A Bittersweet Garden Read online

  “I’ll just close my eyes for a minute,” she muttered as she stretched out and promptly fell asleep.

  The room was nearly dark when she woke. She sat up, feeling shaky and drugged, her mind sluggish, as she tried to remember where she was.

  Cong. She was at Ashford. She flopped back down with a happy sigh.

  Her stomach growled, reminding her she hadn’t fed it anything healthy in several hours, and that airplane meal hadn’t gone down well.

  She glanced at her watch, mentally moving the time ahead five hours. Almost nine o’clock here. She had no idea what would be open at this time.

  She rinsed her face, patted it dry on a luxurious towel, ran a brush through her honey-blonde hair, and went in search of food, grabbing her stack of pamphlets on her way out.

  A few minutes later, she was seated at a table in the bar with a bowl of creamy vegetable soup and thick slices of hearty brown bread.

  Sated, she sat back, sipping her tea and letting her body settle. She leafed through the brochures. Among them was a map of the Ashford grounds and surrounding area. She scooted her chair closer and leaned over the map. She already knew the layout of the area around Cong from her grandparents, but it was cool to see it drawn out like this.

  She pushed back from the table and gathered her papers. On her way back to her room, she stepped outside where a misty rain was falling.

  “’Tis a nice, soft evening,” she said, chuckling to herself.

  Today, despite all the obstacles and opposition, she’d arrived at the destination of her dreams. Tomorrow, she’d start living her dream.

  The chestnut filly shied at the white handkerchief fluttering from a tree branch, but Briana was ready. Her legs clamped tightly, keeping her arse glued to the saddle as the horse jumped sideways.

  “Ginger, you silly thing,” she said in a matter-of-fact voice, nudging the filly over to inspect the flapping cloth. “See? I think you just like finding things to pretend to be scared of.”

  The delicate ears swept back at the sound of her voice, and the nostrils quivered as the filly sniffed the handkerchief. Briana leaned over to untie it and stuff it in her back pocket.

  An enormous gray wolfhound mix bounded out of the woods.

  “And where have you been, Shannon?”

  The dog, her coat dappled with drops of water from the underbrush, grinned up at her, tongue lolling.

  Dog and horse stood nose to nose. Briana let them have their moment before they walked on, Ginger’s hooves thudding on the damp, hard-packed trail as it threaded its way through the woods. Droplets of water clung to every leaf, every needle. It was all washed clean from the night’s shower. Briana loved the freshness of the air after a rain.

  Up ahead, an aluminum can clanked from where it was tied to a fence rail. Again, the filly jumped with a frightened snort. Again, Briana spoke quietly, using the pressure of her legs and hands to guide the horse toward the fence.

  When Ginger was satisfied the can wasn’t going to hurt her, Briana likewise untied it and shoved it into her saddle bag before letting the filly break into a controlled canter. The wolfhound loped beside them, easily keeping up. Other trails forked off the main one, but they continued on this path.

  The calm morning suddenly exploded as a pedestrian, head bowed over a paper, unexpectedly stepped off one of the side trails directly into their path.

  The filly shied in real terror this time. Shannon let out a booming bark, and the walker looked up and screamed before falling into a huge rhododendron. Ginger skidded to a halt and then reared. Briana grabbed mane, fighting to keep her seat as she brought the filly down.

  “Whoa… whoa,” she said soothingly. “There, now.”

  Ginger stood, trembling, as Briana turned her fury on the figure floundering about in the rhododendron. “What the bloody hell were you—”

  She found herself looking into a frightened, pale face staring up at her from the dark green rhododendron leaves.

  “I am so sorry,” the woman in the bushes stammered as she tried to get up.

  Every branch she grasped bent under her weight, leaving her to fall further into the greenery. She fell even deeper into the bush as she recoiled from Shannon, who had come over to sniff the stranger.

  With an exasperated sigh, Briana dismounted.

  “Shannon, get back,” she said, using her hip to push the huge dog out of the way.

  Being careful to keep a tight hold of the reins in one hand, she reached out with her other to disentangle the Yank. Tourists. No local would walk so blindly along bridle paths.

  She pulled the woman to her feet, glaring up into a face a good hand higher than her own. “Are you hurt?”

  “No.” The woman brushed her backside off, plucking a few leaves from her jacket. “Are you?”

  Briana had already turned back to Ginger to inspect her, running her hands down the filly’s forelegs.

  “Fine,” she muttered. “You’re fine.”

  She rubbed the filly’s pretty face, marked with a white blaze. Ginger was eyeing the American warily, stretching her neck out to sniff at the stranger.

  “Your hand,” Briana said.

  “Sorry?”

  The woman stared down at her, and the height difference irritated Briana all the more. “Give her your hand to sniff so she knows you’re not something to be afraid of.”

  The woman did as Briana instructed. Ginger’s nostrils fluttered, and she snorted. The American jumped and jerked her hand back. Shannon shifted to place her enormous head under the Yank’s other hand and was rewarded with a scratch.

  On the ground, a piece of paper fluttered against the rhododendron, making Ginger snort again in mock terror.

  “Oh, stop it.” Briana gave her a pat and bent to pick up the paper. It was the map the American had dropped.

  “Where were you headed?” she asked as she held it out.

  The woman took it from her. “I was looking for the Old Schoolhouse.”

  Briana looked her up and down. Not a fly rod in sight. “You don’t look like you’re here for the fishing.”

  The tourist blushed. “I’m not.”

  Briana pointed. “Well, it’s that way.” She led Ginger to a fallen tree she could stand on to vault into the saddle. “But you’d best keep your head up and your ears open as you walk.”

  She urged Ginger onward down the path. At a bend in the trail, she twisted in the saddle and saw the American staring after her. She turned back around with a shake of her head.

  “Idjit.”

  Nora grumbled to herself as she walked. “Said I was sorry. Not like I meant to… She didn’t have to be so rude.”

  She was a little embarrassed, remembering how she’d jumped when that chestnut mare had snorted against her hand. As much as Nora had loved horses growing up and had begged and begged for one of her own, it had been years since she’d been around any. And that had to be the biggest dog she’d ever seen, almost the size of a Shetland pony.

  The rider—Nora only now realized how tiny she was—had made her feel ridiculously small. It seemed to her that she’d been made to feel small most of her life, and she was sick and tired of it. Tired of allowing it, she corrected herself.

  Her irritation was soon forgotten as she took in the enormous trees, their trunks covered in moss and lichens. There was even one type of tree whose bark wrinkled near the base of the trunk, making it look like an elephant’s leg.

  “Gosh, my imagination could have run wild here.” She knelt to snap a photo with her cell phone.

  She remained there, just listening and absorbing the atmosphere of the woods, envying her grandparents for getting to grow up here. Probably among these very same trees, she realized. Sighing, she pushed to her feet and continued on her way. When she emerged from the forest, the trail continued until she found herself facing a quaint stone cottage that looked like something from a storybook. No wonder the Old Schoolhouse was such a popular accommodation. It looked delightful.

&
nbsp; She glanced at her map again and turned to the right, following the directions she’d been given. The hedge-lined road wound and wound, and she caught glimpses of other houses, their low walls surrounding neat gardens. She came upon another lane that branched off, hardly more than a trail through the trees, looking way too narrow for a car. She wandered uncertainly down the shaded path, her heart pounding, until the trees parted to give her her first view of the cottage that would be her home for the rest of the summer. Her heart plummeted when she saw it.

  “He said he’s not done anything with it for a while now,” Pop had warned after he’d written to an old friend of his to inquire for her. “He’s a farmer, not a landlord, but the cottage is empty, and he’s offering it to you for next to nothing.”

  Nora reminded herself of that as she took in the unkempt state of the little house, its steep slate roof covered in moss, ivy growing up the walls where chunks of the lime wash had fallen off, exposing the stone underneath. The skeletal remains of a few dead bushes sat on either side of the door.

  Tilting her head, she tried to imagine what it could be if it weren’t so… lonely, she decided.

  Her mother had always sighed indulgently when Nora would assign personalities to inanimate objects, but Mamma had pretended right along with her, whether it was her bike becoming her horse—a gleaming black stallion, name of Coal, that no one but Nora could ride—or declaring that her favorite climbing tree was hugging her when it let her clamber up to settle contentedly in its branches, hiding from the world while she drew or read. She’d even imagined that her bed enfolded her protectively as monsters tried to peer in at her through the windows.

  Later, with Amy… well, Nora had quickly learned that a vivid imagination wasn’t something that everyone had. Or valued.

  Now, she pictured the cottage with clean windows and cheerful flowers and the door thrown open to welcome guests.

  At that, she laughed aloud. “Just what guests do you think you’re going to have here, Nora Mary Brigid McNeill?”

  A flash of movement caught her eye, freezing her mid-laugh.

  A face. She could have sworn she’d seen a pale face, there in the upstairs window. Was someone living here?

  Her entire summer was planned around having this cottage to herself. She strode to the door and banged on it, but no one answered. She stepped sideways to one of the windows, rubbing the grime off to peer inside. The furniture was all covered in sheets. Clearly no one was living here. She braced a hand on the stones to lean in for a better view, and felt a sudden wave of dizziness. She stumbled backward.

  “You’re seeing things,” she mumbled. “Still jet-lagged.”

  Her face broke out in a cold sweat. The rain jacket that had been a welcome layer when she began her trek was now feeling uncomfortably warm. She took it off and tied the sleeves around her waist, mopping her face with her shirtsleeve.

  Drawing her map out of her pocket, she tried to get her bearings. Her cousin’s shop should be… that way. At the edge of the clearing, she glanced back at the cottage. Nothing. With a shake of her head, she headed back down the path to the road.

  As she walked—remembering to watch for oncoming traffic on the right side of the road—she waved at passing cars. Within fifteen minutes, she saw a sign for The Bittersweet Garden.

  A greenhouse was connected to a sprawling pergola-like structure, both filled with tiers and tiers of potted plants, hanging baskets of more flowering plants, raised beds of all kinds of herbs. She caught sight of movement through the glass walls of the greenhouse.

  Going to the door, she peeked inside. “Hello?”

  A woman stood, her jet-black hair bundled through the back of a battered baseball cap. “Yes? Can I help you?”

  “I’m looking for Sheila Donnelly.”

  “Are you Nora?”

  The woman beamed at her, approaching with her hand held out. “Sorry,” she said as she used a rag to swipe at the dirt on her palm. “Welcome to Cong. How was your flight?”

  “It was fine,” Nora said, letting Sheila wring her hand.

  “Come on in for some tea,” Sheila said, dragging Nora toward the rambling building next to the pergola. It looked as if additions had been cobbled onto additions over the years.

  Sheila toed off her muddy Wellies and left them on a brush mat while she slipped into a pair of rubber clogs. She took her cap off and shook her hair out, combing her fingers through it.

  Nora found herself inside a charming shop with more shelves crammed with all kinds of gardening implements, hats, gloves, hand creams, soaps, candles, sachets. It smelled heavenly.

  “Do you own this?” Nora asked. “It’s wonderful. I used to garden with my Mamma when I was little.”

  “I guess it runs in our blood.” Sheila pointed. “I make the soaps and the candles and such with my own herbs and oils and spices.”

  Sheila led her through the shop to a small kitchen beyond. A chubby russet-colored terrier, sleeping on a rug there, stirred himself at their entrance.

  “This is Rusty,” Sheila said as she filled a kettle at the tap. She plugged it in and gestured to the table. “Have a seat.”

  Nora pulled out a chair. The entire kitchen was inviting, with whimsically painted cupboards and hutches, everything worn and homey and mismatched, almost the polar opposite of the antiseptic white and stainless steel surfaces of her own kitchen. Through a doorway on the other side of the kitchen, she caught a glimpse of a comfortable-looking den with a mishmash of cushy sofas and chairs.

  “This is so nice,” Nora said. “So inviting.”

  Sheila raised her eyebrows. “Well, Martha Stewart will never come calling here for decorating ideas. But it’s home.”

  “It’s wonderful.”

  “How’s everyone in America?” Sheila asked as she sorted through a tin for tea bags.

  Nora looked up from where she was scratching Rusty behind the ears. “Everyone’s good. Mamma and Pop are loving retirement and four great-grandchildren. They send their love.”

  Sheila laughed. “And we send it right back. Are they going to come for a visit home? It’s been what… fifteen years at least.”

  “I know. I couldn’t come the last time they did. I think they’d like to; they keep talking about it.”

  “Have you met any of the other cousins?”

  “Not yet.” Nora scooted her chair closer. “I just got here yesterday, but I’d love to meet them all.”

  Sheila set a plate of sliced almond bread on the table, along with a bowl of whipped butter. In a few minutes, she joined Nora at the table with two steaming mugs of tea.

  “So,” Sheila said, “my Gran says you’re to be here for the whole summer. What prompted that, then?”

  Nora felt trapped by the innocent kindness in Sheila’s brilliantly blue eyes, and wondered how to answer. “Well…” She busied herself buttering a slice of bread. “There were things keeping me from traveling that just aren’t issues any longer. It seemed like the right time.”

  Sheila leaned forward and touched Nora’s hair, startling her. “And how did you come by this little souvenir?”

  She held up a rhododendron leaf.

  “Oh, that.” Nora gave an embarrassed laugh. “I scared a horse and fell into a bush.” At Sheila’s confused expression, she added, “I wasn’t watching where I was going and almost collided with a horse on one of the trails.”

  She frowned. “Pretty rude rider, though.”

  Sheila paused with her mug halfway to her mouth. “Who was that?”

  “Didn’t get a name. Short woman. Nasty temper. Big dog.”

  To her surprise, Sheila burst out laughing. “That’d be Briana Devlin and her Shannon. She’s not much for people, is Bri, but she’s a magician with the horses.”

  “Well, it was mostly my fault,” Nora admitted grudgingly. “I had my nose buried in my map and wasn’t paying attention.”

  “Briana’s a good friend,” said Sheila. “We’ll have you both meet us down
at the pub and make proper introductions. Get you off on a better foot.”

  She buttered her own slice of bread. “Where are you staying?”

  “The Lodge at Ashford for two more nights. I just had to.”

  Sheila nodded. “I understand. ’Tis a treat. Then where?”

  “A cottage not too far from here. I think it’s called Sióg Cottage. Did I pronounce that right—shee og?”

  Sheila choked on her bread. “Sióg Cottage?” she croaked when she could speak, pronouncing it shee od. “You’re staying there?”

  “Um… I will be. Come June first. Why?”

  “Nothing. Nothing a’tall.” Sheila cleared her throat and raised her mug in a toast. “Welcome home, cousin.”

  Briana finished brushing Ginger and led her out to the paddock. “Go on,” she said, unbuckling her halter and slipping it over her ears.

  The filly kicked her heels a little as she sprinted across the paddock, looking more like a yearling than a three-year-old. Briana shook her head and went back inside to muck stalls, waving to Sonya, who was giving a lesson in the ring.

  She was humming to herself, her wheelbarrow half-full of horse manure and soiled straw, when a shadow fell across the door of the stall she was in.

  “How’d she go?”

  She didn’t glance up at the man standing there. “Fine. She still likes to act the fool, as if she’s scared of things, but she’s only pretending.”

  “Doesn’t matter if she’s pretending if a guest comes off when she shies.”

  “Quinn, she’s but a baby.” Briana paused and leaned on her pitchfork. “She just needs more training.”

  He shrugged. “I’ll rely on you to let me know when she’s ready to go out.” He eyed her. “You could take her out.”

  Briana scowled. “Not on your life. I told you, I don’t mind shoveling shite, and I’ll train. But I’d rather sit on this pitchfork than deal with silly tourists who come to Ireland and decide they’ve just got to ride a horse. Either they’ve never ridden in their lives or they think they’re bloody John Wayne and can go galloping over fences.”