“No. Just friends. The way there is clear, so far as I know.”
The waitress smiled. “Brilliant.” She reeled off orders and it was back to the job at hand.
As Kennedy continued to pour drinks, Flynn and his band tuned instruments. They weren’t the same pair who’d been with him in Dublin, whom she’d traveled with for several weeks as an extra voice. That wasn’t much of a surprise. It’d been—what?—a year or so since they’d parted in Scotland. Flynn would, she knew, go where the music took him. And that sometimes meant changing up his companions. He was as much an unfettered gypsy as she was, which was why they’d become such fast friends. But whereas he didn’t mind a different city or village every night, she preferred to take a more leisurely pace, picking up seasonal work and staying put for two or three months at a stretch. Really immersing herself in the culture of a place. The ability to pause and soak in each new environment gave her both the thrill of the new and kept her from feeling that incessant, terrified rush of not being able to fit in everything she wanted to see or do. It was important to her to avoid that, to take the time to be still in a place and find out what it really had to teach her.
The itinerant lifestyle worked for her. She’d seen huge chunks of the world over the past decade, made friends of every stripe, picked up bits and pieces of more than a dozen languages. Many people saw her life as unstable. She preferred to think of it as an endless adventure. What did their stability give them? Consistent money in the bank, yes. But also boredom and stress and a suffocating sameness. No, thank you. Kennedy would take her unique experiences any day. Never mind that the desk jobs and business suits had never even been a possibility for her. She’d been ill-suited for the education that led to those anyway.
Across the pub, Flynn drew his bow across his fiddle and launched into a lively jig. The crowd immediately shifted its focus. Those who knew the tune began to clap or stomp in time, and a handful of patrons leapt up and into the dance. Kennedy loved the spontaneity of it, the unreserved joy and fun. As jig rolled into reel and reel into hornpipe, she found herself in her own kind of dance as she moved behind the bar. Flynn switched instruments with the ease of shaking hands, playing or lifting his voice as the tune dictated. He even dragged Kennedy in for a couple of duets that made her nostalgic for their touring days. His music made the night pass quickly, so she didn’t feel the ache in her feet until she’d shut the door behind the last patron.
Flynn kicked back against the bar. “A good night, I’d say.”
“A very good night,” Kennedy agreed.
“Help you clean up?”
“I wouldn’t say no.”
They went through the motions with the other staff, clearing tables, wiping down, sweeping up. Mhairi went on home—disappointed. And Kennedy promised Seamus, the pub’s owner, that she’d lock up on her way out. Then, at long last, she settled in beside the remains of the fire with her own pint.
Flynn lifted his. “To unexpected encounters with old friends.”
“Why unexpected?”
“You said yourself you rarely stay more than three months in a place. You’ve already been from one coast of Ireland to the other. I didn’t expect you back.”
“I always seem pulled back here,” she admitted. “The people. The culture. As a whole, I suppose Ireland has been as close as I’ve had to a home base over the past ten years. I’ve spent more collective time in this country than anywhere else combined since I started traveling.”
“How long have you been in Kerry?”
“Coming up on three months.”
“Thinking of settling?” he asked.
Was she? No. She still felt that vague itch between her shoulder blades that she got every time she’d been long enough in a place. She knew she’d be moving on soon, searching for the next place to quiet the yearning she refused to acknowledge. “Not exactly. I haven’t decided where I want to go next. Which isn’t the same thing.” She took a breath and spilled out the news she’d told no one. “I’ve been contacted by a book editor in New York. She wants me to turn my blog into a book.”
“Really?” Flynn’s grin spread wide and sparkling as the River Liffey. “That’s grand!”
It was the most exciting thing to ever happen to her, and she was glad to finally get a chance to share it. “I haven’t said yes.”
“Why not? Are the terms not to your liking?”
“We haven’t gotten that far. I’m still thinking about it.” Still looking for reasons to talk herself out of it.
“What’s there to think about?” Flynn prodded.
“A book means deadlines and criticism and working on other people’s schedules. None of those are exactly my strong suit.”
“Bollocks. Every job you’ve had has been on someone else’s schedule. As to deadlines, how hard can it be to take what you’ve already written and turn it into a book? Not All Who Wander is well-written, engaging, and personal. You’re a talented writer.”
On her better days, Kennedy could admit that. But it was one thing having her little travel blog, with its admittedly solid online following, be read and commented on via the anonymity of the internet. It was a whole other animal turning that into a book that lots of people could read. Or not read, as the case might be. That was opening herself up to a level of failure she didn’t even want to contemplate.
“She’s offered to fly me to New York to meet with her, and I’m thinking about taking her up on the offer. I might feel better about the idea of the project if we talk about it in person.”
“And if you go back across the pond, will you finally take a detour home?”
At the mention of Eden’s Ridge, Kennedy felt some of her pleasure in the evening dim. “It hasn’t really been on my radar as an option.”
“Maybe it should be.”