On the third day, I’m restless.
The cottage feels too small. The village feels too quiet. I need to move, to walk, to do something other than sit and think about everything waiting for me back in New York.
“I’m going for a walk,” I tell my mother after lunch.
“Take a jacket. It’s going to rain.”
“It’s always going to rain.”
She smiles and waves me off, and I head down the narrow road toward the village center.
Ballycotton is small enough that you can walk from one end to the other in thirty minutes. I take my time, nodding at the few locals I pass who recognize me as Siobhan’s son.
I’m near the harbor when I hear children laughing. The sound pulls my attention, and I look over to see two small boys playing in the narrow strip of grass between the road and the water. They’re young, maybe four years old, both with dark hair that’s getting long enough to curl at the ends.
They’re kicking a ball back and forth, or trying to. One of them misses, and the ball rolls toward me. I stop it with my foot and pick it up.
“Thanks, mister!” the closer boy shouts, running toward me with a gap-toothed grin. He’s small and sturdy, with bright, curious green eyes.
“You’re welcome,” I say, holding out the ball.
The boy takes it but doesn’t immediately run back to his companion. Instead, he looks up at me. “What’s your name?” he asks.
“Cass. What’s yours?”
“I’m Finn. That’s Liam, my brother.” He points to the other boy, who’s watching us from a distance with more caution.
“Those are good Irish names.”
“We’re Irish,” Finn says proudly. “We live here.”
“Do you?”
“Yeah. Up the road.” He gestures vaguely toward the eastern edge of the village. “With Mam and the nannies.”
Two women are sitting on a bench nearby, watching us. Nannies, I assume, based on the way they’re dressed and the careful attention they’re paying to the boys. One of them stands when she sees me talking to Finn, her expression polite but guarded.
“Finn, don’t bother the man,” she calls out.
“He’s not bothering me,” I say.
The nanny relaxes slightly but stays standing. “They’re very friendly. Sometimes too friendly.”
“It’s fine.” I look back at Finn, who’s still holding the ball and grinning at me. “How old are you?”
“Four!” He holds up four fingers. “Liam’s four too. We’re twins.”
Twins.
“Do you want to play with us?” Finn asks.
“Finn, the man is busy—” the nanny starts.
“I have a few minutes,” I say.
I don’t know why I agree. Maybe because I’m restless and bored. Maybe because there’s something about these kids that reminds me of my own childhood here, running around the village with Declan and getting into trouble.
Finn’s face lights up, and he runs back to Liam, shouting something I don’t catch. Liam looks less certain but comes closer when Finn drags him over.
