A Letter from Ireland – Juliet Gauvin #2
She wondered what he looked like now. At thirteen, he’d been tall for his age, all limbs and long lashes, with hair that never stayed out of his moss-green eyes and a smile that made her stomach flip.
The last time he’d included a photo in one of his letters he was twenty-two, graduating from Trinity, and gorgeous. Would she recognize him at forty?
A thought made her stomach sink—would he recognize her at forty? Absently, she lathered up her loofa and covered her skin in jasmine-scented body wash as she continued to think of Shane.
She was still thinking about him when she looked through the well-stocked kitchen and made herself spaghetti aglio e olio and salad for dinner.
Still thinking about him when she noticed Marina and Elizabeth’s note welcoming her to the cottage and her summer of rediscovery next to a bucket filled with ice and a bottle of champagne.
Still thinking about him when she poured herself a glass and watched the sunset from the extremely comfortable cream couches facing the lake.
The sun melted into the edge of Lough Rhiannon, streaking the sky with golds and violets. The water caught every shade—like a painting in progress. It was beautiful, but the boy from her past kept crowding her thoughts.
At one point, she’d gone dark— what if he was married ?
She had never once thought of that, but he was forty, probably still gorgeous, an architect— how could he not be married ?
She sunk down into the couch and shook her head, letting the bubbles from the champagne tickle her nose.
So what if he was married ? Some defiant part of her brain rose up.
After all, she’d come to Ireland to rediscover herself.
Rediscover her art.
She’d come for her second bloom.
Not for some guy .
She repeated the words again and again, willing herself to remember.
She brushed her teeth and was in bed by eleven.
She’d successfully pushed away any thoughts of Shane being unavailable and allowed herself to live in the fantasy of him for a while longer, all the while thinking about how it was Tuesday and maybe, just maybe, a trip to Dublin on Saturday would be just the thing she needed to kick off her summer.
Erin drifted off into a deep sleep—the type that only comes when you know you’ve done big, wondrous things with your day—when you know you’ve lived it well .
Here
A sliver of sunlight peeked through the dark blue curtains. She blinked a few times, confused. Then she remembered.
She sat bolt upright. “Ireland,” she said out loud.
The clock on the nightstand read 11:17 a.m. She’d slept for more than twelve hours. Quickly, she reached for her phone, checking her email and texts. Only one message—from Marina.
Hope you’re settling in well. Let’s meet at the gallery at 5:00 p.m. I’ll show you around and you can get a sense of the art studio here.
Erin jumped out of bed and quickly got herself ready for the day.
Her skin looked fresher than it had in months—maybe years. The long sleep had evened her tone, her light brown skin glowed, and her cheeks were a healthy pink. Her light green eyes looked brighter than usual, clear against her long lashes, and the usual dark circles beneath them were gone.
She pulled her long, wavy brown hair into a loose twist and changed into a white halter tank with a built-in shelf bra and black cotton capri leggings. Her fingers smoothed the soft fabric against her body. She was slender and only 5’4, but her curves struggled against the white tank top.
She looked like herself again.
Maybe even better.
What normally took an entire summer of rest to achieve in LA had taken less than twenty-four hours in Ireland.
Feeling twenty years younger, she found her way to the kitchen, and made herself scrambled eggs.
She’d just taken her last bite when she noticed the spiral staircase just off the kitchen.
She set her fork down and went to explore the rest of the cottage.
The staircase opened onto a wide, open space.
The second floor had been prepared—meticulously, lovingly.
Marina and Elizabeth had thought of everything.
There was a place to stretch near the back, a purple yoga mat sat invitingly against the hardwood floor, and a ballet barre was mounted to a wall with a mirror.
On the opposite end, there were dozens of canvases. Some stretched, some rolled—all waiting for her. Three easels sat alongside the back wall with a couple of different seating options. Several rolled-up tarps ready to be unfurled to protect the floor sat next to them.
There was a wall of open shelves that was like a library of paint.
They’d been arranged by hue and medium, a rainbow of watercolors and oil and acrylic paints.
Glass jars of brushes, new palettes, labeled solvents, and cloths were neatly grouped together on a long table next to a tilted drawing desk.
In the corner, there was a sink with a deep basin under a row of adjustable lights.
And then there was the view.
The far wall was pure glass, floor-to-ceiling, spanning the full width of the studio, just like the first floor. Beyond it: an elevated view of Lough Rhiannon, silver-edged and endless, flanked by mature green woodlands on either side.
The light shifted minute to minute, but the sun was shining brightly. A few birds soared across the water, casting shadows.
A wide daybed sat against the glass wall, making the most of the view.
It didn’t feel like a studio. It felt like a cathedral.
Erin stepped forward and placed her hands on her hips. The lake stared back at her.
It was quiet. Still.
It felt like a place that asked something of you.
And a place that gave something back.
She hadn’t lifted a brush yet, but something in her—some aching, waiting part—already had.
This was more than a room.
It was permission.
Lough Rhiannon shimmered beneath the midday sun, its surface broken only by the occasional ripple of wind.
She imagined how her summer days would be filled with bright colors, imagination, and creativity.
How she’d be able to sit at her easel, look out onto that view, and just dream . . . and paint . . . and be free.
Her feet carried her automatically back down the stairs, through the French doors, and out onto the luscious green lawn. The long, soft blades of grass felt cool and velvety against her bare feet.
She walked to the edge of the lake and watched the water sway gently with the breeze. Her ears caught the soothing sound of wind rustling through the trees. Birds chirped happily in the woods surrounding the lake, and the air smelled faintly of pine and wildflowers.
She tilted her head up to the sun and stretched her arms overhead. The stretch felt wonderful. She took in a deep breath and thought of the yoga mat upstairs in her second-floor art studio.
She brought her arms parallel to the ground and extended her right leg behind her, settling into Warrior 2.
The Irish breeze waffled between warm and cool against her bare arms. A chill ran down her spine, but she relished the feeling.
Her breasts pushed against the fabric of her tank top.
For a second, she considered going inside to get a sweater, but the feel of the grass beneath her feet and the stillness of the moment kept her rooted to the spot.
She came out of the pose and stared back at the lake. Like the evening before, she felt glee start to bubble up and out of her. She raised her arms over her head, palms open.
“Ireland!” she screamed. “I’m home!”
She jumped in place, just like before, and then channeled her energy into placing her palms on the green grass, stretching her butt to the sky in Downward Dog.
Through her legs, she could see the shimmering water of Lough Rhiannon and resolved right then and there to start every day with yoga by the lake.
Her mind was so full of possibilities, so full of the breeze and birdsong . . . that she didn’t hear the footsteps approach.
Suddenly, a pair of dark brown leather boots appeared between her legs and the lake—they were well-worn, the kind that would’ve looked at home at a swanky club in LA or on a mid-afternoon hike in Griffith Park.
She squinted in confusion, still holding her yoga pose.
“Hello,” the deep voice of a man with a delicious Irish accent filled her ears. There was something familiar in it. “Sorry to bother you,” he continued. Something in his cadence tickled her memory.
Still in Downward Dog, her voice strained from the blood flow going to her head, she said, “ Sh-aaa-ne ?”
The man bent over to see her face.
Suddenly, she was staring into the deep moss-green eyes of Shane Young.
It was such a surprise that she pushed her head towards him—and lost her balance.
He reacted quickly, arms shooting out to catch her as she tumbled over. Her momentum took him down with her.
A second later, she was in a full-body tangle with the man who had occupied so many of her thoughts. His arms had formed a protective cage around her torso, while hers had somehow hooked around his neck. She was on her back. He was hovering over her.
“Shane?” she said again, looking up into his face.
His features had sharpened with age—his jaw more angular beneath a neatly trimmed short beard, his cheekbones more defined.
His hair, light brown and slightly wind-swept, fell across his forehead in familiar, soft strands.
And his eyes . . . darker than she remembered, but they still caught flecks of gold in the light.
His eyebrows drew together. A look of complete surprise overtook his features . . . until finally, his lips twitched upward.
“Erin?” A full smile transformed his face, making him look like the picture he’d sent her at twenty-two. “Jaysus, Mary, and Joseph. What the devil . . . ?”
For a moment, they lay on the grass, smiling at each other.
His chest was hard against hers, his tall body solid and lean. Every part of him felt grounded—warm, strong, real. The kind of real that made it hard to breathe.