"Why?" She said it out loud, fl.u.s.tered. "Of course there's a reason why. A dozen reasons why. I live in Chicago. I've always lived in Chicago."

There was no law that said she had to live in Chicago. She wouldn't be chained in a dungeon for relocating.

"Of course not, but- I have to work."

And what have you been doing these past three months?

"That's not work, not really." Her stomach began to jitter, her heart to flutter toward her throat. "It's more of an indulgence."

Why?

She closed her eyes. "Because I love it. I love everything about it, so that must make it an indulgence. And that is incredibly stupid."

It might have been an odd place for an epiphany, on a s.h.a.ggy hill in the middle of the morning. But she decided it was the perfect place for hers.

"Why can't I do something I love without putting restrictions on it? Why can't I live somewhere that's so much more home than anywhere else? Who's in charge of my life," she said on a baffled laugh, "if I'm not?"

With her knees a little shaky, she began to walk again. She could do it; if she could dig down and find the courage. She could sell her condo. She could do what she'd been avoiding out of fear of failure and send a sample of her work to an agent.

She could finally stick, win or lose, with something she wanted for herself.

She would think about it, seriously, carefully. Walking faster, she ignored the voice in her head that urged her to act now, right away, before she could find excuses. It would be a big move, she reasoned, an enormous step. A sensible person thought through big moves and enormous steps.

Jude was grateful when she saw the O'Toole cottage over the hill. She needed the distraction, something to take her mind off herself for a while.

Clothes were already drying on the line, making her wonder if Mollie did laundry twenty-four hours a day. The gardens were in glorious bloom and the little shed as stuffed and jumbled as ever. Betty rose from her morning nap in the yard and gave a welcoming woof that sent Finn into devoted yips as he streaked down the hill toward her.

Jude started after and had just reached the edge of the yard when the kitchen door opened.

"Well, good morning to you, Jude." Mollie sent her a wave. "You're up and about early today."

"Not as early as you, from the looks of things."

"You have yourself a houseful of chattering girls and a man who likes his tea before his eyes are open, you don't have much chance to stay in bed. Come in, have some tea and visit with me while I make my bread."

"I brought your dishes back, and some of the sugar cookies I made yesterday. I think they're better than the last batch."

"We'll sample them with the tea and see."

She held the door open wide, and Jude walked into the warmth and the scents and the clatter of Brenna wielding tools under the kitchen sink.

"I've about got it now, Ma."

"So you'd better." Mollie moved to the stove. "I tell you, Jude, I'm the shoemaker's wife in this house. Off himself goes, as does this girl here, fixing and fiddling with everyone else's matter, while I live with drips and rattles day and night."

"Well, you don't pay a body a living wage, now do you?" Brenna said and earned a light kick from her mother.

"A living wage, is it? And who ate a mountain of eggs and a tower of toast and jam just this morning?"

"I only did so I'd have my mouth full and not tell Maureen to stop her harping on the wedding plans. The girl's driving us all batty, Jude, fussing and whining and bursting into tears for no reason at all."

"Getting married's plenty of reason for all of the above." Mollie set out the tea and cookies, nodded for Jude to sit, then plunged her hands back into the ball of dough she was kneading. "And when your time comes you'll be worse yet."

"Ha. If I was thinking of marriage, I'd haul the man before the priest, say the words and be done with it," Brenna declared. "All this fancy work-dresses and flowers and just which song needs to be played just when. Months in the making for one single day, for a dress that will never be worn again, flowers that will fade and wither, and songs you could sing any d.a.m.n time."

She scooted out from under the sink and gestured with her wrench. "And the cost of it all is sinful."

"Ah, Brenna, you romantic fool." Mollie sprinkled more flour onto her dough and turned it. "That one single day is the start of a life, and worth every minute of time and every penny that goes into it." But she sighed a little. "Still, it does get wearying, dealing with her nerves."

"Exactly." Brenna put the wrench in her dented toolbox and rose to s.n.a.t.c.h one of the cookies. "Look at our Jude here. Calm as you please. You don't hear her blathering on about whether she'll have white roses or pink in her bouquet." Brenna bit into the cookie and dropped into a chair. "You're a sensible woman."

"Thank you. I try. But what are you talking about?"

"The difference between you and my flighty sister. The both of you have weddings coming up, but are you pacing around the room wringing your hands and changing your mind about the flavor of the cake every two minutes? Of course not."

"No," Jude said slowly. "I'm not, because I don't have a wedding coming up."

"Even if you and Aidan have a small ceremony-though how you'd pull that off when he knows every second soul for a hundred kilometers-it's still a wedding."

Jude had to take a breath, then another. "Where did you get the idea that I'm marrying Aidan?"

"From Darcy." Brenna leaned forward for another cookie. "She had it straight from the horse's mouth."

"The horse's a.s.s is more apt."

At the snap of her tone, Brenna blinked and Mollie paused in her kneading. Before Brenna could speak, Mollie shot out a warning look. "Fill your mouth with that biscuit, la.s.s, before you put the rest of your foot in it."

"But Darcy said-"

"Perhaps Darcy misunderstood."

"No, I don't imagine she did." Temper leaped into Jude's throat. When she couldn't choke it down again, she shoved away from the table and got to her feet. "Where does a man get that kind of nerve, that much arrogance?"

"Most are born with it," Brenna said, then ducked her head and winced at her mother's hiss.

"I have to say, Jude, that I myself thought that's where the two of you were heading, seeing the way you are with each other." Mollie kept her voice soothing, and her eyes keen on Jude's face. "When Brenna told us at dinner last night, not one of us was surprised, but we were pleased."

"Told you- at dinner." Jude stopped at the table, braced her palms on it and leaned into Brenna's face. "You told your whole family?"

"Well, I didn't see how-"

"Who else? How many people have you told this ridiculous story to?"

"I-" Brenna cleared her throat. Having a rare temper herself, she recognized the danger signs when they were stuck in her face. "I can't recall, precisely. Not many. A few. Hardly anyone at all. We were so pleased, you see, Darcy and myself. As we're so fond of you and Aidan, and knowing how Aidan can plod about before he gets to the center of things, hoped that the ceili might give him a bit of a boost."

"The ceili?"

"Aye, Midsummer's Eve and the moon and such. You remember, Ma?" She turned to Mollie with a desperate look in her eye. "Remember how you told us the way Dad proposed to you when you were dancing in the moonlight at a ceili? And at Old Maude's cottage, too."