Chapter 34 Deirdre
Deirdre
“It increased my fury as the beating of a drum stimulates the soldier into courage.” Edgar Allan Poe
The ferry lurches against the dock, and the waves crash against the boat as it stops. The deckhands throw ropes around the wooden pillars to help anchor it in place while the captain quiets the engine. My pulse hammers harder than the sound of the chains clanking as they lower the ramp.
And then it hits me.
The smell first, salt in the breezy air, mingling with suntan lotion and fried food drifting from the boardwalk. The smell of the ocean is stronger here, heavier, clinging to skin and hair like a second layer.
Then the sounds, the gulls shrieking overhead, the laughter of tourists spilling from the pier, the slap of waves against boat hulls. A man trying to sell postcards from a kiosk, a child squeals at the sight of candy in a glass jar, bicycles rattle past with squeaky bells. Too bright. Too alive.
Too loud for the revenge that’s churning inside me.
The colors blind me next. Pastel houses climbing the hillsides, pink, yellow, mint green, like something out of a storybook. California poppy plants spill over whitewashed fences, their pink and orange blooms vivid against the blue sky. The water of the bay glitters against the morning sun.
I inhale deeply, and it cuts sharply in my chest.
Once, this place was home. My father’s laughter lived in these streets. And then Trevor poisoned it, turning this once colorful place into a gray prison.
Kieran steps off the ramp first, my hand in his, his grip firm as though he can sense my knees might buckle under the weight of being here again.
He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t press me further.
He just walks with me, guiding me through the crowds of tourists and locals, his presence steady in the chaos.
The cobblestones under my shoes are familiar. I could close my eyes and still know which turn leads to the bakery, which alley spills out toward the beach, which hill rises toward the house. My feet remember, even if I wish they didn’t.
Every smell, every sound, every color is more vivid than I remember, cutting through me like glass.
Avalon hasn’t changed.
But I have.
The inn sits just above the harbor, tucked between a row of pastel houses and shops. From the outside, it looks almost too quaint with its white shutters, flower boxes spilling with brightly colored geraniums, and a rustic brass sign that’s been weathered by the sea.
Inside, it smells of tangy salt air and cedar polish, the kind of clean comfort meant for tourists escaping into something picturesque. But for me, it feels like neutral ground. A place untouched by Trevor, untouched by my past.
Kieran checks us in with a clipped efficiency. The woman at the counter is all smiles, chirping about breakfast baskets and scenic trails, oblivious to the storm I have carried through her door.
Our room overlooks the water. A balcony opens to the harbor, where sailboats sway lazily, their masts cutting sharp lines into the late-afternoon sky. I set my bag down at the foot of the bed.
For a moment, I just stand there on the balcony, staring out at Avalon spread below us, and a thought races through my mind.
In the crowd of all these people, is Trevor among them, living his life normally after almost ending mine?
Soon, he will know exactly how I felt.
I hear the door click behind us, Kieran locking it. His presence fills the space, and the air around me suddenly feels calm.
He’s like the eye of my storm. Quiet. Calm.
“Lie down for a while,” he says, his voice gentler than I expect. “We’ll go to the cemetery after you’ve rested.”
I turn, startled. “I don’t need rest.”
His eyes cut into mine, demanding.
“You do.” He crosses the room in two strides, his hand brushing over my arm, warm and grounding.
“I can read it on your face. The weight you’ve been carrying since the ferry, no, even before that. You’ll collapse if you face that graveyard running on fumes. I’m not about to watch that happen.”
The protest rises in my throat, then fades away.
What can I say?
My limbs feel like lead, my shoulders knotted with tension, and each breath I take is an effort against my compressed lungs.
“Every minute counts,” I whisper.
His fingertips find my chin, gently lifting until our eyes meet. “Some minutes are for gathering strength. Your father’s memory deserves more than what you can give right now.”
The words crack something open in me.
I nod, my throat tight. “Okay.”
Kieran helps me out of my jacket, sets it neatly over the chair, then guides me to the bed. I sink into the mattress, the quilt soft and cool beneath my palms. He sits beside me and wraps his strong arms around me.
“Close your eyes,” he says softly.
And I do.
The world fades, leaving only the hum of the harbor outside.
For the first time since stepping back onto this island, I breathe without choking on memory.
When I wake, I’ll be ready.
Ready to face my father’s grave.
Ready to face Trevor.