On the way home, Trent began to sing “Danny Boy” because Saint Patrick’s Day was coming up fast, and he felt the need to practice. Not surprisingly, the rest of us joined in, much to the amusement, at least I hope it was amusement, of our driver. When he pulled up to the gate, the chorus had reached its apex, and I climbed out of the car and paused to conduct them through the last notes of the song.

I punched in the code and disappeared through the gate with a wave. On the walk up the drive to my house, I began to sing it from the top. “Danny Boy” was a favorite, after all. We’d sung it in my high school choir, and I remembered Mrs. Bodwell conducting us with her big grin and her blond bob bouncing as she kept time tapping her foot, which was impressive because being on the petite side, she always wore spiky four-inch heels.

A feeling of victory swept over me as I climbed the steps to my house. I’d wowed a client, gotten rid of Carson at the bar, and survived my first week at a regular job. Feeling relieved that I had two days to recover before it started all over again, I sang the last line at full volume. “Oh, Danny boy, oh, Danny boy, I love you sooooooo.”

I held the last note as long as I could. It felt as if it echoed in the trees above me and shot up into the sky and bounced back down from the stars to echo long after I had stopped singing. Heaving a sigh of contentment, I went inside to brush my teeth and pass out.

I am not a morning person. While I love a good sunrise as much as the next person, I was rarely in a position to see one as I like to sleep through the dawn, rising at the more reasonable hour of seven or, if possible, nine.

Given that the guest house had come furnished, I had to tip my hat to whoever had bought the furniture and the bedding. The sheets were buttery soft, and the comforter was like being wrapped in a fluffy warm cloud. Because I didn’t close my drapes, the relentless sun kept poking me in the eyeballs and I had to pull the blanket over my head and shut out the light. This worked for another hour before my restlessness roused me.

I had decided that today’s mission was to go out and hit all the thrift stores until I found some art to hang on the walls. I didn’t care if it was portraits of scary clowns. I needed something to look at besides a vast expanse of Swiss Coffee–painted walls.