Page 7 of Beneath the Quiet

The warmth her words bring me feel like the softest blanket, and I wrap them around me in comfort. “Thank you.”

She wraps her long cardigan around her small frame and ties the belt. I admire the beautiful light-blue knitted scarf wrapped loosely around her neck, the pattern so intricate and delicate I want to reach out and find out if it’s as soft to the touch as it looks like.

“Let me know once you’re fully settled in at Rose Hill cottage. We’ll go out, have some fun. Not here, obviously.” She grins and puts her hands in the pockets on her dark-blue corduroy skirt that falls almost down to her toes. “But we can spend a day in Cork, do some shopping?”

Touched by the offer, I nod. “I’m not quite there yet, but I’ll let you know.”

“No worries.” She turns her back, her raven-black bob swinging. “I’ll let you get on with your day. See you later.”

“Thanks again,” I call out to her retreating back and then look down at the gift in my arms. The basket is heavy making me wonder just how much Roisín brought. I make a quick decision and walk back to the reception desk.

“Franny, didn’t you say you have a knitting club?”

She nods, glasses perched on her nose. “We meet every Monday.”

“Perfect.” I prop the basket on the desk separating us. “Want to bring some baked goods for your meeting tonight?”

She claps her hands in front of her.

“Ooh, are you sure?”

“Of course. There’s no way I can get through all of it on my own, or I’ll end up as big as a house.”

Franny clucks at me as she gets up from her seat. “I can never say no to Roisín’s treats, but since it was a gift from her to you, I will only take a few pieces. I’ll go find something to put them in. Back in a bit.”

“Deal.”

I release the breath I hadn’t realised I was holding, and as I do, a small grain of hope starts to settle inside me. I’ve never been good at small talk or creating connections, even superficial ones, but perhaps I can finally learn those vital life skills here.

Growing up in foster care doesn’t always give people the life lessons they need, and making friends was what I had the hardest time doing. Even though Nellie and Jack, my last foster parents, worked wonders with me, it’s still what I’ve always found the most difficult when I’m not a natural extrovert.

In one day, I’ve managed not to break out in a sweat by talking with a few people, and one even wants to get to know me better. While the nerves are always there, never far away and reminding me that I'll always have to watch my own back as no one else will do it for me, there is a different feeling beside it. One that doesn’t make me nervous.

Cloonmara might just be what I need–even though it comes with a nosy boss and an old bull that won’t be kept locked inside no matter how hard I work to keep it there.

Chapter Three

Maeve

Ihave plenty of time to think every day when I leave the police station for the evening. As I walk home to my rented cottage, I have no choice but to deem this the Mondayest of all Mondays. My back is killing me after the tumble I took, and I’m convinced there’s still plenty of mud hidden in my hair and scalp.

Not to mention the fact that one of the most gorgeous men I’ve ever laid my eyes on saw me at my worst.

The crisp evening air whips my hair around my face, making me pull my scarf up to cover my mouth to stop my teeth from chattering. While I’m no stranger to the wildness of the sea around these parts, the hint of winter that still wraps its icy talons around us here has caught me by surprise. I wish I’d kept an extra cardigan or sweater at the office to keep me better protected before I headed home.

Home.

An innocent, simple four-letter word, and one that should fill me with warmth.

But it doesn’t. Instead, it reminds me of the loneliness that always follows me wherever I go. There were even times when I was still with Colin when he couldn’t help me chase the loneliness away.

I stop walking for a moment and turn on the path to stare at the horizon. I breathe in the fresh sea air, and my lips turn up at the corners as the smell of sea salt teases my nostrils. It’s difficult to remain in a bad mood when I look at the beauty in front of me. Green and blue hues mix with the white waves, and the sun is setting far out, drawing a grey cloak over the sky. The land cannot be mistaken for anything other than an extraordinary and breathtaking beauty that mankind must protect at all costs. Even though the sea far below the cliffs rages and roars, the sound calms me, and I turn back to the path leading me to Rose Hill, the cottage my friend, Eliza, is letting me rent for the time being. Only a fifteen-minute walk from the station, it’s the perfect temporary home for someone like me who’s practically always only had ten moving boxes of personal belongings to carry when moving to a new place.

Growing up in foster care teaches you not to grow attached to things.

Or to people, for that matter.

The cottage is surrounded by a white picket fence, and the house itself is white with a thatched roof that Eliza told me had only been added two years ago. She inherited it from her maternal great-grandmother and has only been to visit a few times since then, as her job as an art conservationist in Oxford keeps her so busy that she and her husband, Hugo, rarely have time to visit.