A Letter from Ireland – Juliet Gauvin #3
Her breasts pushed into his hard chest, his long legs tangled with hers in a way that made her body react to him. Her breathing became shallow.
They’d only ever been in this position once: when she’d lost her footing and fallen from a low branch of an old Oak tree they used to climb. He’d caught her and they’d rolled together.
It was the one and only time she thought they might kiss.
Now, she registered every line of his body.
They were definitely not thirteen anymore.
After an endless moment of staring into each other’s eyes and breathing into each other, Shane blinked rapidly, breaking the spell and helping her up.
“You’re here!” they said at the same time.
They laughed, then leaned in for an awkward hug. After a long moment, they relaxed into each other, then broke apart.
“I don’t understand.” He shook his head. “What are you doing in Dingle?”
“I applied for this artist residency through The Arias Gallery, and I got in. I arrived yesterday. I get to spend the next two months just painting.”
“That’s grand!” He ran his hand through his hair—just like when he was a teen.
It was her turn. “What about you? What are you doing here—in Dingle—I mean? I thought you lived in Dublin.”
“I moved back. A few years ago now.” His eyes roamed over her face, her body. “Jaysus, it’s good to see you. You look exactly the same.”
He reached out and gently tugged on a few loose strands of her long brown hair.
“I hope not. Thirteen was a pretty awkward stage for me.” She looked down.
“The girl I remember was anything but awkward,” he said with a smile. “But I meant—you look the same as when you sent me that photo from your UCLA graduation.”
“Right,” she said. “I forgot I sent that.”
A buzzing noise emanated from his wrist. He glanced at his smart watch.
“Damn. I’ve got to go. Sorry, I just came over because I heard someone screaming. I’m in the area surveying a space for a house I’m designing for a client.”
“Oh, yeah . . . that was me. I was just—excited.”
“Yeah, I heard.” He smiled, then hesitated, as if something had just occurred to him. “Did you also scream out yesterday evening?”
The blood rose to her cheeks. “Yeah . . . that was me.” She crossed her arms over her chest, suddenly very aware of how thin her tank top was.
He laughed. “Same old Erin.”
She punched him lightly on the shoulder. “Hey! I wasn’t always screaming randomly into lakes!”
He laughed harder. “Yes, you were. You screamed into the harbor, out over the meadow, into the trees . . . basically any open space.”
She’d forgotten about that.
His watch buzzed again, he tapped it to silence the alarm. “Listen, I’ve got to go—but I’d love to catch up over dinner. What’s your day look like?”
The blood rushed to her cheeks again. She looked down. “Ummm, I have a meeting with Marina at The Arias Gallery at five, it shouldn’t last more than an hour or two, I think.”
“Grand. How about we meet at O’Leary’s at seven? It’s right next door to the gallery.”
She smiled, then tried to hide it. “Yeah. That sounds nice.”
“Great. I’ll see you then.” He gave her one last smile, shook his head like he couldn’t believe his eyes, then walked around the lake and disappeared through the trees.
THE GALLERY
Erin was stunned. She stood motionless on the lawn, while the breeze picked up and started making her hair billow out behind her.
She blinked several times. The birds continued to chirp—like nothing had just happened.
Like Shane Young hadn’t appeared out of thin air, caught her in his arms, smiled at her like no time had passed at all, and then disappeared into the trees with a dinner invitation hanging in the air like it was the most casual thing in the world.
What the hell just happened ?
She turned slowly toward the house, eyes wide, her heart beating loudly in her ears. Her thoughts spun as she walked back through the French doors.
He’s here .
That was the thought she kept coming back to, over and over again, like a record skipping.
Shane Young is in Dingle .
He lives here .
He’s working on this property .
For the next two months, their lives would overlap. More than overlap—collide.
Was he married ? Did he have a girlfriend ?
Like the night before, her mind cycled through every possibility as she absently climbed the spiral staircase.
Trying to recalibrate what her summer might look like with Shane in the picture had sent her spiraling.
Something needed to find its way out of her. She needed to use her hands, to get out of her head.
She didn’t think—just placed a stretched canvas on an easel, set it in front of the lake view, picked up a pencil and let her hand move.
She started with the tree. The big, crooked oak she and Shane had spent so many afternoons climbing that summer.
Its branches had been wide and twisted and full of secrets.
Then came the two kids—one girl, brown-haired, mouth slightly open like she was mid-laugh; one boy, lanky, about to take a leap to the next branch, hair a little wild.
It came out of her in a rush. She didn’t stop to sketch lightly, didn’t bother with proportion or layout. She just remembered.
When her hand finally stilled, her breath caught in her throat.
It was them.
She set it aside before she could second guess it and stepped back from the easel.
She took a deep breath and felt, for the moment, sated.
The sun had shifted again, lower now, warmer. She checked the time: 3:42 p.m.
Her meeting with Marina was in just over an hour.
She went downstairs to shower and get ready, changing into a pair of flattering dark-wash jeans that hugged her hips in all the right places.
Then she pulled on a white sleeveless top—soft cotton with a square neckline and just enough structure to hug her chest before falling loose around her waist.
She tried not to think about the dinner that came after the meeting, but she still took her time with her makeup, adding a soft shimmer to make her light green eyes pop. She curled her long brown waves into something loose and deliberate, pinning one side back with a silver clip.
She didn’t want to look like she was trying too hard.
But she didn’t want to look like she wasn’t trying, either.
The drive into town only took ten minutes.
She pulled into a spot on the small main street, in front of The Arias Gallery.
The narrow street opposite the harbor held black, old-world street lamps affixed to the front of the buildings, and storefronts that were straight out of a storybook.
Some were painted in bright colors while others were made of stone.
There were overflowing flower boxes showcasing pink, yellow, blue, and red flowers.
A busker played a fiddle on the corner.
Tourists strolled slowly in couples or small groups, snapping photos of painted signs and shop windows filled with Irish wool, tweed, baked goods, pottery, and sea glass.
The corners of her lips turned up into a wide smile.
There it was again—that feeling.
Not the giddy, surreal shock of seeing Shane.
Something deeper.
She was exactly where she was meant to be .
The Tiffany-blue facade of The Arias Gallery welcomed her. The building itself was large and sat on a corner. Elegant script delineated “Arias” while “Gallery” was written in a more classic font.
The glass front door gave a soft click as it opened beneath her hand.
The scent hit her first—acrylic, canvas, wood polish, and something faintly floral—not perfumed, but lived-in. Familiar in a way she couldn’t name.
She stepped inside.
The gallery was stunning in its simplicity.
Clean white walls gave every painting room to breathe, the colors pulsed gently under the soft halo of track lighting.
The system above was nearly invisible, suspended on slender wires, casting light in all the right places without ever calling attention to itself.
A series of large-format abstracts hung along the far wall—bold strokes, deep hues, confident movement. Along the side, smaller pieces played with texture and negative space, like visual poetry.
It wasn’t overcrowded. Every piece felt chosen. Intentional.
And still, the space felt like there was room for more. Like there was room for her.
She stood there a moment longer, letting it settle in.
A woman who was about her height, with long brown hair, approached her. “Erin?” she asked. “I’m Marina Arias, welcome to The Arias Gallery.” Her voice was California all the way, with that laid-back, effortlessly cool cadence. “I hope you’re settling in OK?”
“Marina, lovely to finally meet you.” Erin shook her hand. “Thank you again for this amazing opportunity. I can’t tell you how much it means to me.”
Marina gave her a warm smile, then stepped to the side and gestured toward the space around them. “Of course. We’re so thrilled you’re here. Come—let me show you around.”
They walked slowly through the main gallery room, the soft sound of their footsteps muffled by the hardwood floors, and the low hum of the building’s quiet.
“Right now, I’m all about showcasing emergent voices with a strong point of view—like you.”
Erin glanced again at the bold abstracts on the far wall and felt a flicker of doubt. “I’m not sure how strong my point of view is just yet.”
Marina stopped to face her. “That’s what this is for. Second Bloom is about giving your creativity room to unfurl. No pressure. Just potential.”
Erin nodded, feeling that same sense of bliss that had hovered just beneath the surface ever since she’d arrived—always threatening to make her scream out in glee. She bit her lip, thinking that Marina would think she was crazy if she let out a scream right then and there.
Or maybe not—she was also from California—and there was a little enthusiastic crazy in all of them .
Marina led her through to a smaller gallery space on the right of the main gallery, then to the back areas, the storerooms, the office, a large kitchen, and finally to the art studio.