Brigid did not look toward the tour bus.
Her eyes remained fixed on the photograph inside the blue folder.
It showed two young women standing beside the same green farmhouse door.
One was Brigid’s grandmother, Maura, recognizable from the framed portrait above the mantel.
The other woman was younger, dark-haired, and smiling as though the person behind the camera had just made her laugh.
I knew that smile.
It had belonged to my grandmother, Eileen.
For most of my life, I had known her as a careful woman who saved string, folded wrapping paper for reuse, and never wasted bread.
She spoke warmly about Ireland in general but became silent whenever anyone asked about the village where she had grown up.
Yet in the photograph, Eileen looked unguarded.
One arm was linked through Maura’s.
Their boots were muddy.
A basket of eggs sat between them.
On the back, someone had written a date and four words.
Brigid read them aloud.
“Before Eileen went away.”
A knock struck the front door.
Declan’s voice followed immediately.
“Hello? We need assistance.”
Brigid closed the folder.
“What does he want?” she asked.
“He left me here twenty minutes ago.”
Her face hardened, though her voice remained calm.
“That isn’t what I asked.”
I looked through the window.
The bus had stopped at an angle beside the stone wall.
Steam rose from beneath its hood.
Passengers stood in the rain while Declan gestured at the driver.
“I think he wants rooms,” I said.
Brigid gave a short, humorless laugh.
“Of course he does.”
She opened the door but did not invite Declan inside.
He stood on the step in his expensive raincoat, water shining on his hair.
His confidence returned the moment he saw me at the kitchen table.
“There you are,” he said, as though I had wandered away from him.
“We’ve had a mechanical issue.
I need to use the phone, and we may require temporary accommodation.”
Brigid folded her arms.
“You put this woman out on the road?”
Declan’s smile tightened.
“She elected to leave the tour.”
“He pushed my suitcase out,” I said.
Several passengers had gathered behind him.
The woman who had lowered her eyes on the bus now looked directly at Declan.
“You tore her letter,” she said.
Declan turned sharply.
“That is not relevant to our current problem.”
“It is in this house,” Brigid replied.
She stepped aside, but only far enough to address the passengers.
“You’re wet.
Come into the sitting room.
Leave your shoes near the mat.”
Declan moved forward with them.
Brigid raised one hand.
“Not you.”
His face reddened.
