“Then you will. Oh, I’ll miss you. Cousin.” With this, Belinda caught Rowan in a hard embrace. “I have to go, before I start blubbering. Call me,” she ordered, scooping up the blouse as she hurried out of the room. “Write, whistle in the wind, but keep in touch.”

“I will.” Rowan walked her to the door of the empty apartment, exchanged one last fierce hug. “Wish me luck.”

“That and more. Blessed be, Rowan.” Already sniffling, she dashed out.

Weepy herself, Rowan closed the door, turned and looked. There was nothing left here, she thought. Nothing left to do. She’d be moving on in the morning. Moving in a way she’d never imagined. She had family in Ireland, and roots. It was time to explore them, and in doing so, to explore herself.

What she’d already learned gave her the foundation to build more.

And if she thought of Liam, if she pined for him, so be it. She could live with heartache, but she couldn’t—wouldn’t—live with distrust.

The knock on the door surprised her; then she smiled. Belinda, she imagined, not quite ready to say good-bye.

But the woman at the door was a stranger. Beautiful, elegant in a simple dress of mossy green. “Hello, Rowan. I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

The voice, that lilt of Irish hills. The eyes, warm, deep gold. “No, not at all. Please come in, Mrs. Donovan.”

“I wasn’t sure I’d be welcome.” She stepped inside, smiled. “Since my son’s made such a fool of himself.”

“I’m glad to meet you. I’m sorry—I can’t even offer you a chair.”

“You’re leaving, then. Well, I’ll give you this as a going-away present.” She held out a box of carved apple wood. “And as a thank-you for the drawing of Liam. They’re chalks, the pastels you wanted.”

“Thank you.” Rowan took the box, grateful to have something to do with her hands. “I’m surprised you’d want to see me since Liam and I … since we argued.”

“Ah.” The woman waved a hand in dismissal and wandered the room. “I’ve argued with him enough myself to know it’s impossible not to. He’s a head like a brick. But his heart isn’t hard.” When Rowan looked away, she sighed. “I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“It’s all right.” Rowan carried the box to the narrow counter that separated the living area from the kitchen. “He’s your son and you love him.”

“I do, very much. Flaws and all.” She laid a gentle hand on Rowan’s arm. “He’s hurt you, and I’m sorry for it. Oh, I could box his ears for it,” she snapped in a lightning change of mood that had Rowan smiling uncertainly.

“Have you ever?”