Tall trees hung over the road, blocking out a setting sun. Antonia checked the GPS map and grew excited that she was rapidly closing the distance. “You will approach your destination in one kilometer.”

“Yes, lord!” Antonia cried, slapping her steering wheel. “I did it! I fucking did it.”

When she saw the sign for Tully Cross, a thrill shot through her body. And then she saw the village and realized how accurate the description was. It was indeed a village. The main street that Breda had spoken of was Tully Cross’s only street. There was a small white church with a very small parking lot. Up ahead the lights were on at the pub and locals stood outside under plumes of cigarette smoke.

“You destination is on your left,” Vera announced. “You have reached your destination.”

Antonia spotted the row of white cottages on her left. “Thatched roofs?” She frowned. “Whatever.” If she could just stop the car for the night, she’d be elated. If the place had a hot shower, that would be even better. She peered at the simple cottages with their red doors and cute flower boxes in each window. This was her Irish home for the foreseeable future.

Mr. Creely stooped over her door lock, alternating between jamming her key in the door and peering at it over his thick glasses. He looked up at her in amusement, his pale blue eyes magnified like Mr. Magoo. “Dear girl, we’ll get you inside somehow,” he joked.

Antonia watched his fumbling and wondered when it would be a good time to intervene. “No worries,” she said, shifting her computer bag to the other shoulder.

“These locks, they do as they like.”

“Of course.”

“Eh, there we go.” An ancient click against rusted metal indicated progress. “Like a glove.”

He swung the door open and Antonia smelled the mustiness of the cottage before anything else. She’d need to open the windows immediately. Mr. Creely allowed her to enter first. He followed behind her, shutting the door as he went.

“Please remember that your front door locks from the outside, even without the key. So don’t you go forgetting it when you step out.”

She made a mental note of that as she looked around. To her right, there was a small galley kitchen no bigger than her own in Chicago. To her left, a spacious living room with one couch, a dining table with six chairs, and a small television set.

Mr. Creely led the tour, starting with the kitchen. “You’ve an oven and stove, a refrigerator, and a microwave. This here switch,” he gestured to the wall. “Is for your hot water. You don’t need to turn it on until you want to do the washing up. Speaking of the washing up, you can clean your clothes here.” He pointed to the tiniest washing machine under the cabinet where the microwave sat.

She looked around the small space. “Is there a dryer?”

“Your dryer is the Irish gale,” he said with a chuckle. “There’s a clothesline for every cottage.”