After parking her car in the empty lot at the visitor’s center, Logan Fitzgerald dashed across the narrow cobblestone two-lane road of the small village. There wasn’t a car in sight but as a city dweller, used to skirting bikes, motorcycles, and cars as they sped down the streets, she found the old habit of running as she jay-walked hard to break. She stepped up over the curb to the sidewalk and strolled toward the wooden stairs leading to the quay running parallel to the replica of the ship, the Marcus Hill. The ship sat quietly, tied to the wharf that kissed the riverside. She could almost see the passengers lined up to sail for America, the land where they would escape the famine.
She looked up at the dark gray, thick clouds slowly moving above her head The rain threatening since she left the airport in Shannon, suddenly began. It was a light rain, but the air was chilly and damp. She shivered as she grabbed her wool scarf hanging from her neck and wrapped it around her neck twice, covering her chin and mouth. The zipper of her pink rain slicker stuck as she tried to pull it up. Finally, with all her strength, she gave it a yank. The zipper moved up, covering her handmade cream-colored Irish knit sweater.
She glanced down at the steps in front of her. A thin film of ice began to form on the staircase to the dock. To prevent herself from falling, she grabbed the railing. Slowly, she put one foot in front of the other as she maneuvered her way down the slick flight of steps. Looking out over the water, she stood for a moment on the last step, then walked down the remaining stair. She turned to the wooden lectern standing next to the bottom of the steps on the wet dock.
She watched as the rain increased and the wind picked up. Drops of rain blew in the wind hitting her face as she stared out over the white caps forming in the River Barrow. Her stonewashed jeans and the wool socks she had pulled over her feet before she slipped them into her tooled leather cowboy boots, didn’t keep out the cold. The wintry chill settled into her feet. Her mittens kept her hands warm, but proved to be cumbersome as she tried to turn the plastic covered pages of the manifest of the Marcus Hill. It will be easier without these gloves. She tugged them off. Stuffing them into her pockets, she flipped the pages until she found the sheets listing the passengers, who sailed in eighteen forty-seven. She was overwhelmed by the number of people who left Ireland during the famine.
The wind blew her hair in front of her eyes. Her emerald and diamond ring, left to her by her mother, caught on one of her long, thick curls as she tried to tuck the lock behind her ear. Freeing the strand, she pulled up her hood. She turned the pages, finally finding the sheet where the passengers who sailed from New Ross, Ireland to Boston, Massachusetts on the Marcus Hill during the first week of November in 1847 were recorded. She ran her index finger down the list of passengers, stopping at the name on the bottom of the third row. Here she is, Erin O’Shea. Lost in thought, Logan turned, looked out over the river, and tried to imagine what her great-great-grandmother felt as she left for America.
The screech of the seagulls distracted her as her eyes followed the birds arching over the water. She watched as the river lapped against the dock making the boat repeatedly bump against the wharf. She stared ahead as a fog crept in and began to obscure the ship. The sounds and mist distracted her from studying the passenger list.
Something nudged against her foot and leg. Sidetracked from her thoughts, she looked down at a golden-haired dog as it plunked down beside her. His long tail thumped on the wooden planks of the dock.
“Hi boy.” Bending down, she gave the dog a good scratch behind the ears, then stroked his head ruffling his fur as he sat at her side.
“Good morning. I see you’ve met my dog.”
Hearing a deep voice, she flinched. When she straightened up, raindrops stung her cheeks and face, as her hood fell on her shoulders. She pulled her scarf away from her face. Wiping the droplets of rain from her eyes with the back of her hand, she stared up into compelling, bright blue eyes, straight nose, and defined cheekbones of the man with an Irish brogue, who had just spoken. Raindrops glistened on his tousled, black hair that touched the collar of his jacket. Her eyes followed him as he bent, grabbed his dog’s collar, and attached it to the leash he carried in his hand. His perfectly fitting chino pants and ankle high tan work boots, make him look rugged. When he stood up, after attaching the leash, she noticed his broad chest and shoulders. A warm glow flowed through her. She smiled as he zipped up his dark-brown leather bomber jacket covering a black crewneck sweater and slipped his hands into its slot pockets.
“Hello.” She backed away from the manifest. “I’m Logan Fitzgerald.” She stuck her hand out for a shake and watched him pull his large hand from his pocket and take her much smaller one in his. A warm electric feeling spread up her arm as he gave her a firm shake. She smiled when she heard his low smooth voice, as he spoke again.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. Quinn O’Rourke. You’ve met Donovan.”
She felt him stare at her as she withdrew her hand and brushed away a lose strand of her hair when it fell in front of her eyes. She was close enough to smell his aftershave. The scent was very masculine. There was something she liked about him, and she didn’t know the reason.
She noticed the trace of laughter in his voice, when he spoke, and she stared at his even white teeth when he flashed a devastating smile.
“You’re searching the manifest of the ship. Are you here to find relatives or to tour our island? You better pull your hood up. Your hair is getting soaked.”
Bossy, but kind. She ignored his words. “Both. I always wanted to trace my family and I have some vacation time. I thought I’d spend Christmas in Ireland.” She turned back to the book “Erin O’Shea, twenty-five years old, steerage class. She paid seven pounds,” Logan said softly, running her hand under the line with her relative’s information. She felt a chill run down her spine. “She’s my great-great-grandmother. I found her diary in my grandmother’s attic. After reading it, I decided to see if I could find out about her life, here, in Ireland.”
“I was just closing up the boat and the Visitor Center. At noon, the staff decided, with the bad weather and the prediction of snow, no one would visit for the rest of the day. I told them to go home and I’d take care of things here,” he said as he leaned over and looked at the open page of the manifest. He had an air of authority.
“I’m from Boston, Massachusetts. Our weather is about the same as yours. Sometimes it’s even worse. So I’m used to this. I just thought about seeing the inside of the ship, not the weather.”
“There’s always tomorrow.”
She watched his eyes crinkle at the sides as he smiled.
“You’re right. I’ll be here for three weeks. I have lots of time.” He’s nice and right. She pulled up the hood of her rain jacket, covering her damp hair.
“It looks as if the rain is turning to snow. Would you like to get a cup of tea? Maybe coffee, since you’re from the States?”
She laughed. “Tea would be great. I tried to sit and have a cup everyday with my grandmother.” She liked listening to his Irish brogue as it rolled off his tongue like melted chocolate. Most of the men in her grandmother’s South Boston neighborhood sounded just like him, when they spoke. It made her feel right at home. “I need something to warm me up.”
“I was just going to the pub across the street, follow me.” He pointed up at the weather beaten sign in front of them.
Logan looked up. Her eyes followed his raised hand as he pointed at the sign. “Doyle’s Pub” was written in large black letters and surrounded by a circle of emerald green shamrocks on the sign over the pub door.
“You’ll like this place. It’s a typical Irish pub. A Doyle has always run it so they have never changed the sign. It has been in the same family since sixteen sixty-seven. You’ll warm up fast once you get inside. I’m sure Doyle has a roaring fire going.”
She stared up at the cloud of smoke billowing out of the chimney. “I like the sign.” She looked at the pub as she started to jump over a puddle in the gutter, but she felt him grab her arm with a firm grip and pull her back toward him. “What?”
“Be careful.”
She looked up at the dark gray, thick clouds slowly moving above her head The rain threatening since she left the airport in Shannon, suddenly began. It was a light rain, but the air was chilly and damp. She shivered as she grabbed her wool scarf hanging from her neck and wrapped it around her neck twice, covering her chin and mouth. The zipper of her pink rain slicker stuck as she tried to pull it up. Finally, with all her strength, she gave it a yank. The zipper moved up, covering her handmade cream-colored Irish knit sweater.
She glanced down at the steps in front of her. A thin film of ice began to form on the staircase to the dock. To prevent herself from falling, she grabbed the railing. Slowly, she put one foot in front of the other as she maneuvered her way down the slick flight of steps. Looking out over the water, she stood for a moment on the last step, then walked down the remaining stair. She turned to the wooden lectern standing next to the bottom of the steps on the wet dock.
She watched as the rain increased and the wind picked up. Drops of rain blew in the wind hitting her face as she stared out over the white caps forming in the River Barrow. Her stonewashed jeans and the wool socks she had pulled over her feet before she slipped them into her tooled leather cowboy boots, didn’t keep out the cold. The wintry chill settled into her feet. Her mittens kept her hands warm, but proved to be cumbersome as she tried to turn the plastic covered pages of the manifest of the Marcus Hill. It will be easier without these gloves. She tugged them off. Stuffing them into her pockets, she flipped the pages until she found the sheets listing the passengers, who sailed in eighteen forty-seven. She was overwhelmed by the number of people who left Ireland during the famine.
The wind blew her hair in front of her eyes. Her emerald and diamond ring, left to her by her mother, caught on one of her long, thick curls as she tried to tuck the lock behind her ear. Freeing the strand, she pulled up her hood. She turned the pages, finally finding the sheet where the passengers who sailed from New Ross, Ireland to Boston, Massachusetts on the Marcus Hill during the first week of November in 1847 were recorded. She ran her index finger down the list of passengers, stopping at the name on the bottom of the third row. Here she is, Erin O’Shea. Lost in thought, Logan turned, looked out over the river, and tried to imagine what her great-great-grandmother felt as she left for America.
The screech of the seagulls distracted her as her eyes followed the birds arching over the water. She watched as the river lapped against the dock making the boat repeatedly bump against the wharf. She stared ahead as a fog crept in and began to obscure the ship. The sounds and mist distracted her from studying the passenger list.
Something nudged against her foot and leg. Sidetracked from her thoughts, she looked down at a golden-haired dog as it plunked down beside her. His long tail thumped on the wooden planks of the dock.
“Hi boy.” Bending down, she gave the dog a good scratch behind the ears, then stroked his head ruffling his fur as he sat at her side.
“Good morning. I see you’ve met my dog.”
Hearing a deep voice, she flinched. When she straightened up, raindrops stung her cheeks and face, as her hood fell on her shoulders. She pulled her scarf away from her face. Wiping the droplets of rain from her eyes with the back of her hand, she stared up into compelling, bright blue eyes, straight nose, and defined cheekbones of the man with an Irish brogue, who had just spoken. Raindrops glistened on his tousled, black hair that touched the collar of his jacket. Her eyes followed him as he bent, grabbed his dog’s collar, and attached it to the leash he carried in his hand. His perfectly fitting chino pants and ankle high tan work boots, make him look rugged. When he stood up, after attaching the leash, she noticed his broad chest and shoulders. A warm glow flowed through her. She smiled as he zipped up his dark-brown leather bomber jacket covering a black crewneck sweater and slipped his hands into its slot pockets.
“Hello.” She backed away from the manifest. “I’m Logan Fitzgerald.” She stuck her hand out for a shake and watched him pull his large hand from his pocket and take her much smaller one in his. A warm electric feeling spread up her arm as he gave her a firm shake. She smiled when she heard his low smooth voice, as he spoke again.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. Quinn O’Rourke. You’ve met Donovan.”
She felt him stare at her as she withdrew her hand and brushed away a lose strand of her hair when it fell in front of her eyes. She was close enough to smell his aftershave. The scent was very masculine. There was something she liked about him, and she didn’t know the reason.
She noticed the trace of laughter in his voice, when he spoke, and she stared at his even white teeth when he flashed a devastating smile.
“You’re searching the manifest of the ship. Are you here to find relatives or to tour our island? You better pull your hood up. Your hair is getting soaked.”
Bossy, but kind. She ignored his words. “Both. I always wanted to trace my family and I have some vacation time. I thought I’d spend Christmas in Ireland.” She turned back to the book “Erin O’Shea, twenty-five years old, steerage class. She paid seven pounds,” Logan said softly, running her hand under the line with her relative’s information. She felt a chill run down her spine. “She’s my great-great-grandmother. I found her diary in my grandmother’s attic. After reading it, I decided to see if I could find out about her life, here, in Ireland.”
“I was just closing up the boat and the Visitor Center. At noon, the staff decided, with the bad weather and the prediction of snow, no one would visit for the rest of the day. I told them to go home and I’d take care of things here,” he said as he leaned over and looked at the open page of the manifest. He had an air of authority.
“I’m from Boston, Massachusetts. Our weather is about the same as yours. Sometimes it’s even worse. So I’m used to this. I just thought about seeing the inside of the ship, not the weather.”
“There’s always tomorrow.”
She watched his eyes crinkle at the sides as he smiled.
“You’re right. I’ll be here for three weeks. I have lots of time.” He’s nice and right. She pulled up the hood of her rain jacket, covering her damp hair.
“It looks as if the rain is turning to snow. Would you like to get a cup of tea? Maybe coffee, since you’re from the States?”
She laughed. “Tea would be great. I tried to sit and have a cup everyday with my grandmother.” She liked listening to his Irish brogue as it rolled off his tongue like melted chocolate. Most of the men in her grandmother’s South Boston neighborhood sounded just like him, when they spoke. It made her feel right at home. “I need something to warm me up.”
“I was just going to the pub across the street, follow me.” He pointed up at the weather beaten sign in front of them.
Logan looked up. Her eyes followed his raised hand as he pointed at the sign. “Doyle’s Pub” was written in large black letters and surrounded by a circle of emerald green shamrocks on the sign over the pub door.
“You’ll like this place. It’s a typical Irish pub. A Doyle has always run it so they have never changed the sign. It has been in the same family since sixteen sixty-seven. You’ll warm up fast once you get inside. I’m sure Doyle has a roaring fire going.”
She stared up at the cloud of smoke billowing out of the chimney. “I like the sign.” She looked at the pub as she started to jump over a puddle in the gutter, but she felt him grab her arm with a firm grip and pull her back toward him. “What?”
“Be careful.”
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