7
The bus had smelled like recycled air, old coffee, and bodies that had been sitting too long. Emma slept in fragments between Dublin and Galway, her head against the window, jolting awake whenever the driver braked. Two days of travel sat behind her eyes. Sydney to Singapore. Singapore to Dubai. Dubai to Dublin. Dublin to Galway by bus because the connecting flight to Knock had already gone and she couldn’t bear to wait in the airport another four hours.
Trish had been leaning against her car outside Ceannt Station, waiting for her, wrapping her up in a hug. She’d taken Emma’s bag and suitcase, put it in the boot, and said nothing for the first ten minutes, which was exactly right. Emma’s throat had closed with something between grief and gratitude.
Now she stood in her own kitchen for the first time in five years, her rucksack against the table leg, her suitcase in the hallway, her passport still in her back pocket. The place smelled like unfamiliar washing powder and lemon cleaning spray. Trish had done a good job turning her home into an Airbnb. They’d split the profits, and it had worked out well for them. The counters were clean. A fresh tea towel hung on the oven handle.On the table sat a card from the last guests, a couple from Hamburg who’d writtenLovely stay, beautiful villagebeneath a drawing of a sheep.
Emma picked up the card. Set it down again.
Thankfully, no one was booked in this week. Although they did have bookings for August, and Emma knew they’d have to cancel them.
The homesickness that had been bubbling up for years was too much and being back here only confirmed it. She wasn’t going back to Australia, and she should have come back sooner.
She’d known. That was the thing she kept coming back to, the thought that had followed her from Sydney and was waiting in her kitchen. She’d known when she booked the flight five years ago what she was risking. Bridget was in her eighties. There was every chance that goodbye would be the last one.
They’d had maybe one or two phone calls a year, at Christmas and for Bridget’s birthday, but Emma had written a letter every month or two, because Bridget didn’t want to fuss with technology, and Emma couldn’t bear the thought of not staying in touch with her.
Emma swallowed down the lump in her throat.
She’d been too late. Three hours too late for the reposing that had already finished up next door. Too late for the neighbours who would have filed through Bridget’s kitchen with handshakes and condolences. She’d been too late to join the queue.
Too late to say goodbye.
The guilt was worse than the grief.
Emma pushed those thoughts away, freshened up, and went outside.
The night air was damp, carrying the scent of wet grass and the distant sound of the river. Bridget’s roses grew over the low stone wall, their smell sharp and familiar. Emma gripped the door frame until her breathing steadied.
She walked to Bridget’s back door and knocked.
Natalie opened the door and the sight of her hit like cold water. Her dark hair fell loose in waves that caught the low light from the hall, framing those Tierney eyes. They were the same piercing blue Emma remembered, but heavier now, exhausted, and they fixed on her like she might vanish if she blinked.
She was beautiful. The thought came out of nowhere, and Emma couldn’t push it away. How could she look so beautiful when she was clearly grieving?
“Hi.” Emma’s voice was rough. She hadn’t planned for this moment. She’d been so consumed with the idea that Bridget was gone.
Natalie’s knuckles were white against the door. “Hi.” Then she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around Emma.
Emma leaned into the hug without meaning to, her arms sliding around Natalie’s waist as if the last five years had never happened. The last few days would have hollowed her out. Bridget gone without warning. The house suddenly too quiet. Emma’s own guilt pressed against her ribs like a bruise that wouldn’t stop aching.
When they finally stepped apart Emma met her gaze.
“I’m sorry.” Emma’s voice cracked on the second word and she let it. “I’m so sorry, Natalie.”
Natalie’s hand found Emma’s arm and squeezed once, then rubbed a slow line from elbow to shoulder and back. The touch was deliberate. Grounding, the way you’d steady someone who’d just come through a door they weren’t sure they’d find open.
“I’m sorry too. I know how much she meant to you.”
Emma’s chest seized. The wordmeantinstead ofmeans—such a small difference, but it settled behind her ribs.
“Come in.” Natalie stepped aside. “I’ll put the kettle on.”
The kitchen hadn’t changed. The same yellow walls, the same clock ticking above the dresser. The table had been pushedagainst the far wall. Emma understood why when she saw the chairs arranged in the living area and the shape beyond the half-open door.
She sat while Natalie filled the kettle and clicked it on. The sound cracked something in Emma’s chest. That sound had started every day in this house for as long as she could remember.
“I’m sorry I didn’t find a way to contact you.” Natalie took down two mugs from the press. “I only thought to look through her phone yesterday and I just.” She set the mugs on the counter. “I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know if you’d want to come back or if I should push the reposing out a few days and I was making decisions about ten different things at once and I just... I didn’t know what to do.”
