Her Irish Inheritance

Caroline Egan arrived at her desk bright and early Monday morning. She was exhausted; she’d had a restless night after having dinner with her ex. His news had left her reeling.

She no sooner set her purse and bag underneath her desk at her workspace when her manager, Chris, appeared at her side, her turquoise blouse and matching earrings setting off her bright orange hair.

“We’ve got a meeting at nine with Dr. Walsh and Jim Munroe over in Jim’s office,” Chris announced.

Caroline straightened up, her eyes widening. “We do? Why?”

Chris shook her head. “I don’t know. I just got a call from Jim’s secretary requesting ‘our presence,’” she said with a hint of sarcasm. Chris bit her lip. “Any problems with any of your patients? Anything out of the ordinary?”

Caroline shook her head. “None that I can think of.”

Chris sighed. “I hate surprises. Especially on Monday mornings.”

“Yeah, me too,” Caroline replied, her stomach starting to do a little twist. In the ten years she’d worked as a home care nurse for hospice, she’d never had a meeting with the CEO. He usually remained in the administrative part of the building, away from the nurses. Mentally, she reviewed everything that had happened with her patients over the last month and could come up with nothing that would warrant a meeting with both the CEO and the Medical Director.

She pulled out her chair and sat down at her desk. Believing that organization was the key to all things, she started in on the same routine she performed every Monday morning: first, sift through the weekend report from the on-call nurses, checking to see if any of her patients had any issues over the weekend. Then, it would be the team meeting with their manager, followed by consumption of copious amounts of coffee while she rang her roster of sixteen patients, seeing how their weekends had gone, if there were any pressing problems, what supplies were needed, and finally, setting up the day and time for their weekly visits. But it was difficult to focus on these tasks with the meeting looming large before her.

Despite the organized chaos, Caroline loved her job. She certainly preferred working in home care to the hospital. She didn’t miss that at all. She loved the freedom of home care, and, most of all, she loved helping people. Dying could be a difficult and painful process. It was her job to make her patients comfortable, manage and alleviate any symptoms, and provide support to the terminally ill patient and their family. If only someone could comfort her right then and tell her that everything was going to be all right. Because things had not been all right for a long time.

After listening to the weekend report, she scribbled down notes on a steno pad, preparing for her week and deciding whom to see first, based on need.

“Are you ready?” Chris reappeared at Caroline’s desk, startling her.

An uncomfortable sensation fanned out inside Caroline’s chest as her heart began to race. Quietly, she stood up from her chair and headed toward the administrative offices with her boss. She liked Chris. The other woman was well respected among her nurses.

“Were you able to get any idea as to what this is about?” Caroline asked, tentative, studying the other woman’s expression and trying to get a gauge.

Her boss shook her head and gave her a reassuring smile. “No, I’m in the dark, just like you. But don’t worry—it’s not like you’re getting fired or anything.”

Caroline seriously hoped not. But she couldn’t help but feel she was walking straight into an ambush.

***

Caroline rarely ventured into the administrative part of the building. Once in a while, she might have to go to Human Resources to update or review annual paperwork. She took a good look around. It was different from the clinical area of the building where she worked. It had a more expensive feel with its white walls, white woodwork, and expensive art.

The door to Jim Munroe’s office was wide open. Caroline noticed Dr. Walsh was already there with his ever-present travel mug of coffee with the hospice logo on the side of it. The two men were in the middle of a conversation. And they looked serious. Her heart sank. They never brought you up to head office to tell you what a great job you were doing.

Chris rapped on the door, and Caroline followed her in.

Dr. Walsh turned toward them and smiled, and Caroline relaxed a bit. He was a short, fat man with a beard and mustache whose reputation was legendary among staff and patients alike. Thirty years earlier, with a vision and determination, he’d built the county’s hospice from the ground up, culminating in the move, ten years back, to the current campus, which he’d designed himself. In the beginning, he was noted for visiting patients in the middle of the night, when it seemed most crises arose. To say he was beloved among patients and in the community was an understatement. However, those who worked for him knew that he ran a tight ship. He was no pushover, and he only had one set of interests in mind: those of the hospice. Above all else, this was his baby. It had cost him his marriage.

Jim Munroe smiled and extended his hand, and Caroline shook it, wary. He was a totally different animal of a different nature from Dr. Walsh. At public events, he rallied about how the nurses were the backbone of the organization, but in private meetings with his nursing staff, he was always able to pull out some report from a hired private statistician or consultant, justifying pay freezes and explaining away the fact that their wages weren’t on par with those of other nurses in the community.

“Chris, Caroline, please sit down,” Jim said, motioning to a set of chairs.

Dr. Walsh nodded at her. “Caroline.” He sat down in one of the chairs.

Jim sat behind his desk and smiled again, but the joviality felt forced. Caroline’s heart raced, making her feel jittery. She was in trouble.

“Caroline, thank you for coming in on such short notice.”

Caroline wondered if he’d known her name before this meeting, as they had never had a conversation in all the years she had worked at the hospice.

“We called you in here because something has come up that is an urgent and ethical matter.”

Caroline shot a glance over at her boss, who didn’t look at her.

“What can you tell us about your former patient, Maeve Burke?” Dr. Walsh asked.

Caught off guard, Caroline blinked. She hadn’t expected a question about a patient who had died months before. She stammered, trying to recollect the pertinent facts and, at the same time, reminding herself to proceed with caution. Eight years of living with an attorney would do that to you.

“Mrs. Burke was in the program for a little over a year with terminal breast cancer. She was a widow with no children. Her program was pretty straightforward. Her symptoms were in good control, and she ended up being transferred to our inpatient unit for end-of-life care as there were no caregivers in the home. According to staff here, she died a peaceful death. This would have been about four or five months ago.”

That was the black and white of it. But there was more that Caroline held back. She’d become very fond of Mrs. Burke and vice versa. It hadn’t been long before she became friends with the Irishwoman from County Kerry. Caroline had usually seen her on Friday afternoons; she was always her last patient unless Mrs. Burke had other symptoms or emergencies, in which case Caroline would stop by earlier in the week. At the end of each visit, Maeve would make a pot of tea and serve scones or brown bread, and toward the end, when she was getting weaker, Caroline would make the tea and bring pastry. Mrs. Burke would tell Caroline all about her life and how she and her husband had come to America decades before, about the heartache of leaving Ireland and having no children of their own. In turn, Caroline had talked about her disappointing relationship with her former partner, Kevin, to which Mrs. Burke would reply with a smile and a wink. “That young man doesn’t appreciate what he has. We need to find you a nice Irishman.”

Caroline had cried when the old woman passed away. She’d felt as if she had lost a good friend. Sometimes, patients did that to you—when your lives were converging, they got into your heart and broke it.

“Anything else?” Jim asked.

“No,” Caroline said slowly. “Has there been a complaint about her care?”

Dr. Walsh spoke up. “No, of course not. Everyone here knows that you are an excellent nurse, and we are lucky to have you.”

Caroline looked quickly to Dr. Walsh and noticed that he seemed almost sad. Her shoulders sagged, and she leaned back in her chair.

Jim sighed heavily. “We’ve called you here regarding Mrs. Burke’s will.”

“I don’t know anything about that,” Caroline said, and she felt Chris’s eyes on her.

So this was what this was about. Mrs. Burke had possibly left Caroline a little gift. She’d always been trying to give her things, but Caroline had firmly refused. It was not only against hospice rules for nurses to accept gifts from patients; it was unethical, as well. Well, that’s no problem, thought Caroline. Whatever it is, I’ll just refuse it.

“The hospice has been notified by Mrs. Burke’s attorney that she left you some land in Ireland.”

Caroline’s mouth fell open. “What?”

“Her attorney said that Mrs. Burke owned a home with ten acres in Ireland and willed it to you.”

“Oh,” Caroline said, stalling for time so she could digest the information.

“Did Mrs. Burke ever mention to you that she was leaving you something in her will?”

“No, never,” Caroline said, surprised. “We never once talked about her will or anything like that.”

“Did you ever hint . . .” Jim couldn’t even finish the sentence. Dr. Walsh put his head down.

Caroline shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “I most certainly did not.”

He tried a different tack. “Did you ever accept a gift from her?”

She thought for a moment. “She was always trying to give me little presents, but I always refused. At Christmas, though, she gave me a box of chocolates, and I accepted them.” Caroline wondered if she’d done wrong by accepting the gift.

“There is certainly nothing wrong in that,” Dr. Walsh said quietly.

What’s wrong with him? Caroline wondered. Why is he sticking up for me and, at the same time, looking so defeated? Where was the ferocious and passionate Dr. Walsh she knew?

Caroline said hurriedly, “Look, I’ve done nothing wrong. In fact, I’ll refuse the gift.” She laughed nervously. “I wouldn’t even know what to do with land in Ireland.”

A silence fell in the room that seemed to smother them.

She glanced at Chris, who could only shrug her shoulders, looking as lost as Caroline felt.

“Right.” Jim drummed his fingers on the desk. “Unfortunately, Caroline, it is a little more complicated than that.”

It was quiet among them for a moment as Caroline waited for the other shoe to drop.

“Mrs. Burke has also very generously left the hospice one million dollars.”

This revelation left Caroline surprised and confused. She sat forward in her chair, her mouth open and her eyes wide, surprised at the fact that the little, old, unassuming woman had had that much wealth and confused as to why there was a problem. The hospice was a not-for-profit organization that depended on its charitable donations. They would be able to do a lot with this substantial gift of money.

He continued. “There is a provision, though. In order for the hospice to receive the money, you have to take the gift of the land and ownership of it. If you refuse the gift, then the bequest to the hospice becomes null and void.”

Caroline sank back in her chair. Yes, it was complicated, but was it truly insurmountable? Her boss bowed her head and remained quiet. What did Chris see that she did not? She felt panicky all of the sudden.

“I’m lost here.” Caroline faltered.

Dr. Walsh spoke up. “It’s how it looks, Caroline. It’s unethical. Mrs. Burke has been extremely generous to you and to the hospice. Let me be the first to say that no one here doubts your integrity. But it wouldn’t look good for hospice if one its staff nurses received such largesse.”

Caroline’s heart plummeted to unimaginable depths as she realized they wanted the money more than they wanted her to work for them.

She looked up at Dr. Walsh who, to his credit, was embarrassed enough to look away. Jim did not look away.

“You want me to resign—is that it?” she asked.

Nobody said anything right away, and Caroline’s heart sank further. Would no one defend her? Did her ten-year career at hospice mean nothing? Apparently not.

“Resign?” Chris finally spoke up. “That’s ridiculous. She’s one of the best nurses I’ve ever worked with.”

“It’s unfortunate . . .” Dr. Walsh said, his voice trailing off.

“Surely you can understand the position we’re in, Caroline,” Jim asked. “A bequest this large can do so much for this organization as a whole. What we would be able to do for the patients and staff alike. . .”

So that was what the official line was going to be. Caroline was going to be sacrificed for the greater good. Despite all their good intentions, their “philosophy,” and their “mission statement,” at the end of the day, it was a numbers game.

“Surely there must be some way around this,” Chris said, “where Caroline wouldn’t have to give up her job and the hospice could keep the donation.”

The CEO shook his head. “On Friday, the board of directors met with our attorneys and public relations department, and the best scenario for all is if Caroline would go quietly.”

Caroline gave a derisive snort. “And if I refuse to resign?”

Her question was met by silence. Even Jim had stopped smiling. What was implied was that she would be fired. Something would be blown out of proportion—or worse, fabricated—and she would lose her job with no reference. It had happened before. The powers that be had a subtle way of getting rid of the troublesome employees. Years earlier, a male nurse had tried to organize a union among the nurses, and he was gone before he could pass out flyers.

“Perhaps I’ll refuse the gift of land,” she ventured.

A quick look of panic spread across Jim’s face, but it disappeared before it could register.

But Dr. Walsh, who had remained uncomfortably silent throughout, spoke up. “Caroline, no one is sorrier than I am at the predicament that this puts you in. But even you can understand what this bequest means to us—you’re out there on the front line. You see the need on a daily basis.”

“And what is this bequest to be used for?” Caroline asked, her voice shaking, fury welling up within her. Indeed, she was on the front line but rarely on the receiving end of such generosity. “Increase in the nurses’ salaries? Better patient care? Or were we thinking of spending the money on administrative bonuses and expanding the campus?”

She looked at Jim. He met her stare.

“We have plans for the bequest,” he said evenly.

Caroline had to think hard and fast. This was going to be a split-second decision. From deep within, she had to summon all her reserves of courage. Breaking down and railing at the unfairness of it all would be for later, when she was alone. Right now, she had to focus. Any way she looked at it, her career at the hospice was over as of this moment. But she wouldn’t totally capitulate to their demands. She would have some say.

She sighed. “Well, it seems as if it’s already been decided for me. I will resign, but there are some conditions to my resignation.”

“Such as?” Jim asked, raising an eyebrow.

“I want the nurses to benefit directly from this bequest. For starters, an increase in the nurses’ salaries or a bonus or something.” Leveling her gaze at Jim, she said, “And not just some lousy luncheon. Something significant.”

“To be honest, Caroline, I don’t know if that would be possible—” Jim said.

Dr. Walsh interrupted him. “I’ll personally see to it, Caroline.”

“Hold on a minute, Dr. Walsh. We can’t promise anything because it would be up to the board of directors,” Jim retorted.

“Then I suggest you use all your powers of persuasion because unless that condition is met, I won’t play along,” Caroline interjected. “Oh, I’ll resign all right, as I see I’m finished here anyway, but I’ll refuse the gift, and the hospice won’t get that tidy little sum of a million dollars.”

Jim went pale, but Dr. Walsh spoke up. “Caroline, you have my word that the nurses will be looked after.”

“That’s great. Then it won’t be a problem to let the nursing staff know by the end of the week of their good fortune.”

“Well, I don’t—” Jim started.

Dr. Walsh cut him off again. “No, that won’t be a problem at all.”

“I’ll have my resignation on Chris’s desk in the morning. But I would like the full two weeks so I can transfer the care of my patients properly.”

“Of course.” Jim nodded.

“And I would like a recommendation, so I can get another job,” Caroline said.

“I’ll write that myself,” Dr. Walsh volunteered.

Chris spoke up. “I assume there’ll be a generous compensation package? All her vacation and personal time paid out for the remainder of the year? As well as some form of severance pay?”

Caroline hadn’t even thought of that. She was still trying to come to terms with the fact that in the space of fifteen minutes, she’d lost her job. A job she loved.

The two men looked at each other.

“Of course,” Jim said with a slight nod of his head.

There was nothing more to be said. Caroline stood up from her chair and walked out the door, not interested in shaking anyone’s hand. Chris followed her out, silent. As soon as the door was shut behind them, Caroline started to shake violently. Chris took her by the arm and led her to the ladies’ room.

Once inside, Caroline bent over the sink and let out an angry sob. She couldn’t stop shaking. She turned on the tap and splashed cold water on her face. After patting her face dry with a paper towel, Caroline looked in the mirror. Crying always made her eyes appear bluer.

“I’m sorry, Caroline,” Chris murmured beside her.

“Well, that was certainly interesting.” Caroline let out a burst of laughter in an effort to get herself under control. She tucked her blonde hair behind her ears.

They stood there, silent, leaning against the sink.

“I have to get out to see my patients,” Caroline announced.

“Are you all right to drive?” Chris asked.

“I’m fine. Really, I am.”

“Let me walk you to your car,” Chris said.

“No, that won’t be necessary,” Caroline said. She just wanted to get out of there and be alone.

“Are you sure?” Chris asked.

“Yeah, thanks anyway,” Caroline answered, and she thought Chris looked relieved. And ghostly pale. Caroline kind of felt sorry for her.

***

Caroline went through the rest of the day in a fog. She skipped the morning meeting and headed out to see three patients, but she didn’t have the heart to tell them she’d be leaving within two weeks. Being in her patients’ homes was the only thing that took her mind off of her problems. All her cares and troubles slipped away as she focused on the person in front of her and their symptoms, if they had any.

What on earth had Maeve Burke been thinking when she decided to leave her that property in Ireland? And what was she going to do with it? But, more importantly, where was she going to work now?

When she arrived home, she found Jill, her best friend since nursing school, sitting on the wraparound porch of the Victorian home she and Kevin had lovingly restored. She pushed any and all thoughts of him to the outer recesses of her mind. She’d deal with him later. As she exited her car, Jill held up a bottle of wine and smiled. “Thought you could use some moral support.”

“Can I ever,” Caroline agreed, her shoulders sagging. She retrieved the mail from the box and unlocked the front door. Jill followed her inside to the spacious interior with its high ceilings, large windows, and gleaming hardwood floors. Caroline leafed quickly through the mail, noting a letter with an Irish stamp on it with the return address of a solicitor.

Deciding she’d look at it later, she set it down, along with her purse, on the console table in the hall, then removed her jacket and hung it on the antique oak stand.

Jill had already gone on to the kitchen, and Caroline could hear her opening cupboards and drawers. She joined her at the kitchen table and waited while Jill uncorked the wine.

Caroline had met Jill on their first day of clinicals in nursing school, when their knees were knocking, and their hands were shaking. They’d quickly become best friends, and Caroline had been Jill’s maid of honor when she married. Jill currently worked in the neonatal intensive care unit at the children’s hospital. Caroline was in awe of that. Nursing sick children was a calling, one that Caroline did not possess, but the NICU was a specialty within that calling where very ill newborns were kept, some weighing as little as a pound.

“I don’t talk to you for three days, and all of the sudden, you’re a landowner in Ireland, and you’ve lost your job!” Jill poured wine into their glasses. She assembled a platter with cheese, crackers, olives, and grapes and laid it out on the table. “Eat. Drink.”

Jill was the opposite of Caroline in looks: petite, with dark brown eyes and hair the color of midnight, cut into a sharp bob.

Caroline sighed.

“It’s not right that you had to resign,” Jill said. “I mean, surely their corporate lawyers could have figured out a way around this.”

“Apparently not,” Caroline said.

“What are you going to do about the land in Ireland?” Jill asked.

“I’m going to have to sell it,” Caroline said, nibbling on a piece of cheese.

Jill’s wineglass halted on its way to her mouth. She looked at Caroline. “Wow, you’ve already made that decision? I know you’re decisive and organized, but this is expert level.”

Caroline sipped her wine and said with a smirk, “Nope. Kevin has already made that decision for me.”

Jill peered at her over the rim of her glass. “Oh no. Now what did he do?”

What hadn’t he done was more the question. How could you live with someone and love them for eight years and not know them? She’d asked herself that question many times in the year since he’d left. “I went to dinner with him last night. He said he wanted to talk about things.”

Jill’s eyes grew wide. “Does he want to get back together?”

Caroline picked up a grape from the platter and laughed bitterly before popping it into her mouth. “Um, no. His girlfriend is pregnant.”

“I am so sorry. I thought he was the best guy,” Jill said.

“Yeah, me too,” Caroline said with a sour expression.

“How do you feel about that?” Jill asked. “The girlfriend being pregnant?”

Caroline shrugged. “How am I supposed to feel? When we were together, we didn’t want children, and now he’s moved on and is over the moon about this baby coming in a few months. They’re getting married next month.”

Jill reached out and laid her hand over Caroline’s. “I am so sorry.”

“That’s not the worst of it.”

“There’s more?” Jill asked with a look of disbelief.

Caroline couldn’t even look at her friend. Her sympathy would bring tears to Caroline’s eyes, and she wasn’t a crier by nature. “He wants to buy me out of my half of the house, so he and his girlfriend can move in.”

“What?” Jill asked, enraged. “How can you sit there so calm? I’d be a raging lunatic!”

Caroline had turned into a raging lunatic when he’d dropped that bomb during dinner. It was cruel. Kevin knew the house was her heart and soul. But he also knew that on her own, she would never be able to afford the mortgage. He’d been paying his half since he left. But last night, he’d informed her that he would no longer be paying his half of a mortgage on a property he no longer occupied.

“The most sensible thing is for me to sell the property in Ireland, so I can buy him out,” she said.

Jill lifted her glass and clinked it against Caroline’s. “Here’s to fighting back and having a plan.” After she sipped her wine, she asked, “When are you going to Ireland?”

Caroline frowned. “I have no plans to go to Ireland. I’ll just ask the attorney over there to make arrangements to sell it for me.”

“You’re going to sell it, site unseen?” Jill asked.

“Yes. I mean, it’s no good to me,” Caroline explained. “I live three thousand miles away. I live here. What in the world would I do with property I’ve inherited in another country?”

“There are tons of things you could do with it,” Jill said. “You could rent it out for income. You could use it for your own vacation home.” She laughed and added, “And just remember who your best friend is. I’m hoping for some kind of discount.”

Caroline laughed but then said seriously, “Kevin and I put a lot of money and time into this house. I don’t want to live anywhere else but here.”

“I can understand your attachment to your home. It’s so beautiful—I wouldn’t want to leave it either,” Jill said. She paused. “But—Ireland, come on!”

When Caroline didn’t immediately respond, Jill said, “At least go see it first before you make a decision. It would be good for you to get away. And Ireland is supposed to be very beautiful.”

“I’ll think about it,” Caroline said. In two weeks, she was going to have all the time in the world, so it was an option she’d have to consider.

“You know, you could get a job in the NICU if you wanted,” Jill suggested.

Caroline frowned. “Um, thanks, but no. Kids aren’t my strong suit.”

Jill laughed. “How do you know?”

“Just a feeling,” Caroline replied. She thought about her lack of a maternal instinct. She was never one to go gaga over babies in strollers or even offer to hold one. Her contact had been minimal. She hadn’t felt a desire, even a slight urge to have children, even when she’d been with Kevin. She was happy by herself. Her own upbringing hadn’t been stellar, and she had no wish to pass that on to someone else.

“What about going back for your nurse practitioner degree?” Jill asked. “You were always talking about going on for it in nursing school.”

Caroline laughed. At one time, that had been her dream—ten years earlier. But then, she’d met Kevin, and they’d bought the house, and she’d been happy at the hospice. All her extra time had been spent in refurbishing the house. It was time she didn’t regret.

“Why did you laugh?” Jill asked, shifting in her seat, wineglass in hand.

Caroline’s eyes widened. “Because it was a dream from a long time ago. And I think that ship has sailed.”

“Says you,” Jill pointed out.

“It’s too late to go back to school. I’ve been out of nursing school for fifteen years.”

“So?”

“I can’t go back,” Caroline protested.

“Yes, you can,” Jill said. “How do you feel about that dream?”

Caroline gave it a thought and raised her eyebrows. “I don’t know. I’d have to think about it.”

“Well, I think you should consider it,” Jill said.

Caroline looked evenly at her friend. “First, you tell me I should visit Ireland. Then you suggest I should go back for my nurse practitioner degree. Is it your job to come over here and fill my head with foolish notions?”

“Yes!” Jill replied. “Because it gives you more options. It shows you that your life will go on after Kevin and the hospice.” Jill laid a slice of cheese onto a cracker. “You’d be able to afford this place on a nurse practitioner’s salary.” She raised her eyebrows and looked knowingly at Caroline.

A little spark lit within Caroline as she thought about the long-ago dream she had more or less given up on. School would take two years full-time to complete. But Jill was right. On a nurse practitioner’s salary, she’d easily be able to afford the mortgage.

With a smile on her face, she sipped her wine, happy that she had some options. “I will think about it—I promise.”

After Jill had left, Caroline paced around the kitchen and living room, picking things up that were fine where they were and cleaning things that didn’t need to be cleaned.

Finally, in an effort to quell Jill’s voice inside her head, the one that was filling it with ideas in the name of hopes and dreams, she booted up her laptop and began to surf the internet, looking at local colleges that offered programs in the nurse practitioner degrees. She found a notepad and pen and jotted down websites, email addresses, and phone numbers. She hoped there was still some time to apply for the fall program. She began to feel something she hadn’t felt in a long time: excitement. If she went full-time, she could do agency work to get her through the two years. And she was still young—she wasn’t even forty yet. There’d still be twenty more years of working. After staring at the screen for a few minutes, she took a deep breath and began emailing coordinators of nurse practitioner programs at various colleges.

When she was finished and decided there was nothing more she could do at the moment, her mind completely shifted focus. She began to think of Ireland. She dug through the pile of mail that had arrived earlier and pulled the solicitor’s envelope from its midst. She used a letter opener to slice a slit across the top of the envelope and pulled out the document from inside. The letter informed her that she’d inherited ten acres and a dwelling in Inch, Ireland. Pressing her lips together, she typed “Inch, Ireland” into the search bar at the top of her browser page.

Patrick Kelly never tired of the view from the front window of his bungalow. Spread out before him was Inch Strand and its beach. From his position high on a hill on the Dingle Peninsula, he looked down on the roofs of houses below on the descending slope. But it was always the beach itself that took his breath away: a narrow, three-mile span of golden beach with grassy sand dunes bordering it on its left side. On the other side of the inlet were the other peninsula and Macgillicuddy’s Reeks, whose usually purplish range was now shrouded in low-hanging white cloud cover.

It was going to be a good day for wind surfing. Inch Beach was located between the Iveragh and Dingle Peninsula in the southwest of Ireland, which at times created a perfect wind trap. From his living room window, he saw there were plenty of walkers on the beach. He preferred someone to be around if something happened. He was extra cautious. He had to be.

He finished his first cup of tea of the day and headed out. Before he left, he opened the door of the bedroom that was shared by his two daughters, Gemma, aged six, and Lucy, just gone four, who was already giving him a run for his money.

The girls were nestled in their beds, the room an explosion of pink except for Lucy’s bed, which was done up in yellow. He stood in the doorway of their bedroom for a moment, smiling at the sight of them, and closed the door softly behind him. As he walked down the hall to the kitchen, he passed a framed photo taken on his wedding day. He looked at his dark-haired bride and whispered, “Good morning, love.”

As he stood at the kitchen sink rinsing out his teacup, he glanced out the window. He took in the flat, golden-brown scrub of the mountain. By July, the area would be covered in fuchsia, gorse, and montbretia, which grew wild on the peninsula.

The back door opened, and his sister, Deirdre, walked in.

“Girls still sleeping?” she asked in a whisper.

He nodded, turning off the tap and putting his teacup in the drying rack.

“Going windsurfing first?” she asked. His sister was two years younger than him, and they resembled each other, although his eyes were gray to her blue, and her hair retained the color of a chestnut while life had grayed his somewhat.

“Yes, I’ll get in a bit before I head off to work,” he said.

Deirdre smiled. “I’ll drop the girls off to Ma later in the morning. I don’t have to be at the stables until noon today.” Unlike him, she was an avid horseback rider, giving lessons out of her own stables.

“Thank you,” he said.

“Would you stop thanking me?” she said, exasperated.

He shrugged. If it weren’t for his sister and mother, he didn’t know how he would have coped.

“Did you get the invitation for Marie’s wedding?” Deirdre asked, referring to their cousin, who was getting married on the last Saturday of June.

“I think I saw something in the pile of post that came yesterday,” he said. “I haven’t had a chance to open it.”

“Just be careful,” she warned.

He looked at her with a frown. “Why?”

“Because Ma might think it would be a good idea for you to bring someone.”

“Like a plus one?” he asked, incredulous. How could his own mother even think he was ready to move on?

Patrick sighed. He couldn’t remember his mother being so meddlesome when he was younger. It was like him getting remarried had become her life’s work.

That was the last thing on his mind: weddings and bringing dates. He had no time or inclination for any of that.

“Gotta go,” he said. With his hand on the doorknob, he turned to his sister and said, “Oh, watch Lucy with the bananas. She’s on that kick now. Had three of them yesterday.”

Deirdre chuckled. “Will do. Don't worry, they’ll be fine.”

Patrick used to love this time of day: early morning, when the day was so full of hope and promise. He drove his car slowly down the narrow, winding lane to the main road that led to the town of Dingle to the right or back to the mainland to the left. When he came to the bottom of the hill, he noticed a rental car parked on the side of the road with its flashers on. At the side of the car stood a young couple in their mid-twenties. The man had his hands on his hips and looked up and down the main road. Patrick braked his car to a stop and rolled down the window.

“Everything all right?” he asked.

They approached his car. The woman had long black hair, and her skin was dewy. They were so young. Since he was just over forty himself, they made him feel ancient.

“We’re looking for Annascaul,” said the man. Patrick detected a German accent.

The young woman bent down until she was eye level with Patrick. She smiled. “We’re on our honeymoon.”

“Congratulations,” Patrick said automatically. Parts of Patrick had been and remained on autopilot these last four years.

“We’re stopping in Annascaul to see Tom Crean,” the woman said. She seemed naturally chatty; her husband was more reserved.

She referred to Tom Crean as if he were still living, although he’d been dead for decades. Even after all this time, they were all still proud of their Antarctic explorer. He was a legend. A man who had walked thirty-five miles in sub-freezing temperatures to save the life of another explorer. He’d done Kerry proud.

“You’ve passed the turnoff,” Patrick told them. “Go back the way you came, and you’ll see the sign for Annascaul. It’s not that far. A few miles.”

“Tonight, we’re going to drink a toast to him at his pub,” the husband said, referring to Crean’s bar, the South Pole Inn, which was still in operation.

Once they had their directions, they went on their way. Patrick watched them talking and laughing as they pulled back out onto the main road. He was envious of them. They were so full of hope and unaware of what the future held. He’d been like that once, but not anymore.

Eventually, he drove down to the beach. There was a small group of walkers on the beach, and the familiar black lab who was there on a regular basis was running back and forth across the sand, fetching the same tennis ball over and over again. Patrick, with his windsurfing board at his side, nodded in recognition to some of the walkers. Most of them were locals like himself, and although he didn’t know most of their first names, he recognized some of them. They were there almost every morning, walking. Like he was with the windsurfing. It was almost like a religion to all of them.

He would never go out on the water without someone being on the beach. Never alone. That would be too dangerous and too irresponsible. There had been a time in his life, years ago, when he would never have given that another thought. But not now. Not after all that had happened.

After he parked the car on the beach, he quickly pulled on his wetsuit. His bare feet hit the damp sand, and he trotted toward the waves. There was a fair amount of wind, and the surf looked good.

The water was ice cold. It always was. The island was too far north in the Atlantic for it to ever get warm. Not like the warm of the ocean around Florida. That had been like bath water when he and Maureen had gone there.

He trod through the water, finding it bracing but not minding. Once up on the board, he let the wind do the rest. He anchored himself on the board as the wind whipped up his sail, and his board cut across the inlet at an angle. Seawater sprayed him, and he smiled. Exhilaration flooded him, and he let the rush fill him up. From his board, he took in the beach and the expanse of dunes behind it, the wind blowing through the grasses. There was the restaurant on the beach, not open yet; it was too early. An elderly man sat at one of the picnic tables outside with his dog, an Irish collie, beside him. Patrick turned his head and let his gaze wander up the Slieve Mish Mountains until he found the roofline of his own house. It comforted him to know that his girls were tucked sound in their beds. He liked to be alone on the water, all by himself, gliding across the Atlantic, alone with his thoughts.

After an hour, he pulled his board from the water and trotted back to his car, leaning the board up against it while he towel-dried his hair and changed back into his clothes.

Once he was finished, he headed out to work with the intention of just making it through the day. He could only take things one day at a time. Because one never knew what to expect.