ready to head out, a thought flickers through my mind—will I see Cianán at the pub? The memory of our brief encounter earlier lingers, his captivating presence and the way he seemed so at home there in the forest. For a moment, I let myself imagine bumping into him again, perhaps sharing another conversation, but I quickly push the thought aside.

I didn't come all the way out here to focus on men. In fact, one of the reasons I left home was to escape a man. Nathan. Just thinking about him makes my chest tighten with a mixture of anger and regret.

It's strange how someone like him could have such control over me, how he slowly isolated me until I had no one left. I'd always thought I was stronger than that, smarter. I used to laugh with my friends at the idea of being manipulated by anyone, convinced it could never happen to me. But it did. Nathan didn't love me—he saw me as something to own, a possession he could shape and break at will.

Memories creep in like an unwelcome shadow, ones I've tried hard to bury or forget. I can just imagine the vicious tirade I'll face from my best friend, Ree, when I finally tell her the full story. I haven't spoken to her in so long because of him, and I dread the day I'll have to explain everything. When I returned to my family home, bruised and broken, I wasn't ready to hear her anger. Worse, I wasn't ready to admit the truth—not even to myself.

I had downplayed the abuse to Bridget, making it seem like a one-time thing, a moment of weakness from Nathan. But the reality was far darker. It wasn't just one hit. It had been a steady progression of slaps, insults, and degradation.

Nathan didn't just hurt me physically—he stripped away my sense of self, piece by piece. He told me I was nothing, that I wasn't worthy of his love yet, and that I needed to earn it. According to him, I wasn't good enough to take his name in marriage until I became perfect. He wanted a flawless, obedient doll, not a partner.

The night I realized I needed to leave was the night he almost killed me. I had told Bridget the truth behind what started it, but not how it ended. I still remember the darkness in his eyes as he left me on the floor, bleeding and unable to move. I was so cold, it felt like my veins had turned to ice. When he left the next morning for work, I was still on the ground where he left me the night before. His parting words were a cruel reminder of his control—he told me to make sure I cleaned up my mess.

It was only after he left that I managed to get to my feet. That's when I knew I had to run. I grabbed whatever clothes I could and fled, heading straight for my family's home. They held me, let me heal, but I couldn't bring myself to contact Ree.

I needed time to find myself again, to piece together the woman I once was. And this trip? It's my last step toward reclaiming my identity before I face her inevitable wrath and disappointment.

So, no matter how beautiful and charming Cianán might be, I can't afford to let myself get distracted by anyone right now. I usually have a sense for when I can trust people and their intentions, but with him to a degree, just like with Nathan, I don't feel anything. It's as if my body goes quiet in his presence, and I once took that stillness as a sign to trust. But with Nathan, I was wrong, and I don't want to make that mistake again.

Grabbing my purse, I step outside, the evening air hitting my face as I make my way toward the path down to Ennisvarra and the pub. The sky is tinged with the beautiful colors of sunset, and I take a deep breath, letting the beauty of the moment wash over me. This place feels like a world away from the life I left behind, and right now, that's exactly what I need.

I make my way along the narrow path, careful to watch where I am going in the shadows now that night is beginning to fall. The air is cool, but not uncomfortably so, and the gentle rustling of leaves overhead provides a soothing soundtrack to my thoughts. As I near the village, the warm glow of lights spilling from the windows of the buildings onto the cobblestone streets comes into view, along with the cheerful hum of voices.

I smile as I pass by a few parents still trying to wrangle their children into warmer clothes, coaxing them back inside their homes for the evening. It's such a simple, joyful scene—one I haven't had in my life for far too long. Here, everything feels different. Less complicated. The tight knot in my chest loosens a little more with each step, and I find myself wanting to savor this brief glimpse at what life is like here.

The sounds of laughter and conversation grow louder as I approach the small, stone building that houses the pub. The door swings open just as I reach for the handle, and I step back to let a couple of locals pass by, who offer me friendly nods and smiles as they go. Inside, the pub is cozy and warm, the scent of hearty food and woodsmoke mingling in the air. The soft glow of lanterns hangs from the low ceiling, casting golden light over the rustic wooden tables and the cheerful patrons gathered around them.

I scan the room, my gaze lingering on the bar where a few people are chatting with the bartender. As much as I dismissed the idea, I still can't help but feel slightly disappointed when I don't see Cianán among the patrons. But I do see Bridget at one of the crowded tables waving in my direction, and it instantly brightens my mood. I wave back and weave through the tables, making my way over to her.

Bridget stands as I approach, surprising me by pulling me into a warm hug. "There you are! I was starting to wonder if you were going to make it tonight," she says with a grin.

"I got a bit lost in my painting," I reply, pulling back to smile a little at her. Her forwardness almost has me backpedaling, but I remind myself she is just a friendly person and I could use some friends. "It smells amazing in here."

Bridget laughs. "Good timing, then," she says, before introducing me to the others at the table. They all nod and smile in greeting while they continue their conversations. "Let me get you a drink and dinner to welcome you, the special tonight is lamb stew. You're going to love it."

I grin at Bridget, feeling a bit lighter. "Lamb stew sounds perfect. And I'll take you up on that drink too."

She gestures for me to take a seat while she heads toward the bar. I settle into the chair, feeling the warmth of the pub seep into my skin, and I let myself relax a little. The noise of the room surrounds me, but it's a comforting hum, a warm welcome—a far cry from the way my life feels back in the States.

Bridget returns a few minutes later, placing a pint of ale in front of me. "Here you go. Local brew. You can't leave until you've had at least one of these," she says with a wink.

I raise the glass to my lips, savoring the rich, malty taste. It's a bit stronger than what I'm used to, but there's something hearty about it—like it belongs to this place, much like the cliffs and the sea. Bridget sits across from me, her easy smile still in place as she takes a sip of her own drink.

"So, how are you settling in?" she asks, her tone casual, with genuine interest behind her words.

I shrug, trying not to give too much away. "It's been nice, honestly. Peaceful."

Bridget nods, her smile never fading. "This place has a way of getting under your skin. It's like time moves slower here, isn't it? A bit of a haven away from the rest of the world."

I can't help but agree. "It really is. I've been spending most of my time outside, just taking it all in. It's hard not to feel inspired here."

"You're an artist, right?" she asks, her eyes bright with curiosity. "I thought I remembered you mentioning that when we first met."

I nod, feeling a little self-conscious. "Yeah, I paint mostly. Watercolors, acrylics... whatever I can get my hands on. This place is perfect for it—the cliffs, the sea, the forest, everything."

"That sounds amazing! I can't even draw stick figures," Bridget jokes, leaning forward. "What have you been working on lately?"

I take a sip of my ale, gathering my thoughts. "Today, I was painting the cliffs just outside the cottage. The light was perfect, and the waves crashing against the rocks... it felt like I could capture the power and the beauty of it all. Everything seems so magical around here. I got so lost in the moment, I didn't even realize how late it had gotten."

Bridget listens intently, her eyes wide. "That sounds incredible. You'll have to show me sometime!"

The thought of sharing my work with someone feels a little vulnerable, but there's something about Bridget's easygoing nature that makes it feel less intimidating. "Maybe," I say with a small grin, leaving it open-ended.

Before she can respond, the waitress arrives with our dinner—generous bowls of lamb stew and fresh bread. The smell alone is enough to make my stomach growl. As we dig in, the conversation flows easily. We talk about the village, the people, and the rhythms of life here. Bridget shares stories of her own experiences, painting a vivid picture of what it's like to live in such a small, close-knit community.

As we finish eating, I realize there's something I've been curious about. I put down my spoon and lean toward Bridget.

"Can I ask you something?" I begin. She nods, her expression open and curious. "Why do you rent out the cottage instead of living in it? It's beautiful there."

Bridget smiles fondly and leans back in her chair, taking a sip of her ale before responding. "The cottage has been in my family for generations. My grandmother grew up there, and so did my mum. But for me... well, I've always preferred living above the bakery. It's easier being right there, especially since I run the place. Besides," she says with a wink, "I like being in the middle of things, where I can talk to people. That cottage is lovely, but it can feel a bit isolated, especially during the winters."

Bridget pauses, her gaze distant for a moment, as if recalling a memory. "But," she continues, "it wouldn't be Irish of me to not open the cottage up to others. There's an old fable that's been passed down for generations. My gran used to tell it to me when I was a little girl—about a Huntsman, his wife, and their son, Fergus."

I lean forward, intrigued. Bridget smiles and begins to weave the tale.

"One stormy night, the Huntsman and his family opened their cottage to some strangers seeking shelter. They didn't think twice about it—it was only natural to offer shelter. The strangers were grateful, and before they left, they told the family that their kindness would be repaid someday, though they didn't say how or when."

She takes a sip of her ale, eyes twinkling with the delight of storytelling. "Years later, Fergus, the Huntsman's son, decided the life of a hunter wasn't for him. He had a sense of adventure and wanted to explore beyond the forests. During his travels, he met and fell in love with a princess. But, as in all these tales, there was a competition for her hand in marriage. Fergus wasn't the strongest or wealthiest of the suitors, and it seemed like all hope was lost. That's when those strangers reappeared."

Bridget's voice lowers, drawing me further into the story. "They gave Fergus the tools he needed to win the competition—a bow that never missed, a cloak that made him swift, and a charm for luck. With their help, he won the princess's hand, and they lived happily ever after. Some say those strangers were old gods, others say powerful fae. Either way, their kindness returned to them, just as promised."

She finishes the tale with a soft smile. "So, you see, it feels right to open the cottage to others. Who knows, maybe one day the kindness shown will come back to me in some unexpected way."

The fable lingers in the air between us, filling the pub with a sense of something ancient and magical.

"That's beautiful," I say, still processing the tale. "Do you think there's any truth to it?"

Bridget laughs, a light, carefree sound. "Oh, I think there's truth in all our old stories, even if we don't know how much. Whether they were gods or fae, or just strangers who wanted to repay kindness, I like to believe in a little magic. And this land, with all its history... it makes you wonder, doesn't it?"

As the evening wears on, the pub gradually empties, the laughter and chatter of the patrons slowly fading as they head home. The warmth of the food and drink, coupled with the long day, begins to catch up with me. I stifle a yawn, feeling my body grow heavy with exhaustion.

Bridget notices and smiles. "Long day, huh?"

I nod, finishing the last bite of my stew. "Yeah, but a good one. I think I'm ready to call it a night."

"Me too," she agrees, standing up and stretching. "It was great getting to know you, though. I really hope you come back tomorrow night."

"Definitely." I smile, genuinely meaning it.

After settling the bill, we both step outside into the cool night air. The village is quiet now, with only the soft rustling of leaves and the distant sound of the sea, the soft murmur of people inside their homes breaking the stillness. We part ways at the crossroads—Bridget heading back to her home, and me making my way to the path back to the cottage.

She is such a comforting person to be around. Something about the way she talks makes me feel safe, and her words are always so genuine. Her warm and easygoing nature made me feel at ease, more so than I expected. It was nice, sitting with someone who didn't expect anything from me—someone who just wanted to share a meal and a conversation.

But that fleeting feeling from earlier, the sensation of being watched, returns, making the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I stop abruptly, scanning my surroundings, but the forest is still. Only the gentle rustling of leaves stirs in the breeze.

I shake my head, forcing a laugh under my breath. You're just tired. You need sleep.

Continuing on, the cottage comes in to view and I push the door open and step inside before closing the door firmly behind me. I lean against it for a moment, letting the coziness of the space settle my nerves.

Bridget was right—this place has a way of getting under your skin. But I wasn't sure yet if that was a good thing or not.

With that thought, I make my way to bed, stripping off my clothes along the way and pulling the blankets up as I let their heat enfold me like an embrace. My eyes drift closed, and I let the sound of the sea and the distant winds lull me into sleep.

The last thing that follows me into my dreams is the memory of vibrant green eyes.