Free Girls Who Travel by Nicole Trilivas Page A

Darlings’ South Kensington house was a bit cold and clattery and taupe (Elsbeth’s fancy way of saying “beige”), but my room had been spared. It was delightfully twee with celestial blue-green walls, a small balcony, and even a doll-sized fireplace.
    â€œI love it.” I rapped my knuckles against a rosewood writing desk. “I feel like I’m living in Downton Abbey.”
    â€œOh, and here are your keys. The skeleton key is for the private garden out front, in the middle of the square of houses. Only residents of Stanhope Gardens get access to that park, which is why it’s locked.”
    Elsbeth then promptly excused herself—she was going tothe gym. “But call my mobile if you need anything, anything at all.”
    Since it was Friday, she gave me the day off. She told me most weekends I’d have to myself, and if I needed to watch the girls, we’d make up those days during the week. She left me with an advance on this month’s salary. When I converted it into dollars, it roughly equated to what I would call “a damn near shit-ton of cash”—more than twice what I made at VoyageCorp.
    I mentally started planning my first weekend trip:
I wonder if Malta is warm this time of year?
    I wrote a quick email to my mom and followed up with a slightly longer one to Lochlon: “You wouldn’t believe the Darlings’ town house,” I started, but as I typed, I was surprised to see a message pop up from the very man I was emailing. I rushed to open it.
    â€œGlad for you about the new job. That’s class, isn’t it? How’d you get on with the trip?”
    I couldn’t read fast enough:
    I have news myself: Looks like the craic is over for me for now. Da’s ill so I’m to go back home to the farm for a short while. My mother’s insisting, so I know it mustn’t be good. Suppose the upside is that we’re to be on the same continent again—for a wee bit, anyway. Maybe everything happens for a reason.
    My pulse deepened and thumped like a bass beat in my ears. My eyes and my heart moved at different speeds. I read the email again and again.
Is Lochlon’s father dying?
    Lochlon wasn’t close to his father (we’d bonded over having absent dads), but my heart throbbed for him at this news: His dad had liver problems, and it had to be serious if his mom asked him to come home from Asia.
    Poor Lochlon and his poor family.
He was the eldest of five; his youngest sister was only eleven. They were still so young.
    But then, an uncensored blip of pleasure bubbled up inside me:
Lochlon is going to be nearby in Ireland.
Immediately, I was ashamed of the insensitive thought.
    I tried to regain focus:
This isn’t about you. His father is dying
, I reminded myself.
    Still, I knew he was quoting me when he said, “Everything happens for a reason.” It was far too American a phrase for him to use, so I knew that the same thought had occurred to him: We were going to be very close to each other. Lochlon’s family lived outside of Belfast. That was just a hop, skip, or a jump (my geography needed some polishing) from London.
    â€œSo sorry to hear that,” I wrote back immediately, hoping he’d get my message while still at the Internet café and that my words would provide the slightest bit of comfort. “Please remember I am here for you. If there’s anything I can do, let me know.”
    I signed off with my new number, since Elsbeth already had gotten me a phone.
    The knot of conflicting emotions tightened in my stomach. To busy myself, I emptied my backpack into the freestanding wardrobe. There was not one “blouse” or “sensible-sized heel” in sight.
    I surveyed my ripped jeans (ripped from overwear, not factory fashion holes); my shabby boots; and my dirty blond hair.I looked like myself again, not a corporate imposter leeched of all color. Technically, I was far from home,