“Yer don’t ‘av your I.D. witcha?” the green-eyed, red-haired woman asks. Her tone is friendly, and the accent is lovely, but her face betrays her. She’s looking at me like I’m a complete moron.

“I know it sounds crazy. I’m pretty sure I had it with me in the taxi, but I don’t seem to have my purse with me now.” I don’t mention that I’m still not quite awake or coherent yet after taking the Xanax before I got on the plane. I must look like the American Hot Mess Express that just pulled up to her hotel lobby. My cheeks flame. If I could dig a hole, I’d crawl in it.

She purses her lips together so tightly, they’re nearly nonexistent. “Dead on, dear. Waaat wus your name again?”

I give her my name and all the pertinent details and remind her that the room was prepaid for by my grandmother. She seems satisfied, or takes pity on me, because she hands me a keycard with my room number on it.

“Thank you so much.” If it wouldn’t be inappropriate for me to kiss her, I would. She’s saving me. It appears bad luck is my new M.O. Her looking past me not having identification is the first stroke of luck I’ve had in six months.

“‘Ill yer nade ‘elp wi your luggage?”

“No. I don’t have any. Well, I do, but it seems that the airlines have lost it.” Who knows what my face looked like when I watched the baggage carousel go round and round, empty after all the other passengers moved along with their luggage, and I stood there numbly hoping against hope that mine would somehow materialize.

“Ah, dear. Waaat airline? Oi can gie dem a call for yer.”

“I already met with someone at the airport. They should call me when they locate it.” Shit. My stomach sinks. How can they call me when I don’t have my phone, because it’s in the purse that I left in the cab? I never should have come here.

“Why don’t yer go up an’ git sum rest.” I love the way the Irish put emphasis on R’s. It’s endearing. And it distracts me from the look of concern on her face.

“That’s exactly what I’m going to do.” I turn and walk toward the elevators, flipping the key card through my fingers. While I wait, I check out framed photos of Ireland. Some of the lush, green rolling hills, others of stately old castles. My heart pitter-pats for the first time since I landed.

The room is an average size for a hotel room. At least the ones I’ve stayed at. There are two double beds situated in the middle of the room, a small table with two chairs in the corner and a small desk with a TV mounted above it. Everything is a different shade of maroon, from the comforter to the carpet and curtains.

This would’ve been the perfect room if she could’ve come with me.

The red-eye flight can be taken literally; my hazel eyes are sore and feel as if I scrubbed away at them with sandpaper. The only cure is the all-elusive sleep. Removing my sweater and jeans, I crawl under the covers, snuggle in, and decide it’s best to call Fiona before I rest. My best friend warned me if I didn’t call her when I got settled there would be hell to pay.

“I made it.” I tell her as soon as she picks up.

“Oh, thank goodness. Is it as amazing as it looks in the pictures?”

I go back and forth between how much information I should give her. I don’t want her to worry, but she can also read me like a book. Probably best to go with honesty. “I haven’t seen much yet. The cab ride to the hotel was a blur. I took a Xannie before I got on the plane and had a couple of glasses of wine. You know, to calm my nerves. I don’t remember much after landing and going through customs.” I don’t need anxiety medicine on a regular basis, nor am I a proponent of mixing prescription drugs with alcohol, but my deep-rooted fear of flying trumps all.

“Shit. How are you feeling? You sound exhausted,” she says.

“It could be worse. I didn’t sleep well. Every time a baby cried, or if there was turbulence, I woke up. That’s when I’d order another drink.”

She laughs into the phone. “I’m glad you made it safe and sound. What are your plans today?”

“Well, I’m going to attempt a nap and I’m hoping I can get a hold of my luggage. It didn’t make it to Dublin.”

“That is so your luck.”

Nodding my head, I say, “No kidding. And I can top that, too. Between the airport and the hotel, I managed to lose my purse.”

“What the hell, Lettie? You weren’t kidding when you said you were out of it.”

“Please, spare me. All I wanted was to change my luck and here I am all the way across the Atlantic with a dark cloud still over my head.”

“I’m sorry. Things will get better.”

I chuckle, but there’s no real humor in it. “I doubt it.”

“I’m not sure I should bring this up, but I wouldn’t feel right if I didn’t say anything.” There’s hesitation in her voice.

My curiosity is piqued, there’s no way she’s going to hold back now. “Spill.”

She lets out a long sigh; it’s oozing reluctance. “Mark reached out to me.”

I sit straight up. Damn him. He’s got no right contacting Fiona. I’m angry, but I do my best to keep the edge out of my tone because it isn’t her fault. “Why would he do that?”

“He’s been trying to get in touch with you, but since you aren’t taking his calls, he figured I was the next best thing.”

“What a jerk. I’m sorry that he called you.” She is the last person that needs to be burdened with him.

“It’s okay. He sounded torn up. I took pity on him and listened. Are you pissed?”

I take several calming breaths before I answer her. I am a little upset that she would talk to him. Her loyalty is with me, but it’s in Fiona’s nature to be kind and have empathy, and I love her for that. Maybe I used to be that way. Not anymore. Mark changed that for me. Prick. “I am a little disappointed.”

“He took me off guard. I didn’t recognize his number. I was surprised to say the least when I realized it was him.” Her words come spilling out like the coffee I dumped all over my laptop last week. Fast and sticky.

“I bet.”

“Anyway. He feels terrible for what he did to you. He wants to apologize,” she says.

“It won’t do any good. He doesn’t deserve my forgiveness,” I say.

“I don’t want to upset you. In fact, I wasn’t sure I should tell you at all, especially on your trip, but I couldn’t hold it in anymore. But if you want my two cents, I think you should just forgive him, drop the bitterness, and move on with your life. You’re only hurting yourself.”

“If only it were that easy. Thanks for the advice though.” There’s no sarcasm in my tone. I love Fiona. She’s my oldest and dearest friend, and I know any advice she gives me comes from her heart. She only wants the best for me and the same goes for me with her.

“Please try and enjoy your trip. Take tons of pictures. When you get back, I’ll help you find a new job.” Her voice is soft and encouraging and wraps around me like the blankets I’m under.

Losing my waitressing job last month was a slap in the face. They let me go because the restaurant slows down too much in the fall and winter. I’d rather not be waitressing, but I need a job. I have my teaching degree, but there haven’t been openings in Charlottesville since graduation over two years ago. I keep applying anyway. It’s hard not to get down on myself. “That sounds like a plan.”

“Why don’t you go have a drink?”

I smile thinking about my co-conspirator. If she were here, she and I would be at the pub already. “I think I will after I have a cat nap.”

“Great idea. Call me tomorrow?”

“Of course. Hopefully, I’ll have my cell phone.”

“I didn’t recognize the number you called me from. What is it?”

“It’s the hotel phone. I should go now before I ring up too many more fees that I can’t really afford.”

“Love you,” Fiona says.

“Me, too.”

I hang the phone up and pick it up again. I give the airline a quick call to update them with the hotel phone number so they can reach me if or when they find my luggage. I snuggle back down under the covers. Despite my horrible luck today I’m going to do my best to make this trip a success.

After tossing and turning for a couple of hours, my stomach lets me know it’s time to get up and find some food. Thank goodness, I have some money left in my pocket from the cab ride to pay for a meal. I’ve been prone to insomnia lately, so it’s no surprise that I couldn’t sleep. Every time I close my eyes, my mind wants to hike up a mountain that I have no strength or will to climb. It’s exhausting.

I hang my stale, day-worn clothes on the end of the shower rod, hoping the steam will liven them up a bit. After a hot shower with rose scented hotel shampoo, conditioner, and soap, I’m feeling somewhat refreshed, until I put my clothes back on. What I wouldn’t give for a clean outfit. Without my brush, I make do by running my fingers through my long, blonde, wet strands. It doesn’t look half bad. I rub under my eyes and pinch my cheeks. It could be worse.

When I exit the lobby, I breathe in deeply and fill my lungs with fresh crisp air. I’m in Ireland. It’s early fall and the temperature is perfect: cool, but no need for a heavy jacket. It’s overcast, but it doesn’t look like it’ll rain today. The street is lined with a strip of orange brick buildings and, being at the city center, there is a fair share of honking horns and brakes. Buses and cars line one side of the street, and the opposite side is bustling with pedestrians. I pass a camera store, goldsmith, and drug store. Turning to my right there’s a large sign just down the road that says, “O’Neill’s Pub Home of the best Bangers and Mash in Ireland.” Decision made.

Walking through the doors, it’s dimly lit and full of patrons. It smells of hops and fried food. One wall to my left is lined with old pictures and newspaper articles, and the back wall is lined with what looks like over one hundred beer bottles. The bar is huge with rich, dark woods, and the stools are high-backed and padded. I scan the area and find one empty seat. It’s mine.

“Waaat can oi git for yer?” the dark-haired old bartender asks in an endearingly accented voice.

“I’d love a Guinness, and bangers and mash please.” I’ve been waiting for this ever since my grandmother and I planned this trip just about a year ago now.

“Anythin’ for de juicy American lassie.” He winks at me and wanders away toward the pint glasses where he starts the process of pouring my draft. I guess I’ll take that as a compliment.

The first sip of my beer is heaven, heavy, and thick as it passes my lips and warm as it hits the back of my throat. For the first time since this trip started, things are looking up. Halfway through my drink, the bartender brings me my meal. I load my fork with a large bite. The sausage is spicy and potatoes are buttery, but what makes the dish is the rich onion gravy with a hint of red wine.

“Waaat do yer tink?” the bartender asks.

Closing my eyes and swallowing my mouthful, I answer. “Delicious. Almost as good as my grandmother’s.” She loves to cook. One of the great joys of her life is making a meal from scratch and sharing it with family or friends.

“Best in de British Isles.”

“She is from here.”

“Ah, yeah. Wha?”

“Waterford.”

“Oi nu a gra’many people from dare.”

“How about you? And what’s your name?” I ask before taking another sip of my pint to wash down my dinner.

“Well oi’m Vaughn from Dublin. Dis is me bar.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Vaughn. My name is Scarlette from Virginia.”

“Gran’ ter meet yer.”

“Thank you, Vaughn. Good to meet you, too.”

He nods and walks off to attend to a couple that just sat down at the bar.

Dredging the last of my sausage through the remaining gravy on my plate, I savor it. I wipe the corners of my mouth with a napkin and polish off the rest of my Guinness. The button of my jeans digs into my lower abdomen, the true sign of a good meal. Spinning around in my bar stool, I notice a group of three tall men walk in the pub. They make their way in my direction. One of them is familiar. He’s tall with dark hair and a good amount of scruff. It can’t be him. Shit. I’ve got to get out of here before he sees me.