Once I dried off, I became aware of my gnawing hunger. I headed down to the kitchen, an airplane hangar with a stove. Opening the double-size SubZero fridge yielded only disappointment. Empty as a campaign promise. Sighing, I decided a little grocery shopping was in order.
I wasn’t sure what to expect as I went into the garage. There was no car, which was disappointing, but probably saved countless pedestrian lives, given the backwards lanes on the Irish roads. The lack of car did seem curious, though. The garage was littered with mechanic’s tools and auto parts. Someone must have used this space for a car at some point. There was, however, a black bicycle calling my name. I wheeled the bike to the drive, near the fountain. As I brushed the seat off, I noticed a peculiar reddish-brown stain on the driveway. A shudder ran through me as I recalled the uncanny dream I’d had earlier.
Cautiously, I walked to it, and inspected it closer. The stain seemed awfully out of place on the otherwise pristine driveway. It’s crusty texture made me more certain that this splotch was not dirt. Blood? No way... The guy in my dream bled, but... it’s impossible to bleed through a dream into reality. That’s ridiculous.
A loud cawing startled me, and I fell square on my butt with a yelp. Sure enough, another crow, perched on the fountain. It sure looked like the bird was staring down its beak at the mystery stain. “NO! It was only a dream!” I yelled. The bird barely budged. I hopped on the bike, ignoring the bird’s parting caw, and pedaled off toward Westhaven.
◆◆◆
I didn’t get very far before I needed a moment to catch my breath. Maybe I should have taken Katie up on those spin classes, I thought between breathes. I hadn’t seen any sign of a grocery store. But I saw something else that made my heart soar. Oh blessed Saints of Ireland - a coffee shop! My raging coffee addiction was the world’s worst-kept secret. To hell with groceries! I couldn’t resist the temptation to sample the brews this place had to offer. Trying not to straight-up skip in delight, I leaned my bicycle against the brick wall and entered. I gawked at the display cases like a pervert at a peep show with a fistful of quarters. Croissants, crusty loaves of bread, flaky pastries... my mouth watered like Pavlov’s dogs. And even still, nothing compared to the thick, sensuous aroma of the coffee. I could almost taste it’s blissful bitterness. I ordered a local cold brew, that came off a nitro tap. It was as thick and marvelous as a milk shake. Rich. Creamy. Aaaaaah.
I walked back outside to the patio, and sat down at a small wooden table. Without meaning to eavesdrop, (who ever means to...? It just happens), I could overhear a jealous tiff taking place on the sidewalk outside the shop door. One busty young woman was on the arm of a devastating man. I diagnosed the whole sitch immediately. The gentleman was taking her on a morning stroll for coffee that would get her out of his bedroom, but would spare the young conquest taking the old walk of shame alone. (Don’t ask how I sussed that out.)
Unfortunately, their stroll had been interrupted by a second young beauty, who happened to be walking the other direction. When number two noticed hunky Romeo with hot mess bedhead number one... well, as they say in the sit-com world, hilarity ensued.
Only neither girl was laughing. In fact, they were exchanging some remarkable (and anatomically dubious) insults. I sensed that hair was soon to be pulled, nails were ready to draw blood, and at least three groins were in danger of being kicked.
...Then, to my astonishment, Prince Charming took each of them by the hand. He murmured whatever tender assurances were needed to avoid the impending massacre. I couldn’t hear a word of it, but this fucker was smoother than snot on a doorknob. Just like that, he was in through the coffee shop door, alone, and the two girls were left blinking at each other on the sidewalk. Then they each broke off with a huffy hair flip, and proceeded on their separate ways in opposite directions.
Nicely played, Mr. Butter-Wouldn’t-Melt-In-His-Mouth.
A ping from my phone pulled me out of my sociology study. I checked – it was an e-mail from a familiar name.
Ms. Morrigan,
I hope your flight was enjoyable, and I am sorry that I could not meet you at the airport as previously discussed. Mr. Kavanagh said he managed to find you, and made sure you got here safely. Welcome to Westhaven! Do you mind popping round my office to settle up some paperwork? I’ll be more than happy to answer any questions; I assume you have a few more now that you are here.
I look forward to meeting you.
Edward Finn, Attorney
A few questions? That was a bigger understatement than calling the Titanic a maritime mishap. I tapped out a brief reply:
Mr. Finn,
The flight was fine, and Mr. Kavanagh was a great help. I’ll stop by sometime this morning to meet with you.
Thank you,
Keira
Once my text pinged off into cyberspace, I resumed my restorative foray into coffee Nirvana. Sipping in life-affirming caffeine, I glanced around at a picturesque variety of quaint shops, up and down the now peaceful lane. A liquor store, an antique store, a delicatessen, a tobacconist, a butcher, a baker... probably a candle-stick maker on the block next over. The sounds of jingling door chimes filled the air, musical and delicate as the lilt of the locals, with their charming Irish accents.
As my low caffeine count recovered to normal limits, I felt myself coming back to life. I was tempted to take big gulps, but an iced coffee brain freeze had a remarkable tendency to be five thousand times worse than a regular ice cream head freeze. So,
