Forget-Me-Not Read online

  “Ms. Walsh, right?” I ask politely. I don’t want to assume she’s the owner, but I want to give her respect in case she is. She nods. “What a delightful place you have here. I was admiring the outside. When was this built?” I hope that’s not an insulting question. Apparently not as she begins to teach me about the house and the neighborhood. The house was built in the eighteenth century and doubled in size when the family decided to open the bed and breakfast close to one hundred years ago. The kitchen tripled in size, and a third level was added including three guest rooms and three small baths. Ms. Walsh has put me up on the third floor because the floor is better insulated and the bathrooms are relatively modern.

  “I’m sorry the room isn’t larger, but the shower is hot and the room has a beautiful view of the Irish Sea,” she says. She is a mixture of proud and embarrassed.

  “It’s perfect,” I say and mean it. It’s amazing to think about the people who stayed here in this house even before it was a bed and breakfast.

  “If you’re hungry, I can open up the kitchen and cook you something,” she offers. We both can’t pretend my stomach didn’t just growl.

  “Please don’t bother, Ms. Walsh. I can just run down the street. I’m almost certain we drove by a restaurant,” I say. She’s one step away from fretting about my nourishment. “I’ve been sitting for the last twelve hours. A walk and fresh air really would be nice.” That appeases her. She directs me down the street to Sullivan’s Pub. I walk that way and can hear it before I see it. As I round the steep corner, I’m greeted by two older men outside smoking pipes. One gallantly opens the door for me.

  “Niall, quit flirting. She’s here for a pint not an old man like yourself,” he says. After a few days, I’m sure I’ll get used to the accent here, but for right now, I can’t help but smile. They could tell me that there is a murderer out and about preying on American women and I wouldn’t even care because I’m under the spell of the thick Irish brogue. I enter the pub and swear I’ve suddenly teleported two hundred years into the past. This pub is everything I expected it to be, only better. There are long tables and only a few booths for eating. Most of the patrons are sitting at the bar talking, laughing, and drinking. There is no television, no music, just people having several different conversations at once. Feeling self-conscious because I appear to be the only woman in the joint, I freeze. Do I go to the bar? Do I sit down at a table? A booth?

  “Take a seat anywhere.” A voice booms out at me and I quickly sink into the closest booth, desperately trying not to draw attention to myself. A few patrons look my way and nod, but turn back around to their conversations. A woman in her late forties, early fifties heads my way digging a pencil out of the hair piled haphazardly on her head. “What can I get you to drink?” She’s perfect. Exactly what I expected to see. Plumpish with meaty hands and a warm smile. Her hair is more brown than red, but curly with frizzy strands bouncing out from her scalp. The pencil she now holds was keeping most of her hair contained.

  “Is it too late for food?” I ask. At this point, I’d nibble on dry bread crusts.

  “I can get you a bowl of Irish stew. It’ll warm you up quite nicely,” she says.

  I nod with approval. “And I have to try a Guinness, too, while I am here.”

  “Where in America are you from?” she asks. I don’t even bother asking why she thinks I’m from the United States. From what I understand, Europeans can spot an American from five miles away.

  “Texas,” I say.

  “There it is,” she says. I have no idea what she means. “Your accent.” I smile. Her accent is far sharper than mine.

  “Is that a good thing?” I ask.

  “Of course. Wait a minute. Are you Nola Burke’s great niece?” she asks, her smile fading quickly. “She was such a nice lady. We are all sorry she passed.” I feel guilty that I’m not as affected by her passing as they are, so I only nod my appreciation of her respect.

  “I’m here to handle her shop and get things in order,” I say. She pats my hand.

  “Let me get your food and pint and I can tell you more about your aunt,” she says. I watch her walk away and mumble something to the bartender. He nods at her and looks at me. Feeling self-conscious, I look away and study my surroundings instead. This pub is so unlike anything I’ve seen back home. It is designed for people to share meals, talk, and drink. Nobody has their cell phone out. I hear music from somewhere, probably the kitchen, but it’s faint and not a distraction. I find myself relaxing even though I’m in a new place and don’t know a single soul. Within five minutes, I have a bowl of hearty Irish stew and soda bread in front of me, accompanied by a glass of beautiful, dark stout.

  “You will have to come back for lunch when my boys deliver the fish. Freshest fish and chips you will find here in town,” she says. “I’ll be back in a moment to check on you.” I dig into the stew and sigh happily as the flavors dance inside my mouth. The stew is perfectly seasoned with just the right amount of vegetables and meat. I soak up the broth with the bread and even though the beer is strong, I manage to get through half of it while wolfing down my food.

  “Was it to your liking?” she asks, swooping in to gather up my bowl and plate.

  “Fantastic. It hit the spot,” I say.

  “I’m happy you enjoyed it. The stew is an old family recipe. I’m Colleen Sullivan, the owner here,” she says, still busying herself around the booth, wiping up imaginary crumbs. I invite her to sit down and she gladly accepts.

  “Your aunt was a lovely woman. She kept mostly to herself, but everybody knew her. She came in here quite a bit for lunch. The flower shop she ran is just a few streets over and on nice days, she would walk here for exercise.”

  “I didn’t really know her very well. I think the last time I saw her was the summer after my high school graduation. We had a family reunion when my grandfather retired in Florida and I spent a few hours talking with her. She was always nice and friendly,” I say.

  “Oh, yes. Very quiet, but very popular. The men around here always asked her advice on love and how to keep the fire going,” she says. I look at her peculiarly and she laughs. “When you have a flower shop, you know the best way to a woman’s heart. You know what to do.” I smile. I forgot about that part. I thought maybe she was Ireland’s Dear Abby. I have so much to learn about the power of flowers. “She probably saved more marriages than she realized.”

  “I know so little about her,” I say. “I don’t understand why she chose me.” She didn’t have any children, but plenty of other family members who, I’m sure, were more involved in her life than I was.

  “Well, there is a reason she did and I’m sure you will figure that out in due time,” she says. “I should get back to work. Don’t be a stranger. And come back for lunch.” She yells at one of the men who is ribbing her about sitting down on the job. “I will be seeing you, Grace Danner.” She walks away before I even realize that I never told her my name.

  Chapter Two

  I don’t sleep the greatest when I travel, so I’m not surprised when I’m up before sunrise. I know that I’ll be toast by noon, but right now the excitement of being in a different country and wanting to explore it gets me ready and dressed. I’m supposed to meet Kerry Mulligan at nine thirty at the flower shop. That gives me almost three hours to sightsee and explore the village. Just under nine thousand people live here so I can’t imagine that I will get lost or be unable to find the shop.

  “Grace, breakfast isn’t served until seven,” Ms. Walsh tells me, her face registering surprise as she almost bumps into me in the foyer. I’m getting my camera equipment ready and not even thinking of food.

  “Oh, I’m fine. I just want to get a head start on this gorgeous day,” I say.

  She fusses for a bit, tells me to wait, and comes back with a warm pretzel roll with cheese and butter tucked inside. “This should tide you over until I can get a proper breakfast on the table.”

  “This will tide me over until lunch.”
I never eat breakfast back home, but if somebody brought me this every morning, I would rethink the three meals a day thing. This smells heavenly.

  I head out, anxious to begin my journey. I zip up my leather jacket all the way when I’m greeted by a biting chill in the early morning wind. Thank God I left without putting makeup on because the tears that keep slipping out of the corner of my eyes would have washed it away. I head straight for the docks. Howth is a little fishing town and I’m excited to capture its essence with my camera. The houses that line the street leading down to the water are colorful and laced with age. It’s hard to believe that this town has been around for over a thousand years. Dallas is under two hundred years old and already there is a lot of renovation to buildings and parks. I’m pretty sure these houses have been here for at least that long. Charming with age. I take a few photos of the colorful doors that I’ve read about and head to the docks. Several of the boats are already gone, and the ones left are either unloading their pre-dawn haul or just there for weekend trips. I snap a few photos of the fishermen, surprised that several of them are younger than I am. I hear a wolf whistle coming from a docked boat, but ignore it and focus on the seagulls floating on the air above me. They are everywhere, waiting for the fishermen to throw scraps of fish into piles, scavenging from ten feet above. I take pictures of them, my nearness not affecting them at all. When I spot a pair of sea lions breech the surface, I squeal and get as many photos as I can before they disappear under the water. What a fantastic sight. I crawl down over some rocks to look out across the water. It’s so peaceful here. I eat my roll, sharing a large portion of it with the fish and birds. I smile because I know that if Morgan was here, she would still be in bed, mumbling about how cold it is. She would never crawl over these rocks and sit on mossy, cold stones eating a sandwich and feeding fish. She would complain about the smells and want, no demand, to sit in the car or find a restaurant and drink hot coffee.

  I check my watch and decide I need to find Aunt Nola’s flower shop, The Irish Garden, and meet with the realtor. I want to get there early so I can see the shop and its location. Sad to leave my peaceful place, I wipe the crumbs off of my jeans and vow to return to this sanctuary before I leave. Just looking around, I see so many things that I want to photograph. I’ve almost filled my memory card and I’ve only been actively snapping photos for the last two hours. I adjust my settings so that I’m able to squeeze more on the card, thankful that I have several empty ones back at the bed and breakfast. This is so unlike Dallas where everything is new and shiny. Even though it’s early, there are already several people out, including two families at the playground, young people headed to the coffee shop, and others headed to the wharf. I read that there is a farmer’s market out on the wharf and I plan to hit that before I leave.

  I look back at the docks and notice that the early morning sun is hitting the tips of the boats, giving the entire harbor a beautiful warm glow. I snap a few pictures, but I’m not quite at the angle I want to be so I step out into the street to get that perfect shot. That’s a mistake. I hear screeching tires and a loud crash beside me. I freeze and tense up, waiting for a giant truck to smash into me and send me a hundred yards down the street. I slowly turn to the side and see a Volkswagen Jetta crunched into a concrete and stone garbage can, the fender and part of the hood crumpled up. Holy shit! I forgot the Irish drive on the opposite side of the road here so I literally walked into traffic because I was looking the other way. Before I even fully cross the street, the driver’s side door flings open and a woman busts out yelling at me. She flings her arms at me, then points to the car, then back at me. I can’t keep up with what she is saying, so I just stand there and wait for her ranting to stop.

  “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to jump out in front of you.” I’m about two feet in front of her and suddenly I forget I just caused her to crash her car. She’s gorgeous and every bit Irish. Long, red hair, alabaster skin, and emerald eyes. Morgan has green eyes, but this woman’s eyes are a dark green, a color I have never seen before. She’s still ranting at me and I still don’t understand her. Her brogue is too strong, or she’s speaking a dialect, or Gaelic. I pick up on a few words that aren’t entirely pleasant, but I don’t blame her.

  “Why would you jump out in front of my car? Who does that? Why didn’t you look first?” Finally, words I understand. She stops talking, her chest rising and falling fast at the adrenaline coursing through her. She moves closer to me, her stunning eyes flashing with anger. She is waiting for me to say something.

  “Are you okay? Are you hurt anywhere?” She looks completely and justifiably perturbed. “I’m so sorry,” I say again. “I forgot that you drive on the opposite side of the road here. I will pay for all damages to your car.” She stares at me, looks back at the car, then back to me. I see her shoulders slump. I feel stupid standing there, looking at her and saying nothing. I have no idea who to call to fix her car. I’ve been here twelve hours and I’ve already managed to screw things up. Now I wish Morgan was here. She would take complete control of the situation.

  “You’re American,” she says. There is no malice in her voice. As a matter of fact, she suddenly seems sad at that revelation. I’m thoroughly confused. “Let me guess, you’re Grace.” Okay, now I’m completely confused. I haven’t been here long enough for people to talk about me.

  I nod. “I am. How do you know me? Who are you?” Before I get the final word out, I know who she is. She’s Kerry Mulligan, the realtor I am to meet with right now. “Let me guess. You’re Kerry,” I say. She turns from me and heads back to her car. I’m standing on the edge of the street wondering what I’m supposed to do now. She crawls into the car and grabs her cell phone. I head over to the car to investigate the actual damage. The front bumper is curled up and is pushing up against the tire, making it immobile.

  “Luke is coming to tow the car,” she says.

  “I really am sorry. I can’t believe I did such a stupid thing,” I say. I glance over at her and see her hands clench into fists. If this wasn’t such a serious moment, I would smile at how much she is struggling to keep her anger in check.

  “I know it was an accident,” she says. I think she is trying to convince herself of that, and not me. I’m suddenly very glad she’s the agent and works for me, because her fury fully unleashed would probably make me weep. She makes a few quick calls and suggests we walk to The Irish Garden. The three block walk is hell and done in painful silence. I glance at her a few times, admiring her slender form and her feminine grace. Even her cool demeanor is attractive. Once we turn the corner and I see the shop, I’m quite impressed with it. The front is bright and colorful, not gaudy, and the large window boasts flowering plants and vases of cut flowers. I’m surprised to see a cat perched on the windowsill, inside, close to the door. I smile and rub my finger at it on the outside. It rubs up against the window, trying to feel my hand. As I wait for Kerry to unlock the door, I take a moment to look at the shop’s location. It seems to be in an easily accessible place. There is ample parking across the street and the shop is visible from the intersection. There is only one neighbor; a small electronic store that is about half the size of the flower shop, but just as quaint. There is a long stone wall covered with ivy and moss on the other side, hiding whatever is behind and beside the shop.

  “I normally don’t do commercial real estate,” she says as she finally gets the door to unlock. She steps back and motions for me to enter in front of her.

  “Then why are you doing it now?” The question comes out snottier than I intended and I see her stiffen. I tone it down and ask it a different way. “I mean, why did you take the contract?” She flips on the lights and I take a moment to look around. She answers me when I turn to face her.

  “I liked your great aunt. She was very sweet and kind,” she says. She offers me no other explanation and instead starts talking about the size of the shop and what’s included in the sale. “You have approximately three hundred square met
ers in the store, ninety square meters for storage, and another sixty for the office. That is also the same amount of space above for your aunt’s living quarters,” she says, pointing up at the ceiling indicating where my great aunt lived. I look at her in surprise. A brief whisper of a smile flashes across her face, but it is gone before I have a chance to truly appreciate it.

  “I guess I just assumed my great aunt lived elsewhere,” I say.

  “Most people who have businesses have living quarters in the same place. Ireland isn’t a wealthy place,” she says, the bitterness back in her voice. I inwardly sigh. Either she was really attached to her car, or she is pissed that I’m here. Knowing my luck, it’s probably both. I follow her around the store, impressed by all of the different flowers and plants on display. The cat in the window weaves its way toward us, anxious for a real loving session. “Why hello, Abram, how are you today?” Her voice has changed from professional to charming and the cat rubs up against her legs, relishing her touch. He purrs and meows and ends up falling at her feet, offering his furry belly to her. She squats down and loves on him for a bit. I take the time to walk around the store, touching soft leaves and smelling wildflowers. I’ve never seen most of the flowers in this shop. It’s a nice change because back home, there are about four different flowers that I have ever seen or paid attention to. Roses, carnations, tulips, and lilies make up about ninety-nine percent of the bouquets I’ve sent or received. Here I can really only identify lilies.

  “There are so many great flowers here. I don’t know many of them,” I say. She walks over to me, Abram snuggled in her arms. “Is he my aunt’s cat?” Suddenly I’m hit with the realization that this cat might be an orphan and now I’m responsible for him.