“We’ll go with it. Nice to meet you, Bridget.”

Marco took Breen’s hand when they climbed over the fence, swung it. “My turn to drive.”

They crossed into Galway, navigated their way with considerable stress to a car park in Galway city.

“You did great.” Breen rubbed the tension out of the back of her neck.

“Got us here. We need a break, and food. And anyplace that has a street called Shop Street deserves my attention.”

Breen soon discovered it deserved a lot of people’s attention. The crowds seemed huge after a full morning of no one, but Marco jumped right in. Pulled in his wake, she cruised the shops, resisted everything until she came across a piece of framed ogham script. Beneath the script it read: COURAGE.

“I sense a theme.”

“It’s a good one. And this is small enough to pack easily when my time’s up.”

“I’m getting one.”

“Which one?”

“No, not the art. Or not the wall-hanging art. Ink. What should I get?”

“That’s on you, in every way.”

“Ha-ha. We’ll talk about it over lunch. I’m starved.”

“You could get that tattooed so you’d just have to point at it several times a day.”

“And she hits with another one. Something Irish,” he said as they wandered out to pick a lunch spot.

She looked at him, her Marco with his golden brown skin, his riot of dark braids down to his shoulder blades, the meticulously groomed goatee.

“You’re not Irish.”

“But I’m getting it in Ireland, right?”

He decided on an Irish harp. Maybe he wasn’t Irish, but he was a musician. Plus, he liked the look of it.

“Now, where should I get it? On me, I mean. I can google where in Galway.”

Because she still didn’t take him seriously, Breen only smiled. “You’ve got a great butt.”

“I really do, but then only the chosen few would see it. Biceps seem, like, usual. Though . . .” He flexed.

“Yes, Marco, you have great bis, too.”

“I’m going with the usual. It’s a manly choice, and look here, this place gets solid reviews.” He studied his phone. “Done. Let’s do this.”

When he rose from the table, Breen blinked at him. “You’re serious?”

“You’re not getting one up on me, girl. You got ink, I get ink.”

“Marco, you need oxygen when you watch a hospital show and somebody gets a shot.”

“You’re going to hold my hand.”

She held his hand—and watched his eyes widen at the first prick of the needle.

“Holy shit. Distract me.”

“Multiplication tables?”

“Jesus, not math. Sing.”

She started to laugh, but he sat in the padded chair, eyes huge, his hand clamped on hers as a guy named Joe with complex and colorful tattoo sleeves meticulously worked the outline of a harp into his skin.

She started with “Molly Malone” because the melody struck her as soothing. Joe, the tattoo guy, shot her a grin, then joined her with a very nice baritone on the chorus.

“Is it finished?”

“No, honey.”

“You’re doing brilliant, Marco,” Joe told him.

Marco just closed his eyes. “Keep singing.”

She went with “The Wild Rover”—a brighter tune—and a woman of about fifty in the middle of getting a Celtic spiral on her forearm picked it up.

Because he’d heard it a few times and knew the words, Marco—eyes still firmly shut—added some harmony.

“That was grand!” The second tattoo artist, a woman of maybe thirty, stopped to applaud. “Are you professionals then?”

Breen shook her head, wondered if she’d ever have full use of her hand again.

“You should be, for you have lovely voices. Let’s have another. Do you know any Lady Gaga?”

“Do we know Gaga?” Marco managed a smile—eyes still closed. “‘Born This Way,’ Breen.”

She sang as the harp took shape, and since watching the actual process made her a little queasy, kept her eyes on Marco. At some point his grip loosened enough for her to flex her aching fingers.

But she held on, because he needed it.

“And there you have it, mate.” Joe patted Marco lightly on the shoulder. “You can have a look now if you want to.”

“Okay, just breathing first.” He opened his eyes, looked at his biceps, and the harp with its bold green shading. “It’s awesome! Look at that, Breen. I got a tat, and it’s awesome.”

“You come back for another sing-along anytime. I like yours,” Joe told Breen.

“Thanks.”

“If ever you want another, come see me.”

“I think one’s going to be enough.”

He grinned at her. “That’s what they all say.”

“I got a tat,” Marco said when they walked out. “I got inked in Ireland.”

“Yay. You seem a little wobbly.”

“Legs feel shaky yet, but I did it. You’re driving now, right?”

“You can count on that.”

“Next time, we do it together.”

“Right.” She mentally rolled her eyes. “Next time.”

When they reached the car, Marco folded her into a hug, swayed with her. “I love you, Breen. You never let go.”

“Never will.”

“Don’t make me sound like a pussy when you blog about it.”

“As if.” She got in, waited for him to take the passenger seat. “You may need to sing until I get through the traffic.”

“You got it.”

But it wasn’t as bad going out as it had been coming in.

As she took the route to Connemara, through and around villages, she could count more sheep than cars.

And Marco dozed, likely worn out, she thought, from tattoo trauma.

She settled into the quiet of it all, the lack of urgency, the knowledge she could stop anywhere she pleased and no one would tell her she had to do something else, be somewhere else.

She saw signposts for sites she wanted to visit, but as Marco slept, she told herself she—or they—could come back on a day trip.

She looked out over Lough Corrib, wondered if she’d enjoy a boat trip. She could cross over to Mayo, see sights there, too. She had weeks and weeks to do just as she wanted, when she wanted.

Freedom, heady and sweet.

If she ever did get another tattoo—not likely—she’d choose Freedom.

She passed cows and sheep and hills and fields and rising cliffs that all burned their beauty into her heart.

Marco stirred, rubbed his eyes. “Man, I went out! Where are—Holy wow!”

“They’re called the Twelve Bens.” Her voice was soft, tight with emotion. “We’re in Connemara. It’s like something that just froze in time, at exactly the right moment. You missed the lake—God, it was beautiful, Marco. We’ll come back.”

“How long was I out?”

“I don’t know. It’s all timeless here. Oh, do you see that?”

He straightened, looked where she pointed. “The big hole in the ground? What are those things stacked up?”

“It’s peat. They’re drying it. They dig it, cut it, and dry it in the wind.”

“The stuff they burn, seriously?”

“Yes, my father told me about it. I’d forgotten so much he’d told me, and it’s coming back now. When I see things, I remember. They had a peat bog on the farm where he grew up. It might even be around here. He must’ve told me where, but I can’t remember.”

“Bet you will.”

“I hope so, but I know this feels . . . almost like home.”

“Sense memory. I read about it.” He pulled out his phone to take pictures out the window. “It’s, like, in your blood, right? Your dad, and your ancestors and all. So you sense it, feel it.”

“It’s like that. Smell the air, Marco.”

She all but drank it.

“You can smell the peat and the pine, and I swear, you can smell the green.”

“I can drive if you just want to soak it up.”

“I’m fine. We’re nearly there.”

“Good, because I’m—”

“Starving.”

“Could use a snack. Hold on.” He dug into the bag at his feet.

“Got chips and Cokes. Road food.”

“Crisps over here,” she reminded him, and took one. “You’ve got the contact for the rental manager, right?”

“Yep.”

“Go ahead and text her. She said to do that when we were about thirty minutes out. I think that’s about right.”

“Don’t we need to stop for supplies?”

“Let’s get there first, take some stock, make a list. There’s a village not far from the cottage—a couple of them.”

“She’s fast.” Marco read the return text. “She’ll be there to welcome us, she says.”

“Perfect.” She glanced over to grin at him. “It’s all just perfect.”

When she turned onto the skinny, snaking road boxed in with hedgerows, Marco shifted in his seat.

“You’re sure this is right?”

“Yes.”

“I thought it was on the water, with a mountain view.”

“You have to get to it first.”

“Okay . . . I’m just saying there might be a reason it was available for the whole summer.”

“Have some faith.”

Maybe she was a little nervous herself—and not entirely sure two cars could pass each other on this tiny road—but they had nowhere to go but ahead.

“It’s remote-ish,” she added to reassure them both. “Private. I wanted private.”

“There’s private and there’s Bumfuck. This is feeling like Bum-fuck. You said there’s a village.”