The trips to England or Italy, just trips.

For the first year, her father had turned down every script, every offer, shielding her, she understood now, as much from the press as from her fears.

But she’d had Nan and Nina right there, and G-Lil and her grandfather in L.A. on those visits. Aunt Mo and Uncle Harry and the rest on visits to New York.

She’d been glad when Nina fell in love and got married, even though it meant she didn’t live in the cottage or the guesthouse in L.A.

Now Cate couldn’t live in the cottage either. Her nan was gone; her father had work. So now she’d live in L.A., and her time here would become visits.

At last Lola climbed out of the lake, shook off a wild torrent of water. Then she rolled around on the wet grass in pure joy.

“You’re getting as wet as she is.”

She broke out a smile—she knew how—for her grandfather. “It’s barely a drizzle.” When he put an arm around her shoulders, she dropped her head to one of his. “I know she was ready to be with Grandda. She talked about him so much the last few weeks. Sometimes . . .”

“Sometimes?”

“She talked to him.” Looking up, she saw the rain adding yet more shine to his hair, that shining silver hair. “I’d hear her talking to him, half expected to hear him talking back. I didn’t, but I honestly believe she did.”

“They loved a lifetime.” As always surprised that her head reached his chin now, he pressed a kiss to her temple. “It’s hard on us being without them. I know it’s hard for you to leave here now. You’ll come back. I promise.”

It wouldn’t be the same.

“I know I can’t take Lola. This is her home, and it wouldn’t be fair. She loves Nina and Rob and the kids, so she’ll be happy with them.”

“What can I do for you, Catey? What can I do to make this a little easier?”

“Don’t let Dad turn down good scripts because he’s worried about me. I hate when I know he does. I’m seventeen. I need to know he trusts me to . . . to just deal.”

“What do you want, for you?”

“I don’t know, not exactly. But, well, I’m a Sullivan, so I think I should try, again, to do what we do.”

“You want to act again?”

“I want to try. I know it’s been a long time, but it’s in the blood, isn’t it? I mean, just some little part, some little thing. Get my feet wet.”

“I might have just the thing. We’ll talk about it on the flight home.”

Everything inside her tightened and clutched. “Is it time to leave?”

“It’s getting close.”

“I—I want to walk Lola over to Nina’s. Say goodbye to everyone.”

“Go ahead. I’ll tell your father. Caitlyn,” he said as she started toward the dog, “life’s a series of turns. This is another one for you.”

She stood, dark hair damp with rain, eyes as blue as a summer sky. And as sad as a broken heart. “How do you know where it’s going to take you?”

“You never do. That’s part of the adventure.”

What if she didn’t want an adventure? she thought as she hitched on her backpack holding Lola’s favorite toys. What if she wanted the quiet, the ordinary?

What if she didn’t want to turn in a new direction?

With no choice—it grated to always have so little choice—she called the dog, and with Lola started down the path that skirted the woods.

The familiar path, one she’d walked countless times, often with Lola for company, sometimes just alone with her thoughts. Wasn’t she allowed to hate leaving the familiar?

Where would she find these damp, green scents in L.A.? That simple pleasure of walking a narrow dirt path in a soft rain?

She heard the quick call of a magpie before she saw him dart into the trees. Just one more thing she’d miss.

Her turn happened when she’d been ten. Nothing had been the same since.

“No one talks about it, Lola.” At the sound of her name, Lola scrambled back from sniffing at the fuchsia dripping from the hedgerow, danced back. “Not even me anymore. What’s the point? But I can count, can’t I? I know she’s coming up for parole.”

Shrugging, Cate shifted the backpack. “Who cares, right? Who gives a damn? If she gets out, she gets out. It doesn’t change anything.”

But she worried it would, if her mother walked out of prison, it would be one more change she couldn’t control, would have to accept.

Maybe, just maybe, acting again would give her some control over her own bloody life. As much as she loved her family—and God, she did, both here in Ireland and back in the States—she needed her own.

Her own life, her own choices, just her own.

“I miss it,” she murmured to Lola. “I miss acting, miss letting myself be someone else, miss the work, and the fun of it. So maybe.”

And in a year, she reminded herself, she could make all her own choices. She could act her ass off, or she could come back here and live by the lake. She could go to New York, or anywhere. She could . . .

Take another turn.

“Well, shit, Lola, that’s exactly what Grandpa meant. I kind of hate when they end up being right.”

She took out her phone, framed a photo of the fuchsias, bloodred against the drenched green. Another of Lola, tongue lolling, eyes full of fun. Then another, another.

The old gnarled tree—under which she’d gotten and given her first kiss. Tom McLaughlin, she remembered, a fourth or fifth cousin, so somehow still all in the family.

The cow stretching its head over a stone wall to crop grass on the other side. Mrs. Leary’s cottage, because Mrs. Leary had taught both Nan and herself how to bake brown bread.

She’d take all that with her to look at anytime she felt sad or lost.

Barely a half mile from the cottage, she turned down the bumpy lane. Knowing where they were headed, Lola let out a happy bark and ran ahead.

“Goodbye,” Cate said, and let the tears come because Nina would understand them. “Goodbye,” she said again.

She stood a moment, slim and straight, long black hair flowing down her back. Then followed the dog to make it official.

L.A. poured sunshine. The streets and sidewalks baked under it. Flowers bright and bold pulsed hot. Beyond the walls and gate of the Sullivan estate, traffic snarled and bitched.

In the trendy restaurants, beautiful people talked business over their organic salads and quinoa while beautiful people who hoped to break into the business served them.

The guesthouse had its advantages. She had a beautiful room, full of soft colors and shabby chic, her own bath with a generous shower that pumped out hot water as long as she wanted.

She even had her own entrance so she could slip out, night or day, without going through the main part of the house—a habit she developed and kept up even when her father was working.

She enjoyed the gardens, and seriously loved having a pool.

She could make her own meals if she wanted—Mrs. Leary had taught her how to make more than brown bread—or wander over to the main house to join her grandparents. If they had a dinner engagement, she could sit in the kitchen with Consuela, their cook and de facto housekeeper, beg a meal and conversation.

When her grandfather gave her the script for the part he had in mind, she read it, then devoured it. Then got busy on the work to transform herself into Jute—the quirky, careless best friend of the daughter of the single mother in a sharp little romantic comedy.