At her blank look, he rolled his eyes. “Grease, Breen, it’s the word.”

And he made her laugh.

She did her best to shut out everything but him as they drove into the city. She knew all of this, she thought, all of this so familiar. And now as distant as the two moons.

They carted all the bags up to the apartment.

“I’ve got to get the van back. You just chill, and I’ll be back again in a half hour. You chill, you hear?”

“Yes.”

He gave her another hard hug. “Welcome the hell home, Breen.”

When he left, she looked around. All this familiar, too.

But it wasn’t home, not anymore. No matter how much of the person she’d been remained here, no matter how much of Marco, this would never be home to her again.

She unpacked, squeezing the gifts she’d brought into her little closet. On her dresser she placed the wooden box, the miniature, and the scrying mirror. And, feeling guilty, she tucked her wand, the crystals and potions she’d brought back, and the spell book away in drawers.

She hadn’t risked bringing the athame, not on the plane, but had left that with her grandmother.

When she heard Marco come back, she stepped out of her room.

He fisted his hands on his hips. “You unpacked, didn’t you?”

“I couldn’t help it.”

“Girl.” He let out an exaggerated sigh. “You sit down. I’m getting us an adult beverage, then we’re going to play some catch-up before I make us my famous chicken and rice.”

“I missed your cooking.”

“Came clear in your blog you weren’t doing much of that your own self.”

“I suck at it.”

He poured them wine, sat with her. “Good thing you got me. Now you tell me everything.”

“There’s so much, I don’t know where to start.”

“Pick a spot.”

“I left a lot out of the blog because it was too personal. And I didn’t tell you when we talked or texted because that wasn’t personal enough. I should start with my father.”

“Jesus, did you find him?”

“He died, Marco, years ago. He would’ve come back but . . .”

“Oh, my baby girl.” He rose to crouch down, gather her in. “I’m so sorry. Breen, I’m so sorry. I wish I’d been there with you. You shouldn’t’ve gone through that alone.”

“I wasn’t. I found my grandmother. His mother.”

He pulled back, eyes wide. “Where, how?”

“I . . . got lost one day, and I ended up at this farm, this beautiful farm. I was born there, Marco.”

“You—What?”

“I never knew, but I was born there, not here. And they knew my father. My grandmother’s cottage is nearby. I spent a lot of time with her. You’d like her. You’d really like her.”

“Breen, it’s like fate, right?”

“Yes.” Just that simple, she thought. “It’s like fate.”

She told him what she could, blending Talamh into Ireland.

“So since she gave me the dog, I left him with her until . . .”

“Your dad never told you?”

“I think he sort of did, in the stories he told me. But I thought they were stories. And my mother, well, she quashed all of that.”

“It’s all just—” He put his hands to the sides of his head, made an exploding sound. “You could write a book.”

“About that.” She let out a breath. “You know the one I wrote about Bollocks?”

“Know it, read it, loved it.”

“I’m working on a second one, and working on my adult novel. And I got an agent.”

“You did not! I mean whoa, look at you! This is fan-fucking-tastic, girl.”

“I can do better. She sold the Bollocks book, and two more to be written in a package deal.”

He blinked. “You said what?”

“I have an editor. I have a publisher. Bollocks is going to be published next summer.”

He set down his wine, then stood up, walked around the room. As her heart sank, she began to babble. “I didn’t want to tell you until I could tell you. I wanted—”

“Shut up. Shut up.”

He plucked her out of her chair, swung her in two circles. Then pressed his face in her hair.

“I’m so proud of you. I’m so happy for you. So proud.”

When he drew back to kiss her, she brushed tears from his cheeks. And now her heart filled and overflowed.

“You’re the reason,” she murmured.

“Breen, you’re the reason.”

She took his hand, rubbed it lightly over the tattoo on her wrist. “You helped me find it. And tomorrow I’m going to use that courage and go talk to my mother.”

“Used to dip in a toe, now you dive in. You want me to go with you?”

“No.” She laid her head on his shoulder, and found, in what felt like a foreign world to her now, he was still home. “I’m going to handle it.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

In the early hours of the morning, she used the scrying mirror. Thinking of the thin apartment walls and Marco, she kept her conversation with Marg brief and her voice low. Still Bollocks heard her and, with a trio of joyful barks, wagged himself into view.

Then, wakeful, restless, she wrote, and since the world she weaved took her back to Talamh, she found her own joy. Long after the sun broke through her little bedroom window, she heard Marco stirring.

She put the work aside to go out, make coffee.

“Man, I missed having you start coffee in the morning.” He gave her a one-armed hug as he drank. “You put a blog up already. Three thirty in the a-freaking-m.”

“Time clock.”

“Take a nap, girl.”

“Maybe.” But sleep wasn’t on her mind.

“I head straight to Sally’s after the music store. How about you meet me there? You’ve got big news to spread, and if you don’t spread it soon, it’s gonna bust right out of me.”

“I will. I want to see Sally and Derrick, and everyone.”

She’d need them after she confronted her mother.

“You’re going over to your mom’s.”

“You read my mind.”

He tapped her temple. “I know what goes on in there.”

“She should be home by six if she’s not on a business trip. I’ll come into Sally’s after I talk to her.”

“I’ll have a drink waiting. And if you need me, you text me. I gotta book. Got a lesson in about fifteen. Take that nap.”

He rushed out as he always rushed out in the morning, because he always cut the time close.

She walked to the window.

She’d always loved this neighborhood and, looking out, she saw what she’d loved—the clever shops and restaurants, the delightful little bakery. She and Marco splurged on their orgasmically gooey sticky buns every Sunday.

She loved the brick-paved streets and the tiny slice of the river she could see if she squinted. She loved that she could go into any shop or restaurant on the block and someone would greet her by name.

They knew her here—even when she’d tried to disappear. Maybe because of that, she considered. Because it really was a neighborhood.

She considered going out for a walk, but realized it simply didn’t appeal as it once had. No green fields flowing into green hills. No bay reflecting the mercurial sky.

No Bollocks to race ahead, chasing sheep or squirrel.

She told herself she simply hadn’t adjusted yet—and couldn’t.

Things to resolve, she thought. Until she did she’d stay caught between worlds, between loves, between obligations.

She’d go back to work, but first, she needed to make some calls.

After the workday, she took the bus out of habit. Because panic fluttered right under her collarbone, she slid a hand in her pocket to slide her fingers over the charm bag she’d made for strength of purpose.

She imagined driving the winding roads of Ireland, imagined riding the charming gelding over the fields, through the woods of Talamh.

It helped get her through the crowded bus ride in rush-hour traffic. She could almost ignore the horn blasts, or the tinny muffle of hip-hop leaking out of the earbuds of the passenger in front of her.

The air brakes thumped, the bus door squeaked open, closed. People squeezed off, squeezed on.

By the time she reached her stop, she wished she’d listened to Marco and taken that nap.

The walk helped clear her head. Even at this hour, her mother’s neighborhood trended quiet. The narrow front lawns held their summer green, trees offered leafy shade. Maybe landscaping tended to be more regimented and manicured than she’d become used to, but it still offered color.

She wouldn’t want this, of course. If and when the time came, she’d want—and need—more room. More solitude. And yes, more simplicity.

She turned up her mother’s walkway. At the door she took one more steadying breath, then rang the bell.

When the door opened, Jennifer’s face showed nothing, not a single tic of surprise. Which told Breen her mother had checked the security screen before answering.

“Breen. So you’re back.”

“Yes. I’d like to come in.”

“Of course.”

She’d changed her hair, more highlights for the summer, grown it out a bit into a sleek swing. She wore cropped pants and a sleeveless shirt, so she’d changed from her work clothes.

And she carried an evening cocktail—not wine but a G&T, which told Breen she’d had a difficult day at work.

She was about to have one at home.

“Have a seat.” Jennifer gestured as she turned into the living room. “Would you like a drink?”

“No, I’m fine.”

No changes in here, Breen noted. It remained perfect.

“I take it you enjoyed your extended vacation and assume you’re ready to come back to reality. Under the circumstances, you’ll have to make do with substitute teaching offers until—”