A Letter from Ireland – Juliet Gauvin #4
“You can use the studio if you want a change of scenery from the cottage—sometimes the town energy is useful. There’s storage, extra canvas, loads of supplies, and a few pieces of reference equipment if you need it.
If you’re running low on supplies, just call me and I’ll have whatever you need sent over to the cottage right away. ”
They stepped into a back room filled with evening light. Two easels stood at opposite corners, paint-splattered stools tucked beneath workbenches. It was quiet, peaceful, like a blank canvas waiting.
Erin nodded. “It’s beautiful. Everything is.”
Marina smiled again. “Glad you like it.”
They walked back into the main gallery.
“OK,” Marina said. “A quick rundown of the program expectations—nothing scary, I promise. So, officially, we’re hoping for five completed works by the end of your two-month residency.
But that’s flexible, especially depending on scale and complexity.
You’re the first person in our program so we’re learning together.
If you only produce three paintings in your two-months with us, that’s fine.
If you’re prolific and come out with twenty—that’s great too. ”
Erin nodded, feeling excited.
“At the end of summer, we host a private showing for collectors, supporters, and community members. Totally optional, but it’s a great way to get your work seen.
I want this program to give you the time, space, and money to create again, but also to set you up for a second life as a working artist—if that’s something you want.
If that’s something you’re open to, we’ll support it however we can. ”
Erin swallowed. “Wow. That’s . . . a lot more than I expected.”
Marina gave her a small smile. “In a good way?”
“In the best way,” Erin said. She thought briefly what it would mean to quit her job as a teacher and get to paint full time.
They walked slowly toward the front again, pausing just beneath one of the track lights.
“I know this might feel like a huge leap,” Marina said, “I’ve been there. Re-discovering that part of yourself and putting your work out there can be scary, but definitely worth it.”
Erin considered that. “If you don’t mind my asking . . . how did you come to be in Dingle?”
Marina gave her a wry smile. “It’s a long story.
Short version is that my aunt owned this gallery and left it to me and one other person, conditionally , in her Will.
I own a marketing firm in San Francisco and six months ago that’s where I was living.
My aunt was . . . eccentric. We—my co-owner and I—had to .
. . jump through some hoops,” she seemed to choose her words carefully, “but in the end, my aunt Marisol knew what she was doing.”
Marina shook her head and smiled in a resigned, yet satisfied sort of way.
“Sounds like a story. Had you been to Ireland before that?” Erin asked.
“It is a story,” Marina agreed. “And yes, I had. I spent two summers here in Dingle with my aunt when I was eighteen and nineteen. It made . . . quite the impression. How about you? Have you been before?”
Erin perked up. “Yes, that’s like me! Well, not exactly. I only spent one summer here with my Gran—and I was thirteen, but I’ve always loved it. Always wanted to come back. I even got my Irish passport as a sort of birthday gift to myself.”
“Really?” Marina’s eyes glinted with something Erin didn’t understand.
“Yup, Gran was born and raised here in Dingle, so I was eligible.”
“Hmmm,” Marina said, lost in thought. “Ever think about staying?”
Erin shrugged. “Maybe. I’m just glad I finally made it. It’s so easy to put things off for someday, you know? I’m excited to be here for the summer.”
Marina nodded in a knowing sort of way. “Dingle has a way of making you stay. Well . . . Dingle and love, I suppose. It happened that way for both me and Elizabeth.”
Erin thought of Shane. “Love?”
Marina nodded. “You never see it coming.”
“Hmmm . . . that sounds like quite the story,” Erin mused, smiling at her benefactor.
“Oh, it is,” Marina said, then chuckled. “But I’ll save it for another day.”
Erin nodded, holding her tote bag a little tighter. “Thank you, Marina. Really.”
“Of course. You belong here, Erin. Trust that.”
The women said their goodbyes and Erin stepped outside.
The cool early evening air brushed against her skin as she turned towards O’Leary’s next door.
She started walking faster. Suddenly, a strange electricity was moving through her—like her whole body knew something good was waiting.
THE IRISH PUB
A wall of sound hit her all at once as she stepped inside the heavy wooden door to O’Leary’s.
The smell of salt and Guinness and the old pub did something to her body and mind—instantly placing her inside a memory. So many lunches and dinners with her Gran, and even a few meals—feeling oh-so-grown-up—with Shane.
O’Leary’s wasn’t as large as the gallery, but it was still a fairly big space for a street that held such cute-looking cottage-like businesses. Nearly one hundred people were comfortably seated, their plates and cups full, their conversations well in hand.
There were very few tables open.
“Erin!” Shane called from a table by the far wall.
She walked towards him, unable to hide her smile. It was so big that it instantly hurt her cheeks.
His face mirrored hers.
He was dressed in dark jeans and a deep green button-down, the sleeves rolled to his elbows.
The color made his eyes stand out even from across the room—dark green, like moss after rain.
His hair was slightly tousled, but more styled—like he’d put in product since they’d run into each other earlier.
He stood as she approached. He was at least six feet tall. When she was standing directly in front of him, he opened his arms and wrapped her up in a big hug.
There was nothing awkward about it, just two people who were over the moon to see each other again.
His broad shoulders and strong arms held her tightly for several long seconds. She leaned forward and breathed him in. He smelled of sunlight, and cedar, and something she couldn’t place—but had never quite forgotten.
He released her, then stared deeply into her eyes, like he still couldn’t believe what he was seeing. “Feck me, I can’t believe you’re here.” He shook his head.
“Should I pinch you?” she teased.
“No!” he said quickly. “That always hurt. You have strong fingers for someone so short!”
She laughed. “It’s the Latina side of my family—we’re short, but mighty!” She hung her tote on the hook attached to the wall beside their table.
He pulled out her chair, then moved to sit down opposite her. “I had this dream once,” he said, seriously.
“Really?” She could feel the blood rushing to her cheeks.
He gave her a crooked smile. “Well, more than once.”
She bit the inside of her lip and looked down.
“I hope you’re hungry,” he said. “I already ordered the brown bread and butter. Do you remember it?”
“Of course I remember it!” she said, excitedly. “It ruined all other bread for me forever.” She threw her head back for dramatic effect.
He laughed. “That’s the right answer.”
They ordered a round of Guinness and O’Leary’s famous Irish stew.
The brown bread and butter arrived instantly. She tore into it happily, moaning a little as she tasted it. “Yup. Still perfection.”
“So,” he said, resting his arms on the table, “it’s been what? Twenty-six, twenty-seven years since we’ve seen each other in person?”
“Twenty-seven years,” she said. “Since the summer I stayed with my Gran.”
He let out a low whistle. “That’s mad.”
“And yet,” her voice was light, “I recognized you the second I heard you speak.”
He smirked. “Same. Even upside down.”
She laughed, feeling her cheeks getting even warmer.
Their Guinness and food came together.
They talked as they ate—catching up on where they’d been, what their lives had looked like since the last letter.
She told him about teaching, about LA and her third-graders, about how her creativity had taken a back seat for too long.
He listened without interrupting, his expression steady, engaged.
When it was his turn, he told her about moving to Dublin for school, how he’d started in structural engineering but switched to architecture after an elective class changed everything.
“I loved how it combined creativity with precision,” he said. “The math part made sense, but the design—that’s where the soul lives.”
“I remember,” she said. “I think you said that exact sentence in a letter when you switched.”
“Did I?”
She nodded.
“It’s mad to think that we were so close for so long. Writing to each other about everything that happened to us, and then . . .” he trailed off.
“We stopped,” she finished.
“I never meant to . . . stop, I mean.” His voice grew deeper, like gravel.
He leaned forward. “I was under a lot of pressure at work, felt pretty miserable actually. I guess I stopped writing because, for a while there, I didn’t have anything good to say—and I didn’t want to bring you down with me. ”
She listened, taking it all in.
“Why didn’t you write?” he asked, quietly.
She shrugged. “When you stopped writing, I thought it meant you didn’t want to talk anymore. Didn’t want to keep up the connection. And maybe, I thought, there might have been a girlfriend that didn’t like that you still sent letters to your childhood pen pal.”
His eyes grew bright. “Is that what we were? Childhood pen pals?”
“Weren’t we?” she asked.
He shrugged. “I considered you my best friend.”
Something pulled in her chest. Her eyebrows drew together. “Same,” her voice was full of emotion. “A part of me always regretted not reaching out, not trying to hold on.”
His shoulders drew together. “Ditto.” He gave her a sad, wistful look. “I kept them all, you know.”
Her breath caught. “You did?”
“Yeah, I’ve got several boxes full. And a sketch you sent once. It was a little drawing of that crooked oak we used to climb—I keep that by my desk.”