Chapter 16
SIXTEEN
I barely slept a wink, tossing and turning, not quite able to believe I let Dan kiss me.
Or that it was the greatest kiss I’ve ever shared.
I’m more than mad with myself. I don’t want to leave this place and we’ve only kissed once and I don’t know him at all and I’m an idiot!
Okay, so I got over Cooper a long time ago and, yes, I could have opened my heart up again.
But I chose not to and I’ve been just fine.
I wait for the green Fendt tractor to chug past me.
The farmer waves down. ‘Afternoon,’ he shouts with a friendly smile, and lifts four fingers from the titanic steering wheel.
‘Afternoon!’ I shout freely and wave back with one hand as I carefully cross the icy road.
I’m carrying a huge plate from Gráinne that I collected at the pub, all warm and safely wrapped in layers of tinfoil for Esther and Michael’s lunch.
My MacBook, Dictaphone and camera are in my satchel cross body.
This morning’s hailstones mixed with last night’s snowfall gather in pools in the dip in the valley of the village.
I have to make sure to tread carefully in my boots.
‘Morning, Maggie.’ Clare, the librarian, is coming toward me.
‘Hi, Clare,’ We stop to chat as Clare sits on a stone wall of a white cottage, a To Let sign in the garden.
‘How are ya getting on?’ she asks, her breath swirling on the cold air.
‘Yeah, it’s going well. This is such a cute little cottage?’ I look at the overgrown garden, the rusty gate swinging off its hinges and the peeling paint on the door.
‘Rosehip Cottage, yeah it’s been To Let for ages, it needs a lot of work. No one has been brave enough to take it on. Where are you off to?’
I have to tear my eyes away from Rosehip, it’s so quintessentially Irish and beautiful. ‘Just heading to see Esther and Michael.’ I move the hot plate in my hands.
‘Fabulous. Did you read about the Castlemoon family in that book I recommended?’ Her phone rings in her bag.
‘Eh, no, not yet, Kate suggested I meet them,’ I say as she takes her phone out of her fanny pack.
‘Speak of the devil!’ Clare raises her phone to show me the incoming call.
It’s a picture of Kate and Clare on the top of a mountain, each waving an Irish flag.
‘Ya never guess what she wants from me this morning? A load of thick spine books so she can stand on them for her pre-wedding pictures so that Jimmy isn’t towering over her!
Catch ya at the céilí. Hello.’ Clare stomps off as my own phone rings.
I pull it from my pocket. It’s Frederick again. I ignore the call and shove the phone back.
Unable to sleep, I had eventually got up for a walk around the castle with my camera.
Obviously, I hadn’t sent that report to Frederick last night as he demanded, as I didn’t have one, or a photograph of the book.
I had fired him off a text saying the WIFI was down – to keep Salma from the door!
However, on my way past an empty reception this morning I saw the registration book open.
Though I felt terrible, I’d opened it and quickly taken a photograph of the first page on my phone.
I was about to email it to Frederick when I had second thoughts. Instead, I emailed him.
from: Maggie Grace Maggie.Grace@
to: Frederick Macken Fmacken@
date: Dec 20, 2025, 6.18AM
subject: Castlemoon
Dear Frederick,
I have found the registration book. However, it is never unattended. I will keep trying. Report to follow.
Maggie.
It buys me some time to see what he will say in response.
Although I’m mad with myself for the Dan situation, I do feel so grateful on this bright Irish morning and I can’t help but suddenly laugh as I recall the trad band from the pub last night, standing in Heartwell Hall, staring up at myself and Dan kissing on the couch.
‘Sorry Dan, man, we’ve a late practice in the hall for Friday night’s céilí,’ one of them shouted as Dan had jumped up and grabbed my hand as I was making my excuses about needing to write my article while trying to run away.
‘No worries, Seán . . . we were just leaving. Just showing Maggie here around.’ Dan had picked up the bottle of wine and glasses and cleared them away.
‘Course ya were.’ They’d all said, ‘Hello Maggie’ at the same time.
‘Let’s go.’ We had walked home making polite chit-chat but I knew he could sense my body language had changed. It had. I needed this to stop.
The Little White Cottage plaque catches my eye and I dart out of my flashback.
It’s far from a little cottage. It’s a very tongue-in-cheek name for a huge, sprawling, grand farmhouse.
I’m really beginning to get this Irish sense of humour and I love it.
The front door is almost like a stable door in blazing yellow. There is no doorbell or knocker.
‘Hello, anyone home?’ I cock my head around the open half of the door. My priority today is my article. It’s really time to focus now. I leave so soon. Dan will soon be just a distant memory.
‘In ya come, pull back the latch.’ An older woman’s voice flows from the back of the house so I follow her instructions and let myself in.
Stepping on cobblestones, I cross into a room that can only be described as a parlour.
Old horseshoes and Blacksmiths’ anvils hang on the walls and horses’ bridles and saddles are on the ground.
Two overly fed black cats purr on the stone counter while a lazy Labrador snores.
I take it all in as I continue through another half-open door into a large dining area.
A long rustic table is in the centre of the room but it’s the photos on the wall that really catch my eye.
They seem out of place in a farmyard – older men and women draped in fine clothes, serious poses in oil painted portraits, regal-looking almost. The frames are gold and embellished and look very expensive.
I spot an almost identical painting of the black horse galloping that’s in my bedroom.
‘Maggie, I presume?’ A tiny white-haired woman, slow and steady on a walking frame, enters the room. ‘I’m Esther. Welcome.’
‘Esther, hi, lovely to meet you. Thank you for talking to me.’ I have to crouch down to make eye contact with her and she immediately reminds me of Mrs Schwartz.
‘Aren’t you ever so pretty,’ Esther compliments me. ‘Those eyes you have, they tell a story.’ Esther runs her hand up and down my arm, in a gentle, motherly way, I welcome her touch. ‘You’re like a young Maureen O’ Hara.’
‘Thank you.’ I smile warmly at her, ‘I loved her in Only The Lonely with John Candy, my mom loves a good comedy.’
‘Michael!’ Esther’s loud voice shocks me as I jump up to my correct height and put the heavy plate down on the farmhouse table.
‘Deaf as a doornail.’ She holds a white hankie to her eyes.
‘Sorry, I’ve terrible watery eyes. It’s all watery – a bit like my gin these days!
Life becomes watery after eighty.’ But Esther’s smile lights up her old, well-weathered face.
All the years on a farm, outdoors in all weathers, I think. A life well lived.
‘I’m not deaf, Esther.’ Michael, I assume, shuffles in, his feet half out of his brown slippers. He wears knee-length shorts with a shirt and tie, black socks pulled up to his knees and holds a pipe.
‘Did I not tell ya to put yer trousers on, silly man?’ Esther scolds.
‘Ack, I’ll be sitting down, stop fussing, woman.’ Michael puffs on his unlit pipe.
‘Sit down, please, will you have some tea?’ Esther wriggles herself down into a chair.
‘No, thank you, I’d another huge breakfast up at the castle.
’ I pat my stomach as I remove my damp wool coat and remember the big Irish fry-up I’d had this morning, bacon, sausage, pudding, poached eggs, and mushrooms. It was a stark contrast to the wilted fruit breakfast Amanda had served me a few days ago.
‘And it’s the castle you want to talk to us about, is it not?’ Michael asks, extending his hand to me now.
‘Hello Michael, yes, I’m Maggie . . .’
‘Give the girl a second to sit down,’ Esther butts in, as the old couple hold intense eye contact for a moment.
‘It’s alright. Yes, so I work for a wedding magazine called Ultimate Locations Wedding Magazine and we’re based on Fifth Avenue in New York . . .’ I rummage in my bag and pull out my card.
‘Our son just brought us back a bottle of Crafty Cask whiskey from New York,’ Esther tells me.
‘I don’t drink it but I’ve heard it’s a good whiskey. It’s a personal favourite for my mom. So, I’m writing a story about the legend of the castle, the long-lasting unions of marriage, and you both come highly recommended to talk to.’
‘Ahhh, I see, I see.’ Michael puts his pipe down on the table and reaches for a phone that is sitting in a bowl with a TV remote control and a box of matches. He’s oddly familiar in his mannerisms, how he picks things up.
‘Not now,’ Esther tells him and gently slaps his hand away. ‘Now, ask away.’
‘Is it okay if I use a Dictaphone recorder and type as we chat?’ I flip open my cracked MacBook, they both nod. ‘So, how long have you been married?’
‘Sixty years, last week just gone.’ Michael puts his old hand over Esther’s. Her skin seems like paper and translucent under his.
‘Oh, yes I did know that, Kate told me. Oh, sorry!’ I reach forward for the plate on the table. ‘Your lunch! Gráinne’s given me your fish and chips, shall I serve it up first? It will go cold.’ Annoyed with myself for not doing this first thing, I stand up.
‘If you’d be so good? Our plates are on the sideboard there. Mine’s the white one, his is the brown with the pheasant pattern. Gráinne always leaves the salt and vinegar in the drawer on the dresser.’
‘A holy saint that girl is, they all are. The Heartwell community minds us so well, don’t they, darling?’ Esther says as Michael sits beside her. They seem so small squeezed in alongside each other at such a massive table.