To Blake, With Love

  Cover Design by:

  Creative Chaos Cover Design

  Copyright–2020 Kathleen Webb

  Editor: Debbie Richardson

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, folklore, mythology, people, or places are used fictitiously. All other names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, and any similarities to actual events, locations, or persons, living or dead, are entirely coincidental.

  All rights are reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any way without the express written consent of the author.

  Other Titles:

  The New Era Saga (Young Adult Superhero)

  The Evolved (book one)

  Growing Hope (book two)

  Choosing Eternity (book three)

  Chronicles of Alderwood (YA Fantasy)

  Mark of Destiny (book one)

  Mark of Fate (book two)

  Mark of Darkness (coming soon)

  Chicago Love Stories (Adult Contemporary Novellas)

  Hard Habit to Break

  Stay the Night

  Anthologies

  From Now On: The Last Words Anthology (Dystopian)

  Side Effects of Progress

  Standalone Novels

  Knights of Riona (YA Fantasy)

  All I Ask (Contemporary Romance)

  Children’s:

  The Very Brave Knight

  Adventures at Bedtime (coming soon)

  A knock at the door is the last thing I want to hear at eight o’clock on a Saturday morning. Before I can open the door, I have to roll out of bed and stumble to the chair to grab a sweater. I’ve never needed much in the way of living quarters, and when you move as much as I do, it doesn’t take much to make you happy. A studio apartment in Lansing, Michigan fits the needs of a twenty-two-year-old single woman; the fact that it’s just two floors above a coffee shop is a bonus. Another more insistent knock makes the door shake before I have a chance to peer through the peephole.

  “Okay, okay, I’m coming.”

  With an exasperated sign, I open the door to a pimply young man in a courier uniform. He’s holding a manila envelope and a clipboard.

  “Are you Blake Molloy?”

  “I haven’t had my coffee yet, but I’m pretty sure that’s my name. What do you want?”

  “I have a delivery that requires your signature,” he holds out the clipboard for me to sign.

  “Who’s it from?” I ask as I sign by the highlighted “x”.

  The courier examines the sheet before handing me the envelope without another word. He didn’t bother to answer my question, so I can’t help but feel like he must hate his job. He just turned on his heel and hurried down the hall toward the stairs. I look down at the delivery I signed for. It’s from my grandfather. Once inside, I make sure to close and bolt the door behind me. Coffee. I’m going to need coffee before tackling whatever mysterious thing Grandpa Molloy sent.

  I grab my favorite snarky mug and a couple of coffee pods for the single-serve machine. It always feels a little sacrilegious to brew coffee pods when I could obtain delicious gourmet coffee downstairs. But gourmet coffee requires pants, and I’m not about to force that evil upon myself unless it’s absolutely necessary. Thankfully, I remembered to pick up my favorite sweet cream from the grocery store the other day, or I’d have a problem. All those purists with their Americano’s and black coffee can pry my creamer from my cold, dead hands. I pour at least double the suggested serving size into the mug once the earthy aroma of Columbian coffee wafted through the air. With my cup in hand, I stare at the envelope on my counter.

  I haven’t seen my family in a little over two years. I’m a bit of a rolling stone, moving from town to town as I try to find a place that inspires my muse longer than a few months. The only people I’ve kept in contact with out of the whole batch of emotionally draining cats are my grandparents. But I’ve always been grandpa’s girl. He’s always understood my reasons for distancing myself from the people who were supposed to love and support me no matter what. My dad isn’t too bad, but he often goes along with whatever my mom says. I try not to think about the last time I saw my immediate family, but sometimes it comes back to me like a lousy movie montage from an eighties drama. It felt like an intervention.

  At the time, I was seriously entangled with a guy I thought I was crazy about. We’d been together on and off for a few years, but I just wasn’t sure if my feelings were the kind of love that spells forever. Vince was a great guy, but something about him made me hesitant. Anyway, he proposed to me on our anniversary. It was sweet, he told me it was time to make things official and that he was tired of the on again off again nature of our relationship. What happened next set things in motion that caused my life to spiral out of control. I froze. I didn’t say a damn thing. There was Vince down on one knee with a beautiful ring in a tiny velvet box, and I hesitated. I wasn’t sure about him, about my feelings for him, so I couldn’t say yes. Before I could try to salvage the situation, Vince stormed off, leaving me sitting in a swanky sushi restaurant in Boston. I hate sushi.

  The next day, my mother called and insisted that I come for a visit that evening. It seemed like a good idea to talk to my parents and younger sister about what happened between Vince and me, so I agreed to come for dinner. Nothing could have prepared me for what I faced when I walked through the door of the home I’d grown up in.

  I was surprised to find both Vince and Maeve, my little sister sitting on the couch. In the chairs on either side of the sofa, sat both James and Bridgette Molloy, my parents.

  “What’s this all about?” I asked, looking between each of them.

  “Take a seat, Blake,” mom suggested.

  “Um, no thank you, I’ll stand.”

  My mother heaved an exasperated sigh, “Must you always be so difficult?”

  I shrugged and looked at Vince, “Do you want to tell me why you took off last night? You didn’t even give me time to respond.”

  Vince wouldn’t look at me. He’d just proposed the night before, and now he couldn’t even make eye contact. I remember thinking someone was dying or someone had died, and they didn’t know how to tell me. It was the only reason they would all be sitting together, looking like someone had run over the family dog. A quick glance toward the kitchen told me Rufus, the Cocker Spaniel, was still alive, munching away at his morning kibble.

  “What’s going on?” I asked, turning to my dad.

  “I slept with Vince,” my sister dropped the bomb.

  I remember being completely shocked. My mind went through a series of reactions, none of them seemed to quite reach the level of rage and heartbreak I was feeling. I blinked for a few moments, my head was spinning, I could hear the blood pounding in my ears. How could Vince go from proposing to me to sleeping with my sister in one night?

  “I’m sorry, what?”

  “What your sister should have said is, we’ve been sleeping together for quite some time,” Vince explained.

  “Are you fucking kidding me? You proposed to me last night, and you’ve been sleeping with my sister?” I felt the screech tearing at my vocal cords as I turned my attention toward my sister, “And you! I thought we were best friends. How could you do this to me?”

  “Blake, you need to calm down, sometimes things just aren’t meant to be,” my mother chastised my reaction.

  I shake my head to clear the memory away. It remains one of the most ridiculous and painful days of my life. As it turned out, Vince proposed because he didn’t think Maeve was serious about him. He had decided to marry me but keep sleeping with my little sister on the side. The worst part of it all was how my parents handled the situation. I could have accepted that Vince didn’t
want to be with me, how could I blame him? I wasn’t even sure I wanted to be with him! But the betrayal of discovering that my sister had been boinking my boyfriend cut me far deeper than I could handle. I left my family home that day and never looked back. Of course, my parents have tried to reach out to me, as did my sister, but none of them ever uttered the words I needed to hear most; I’m sorry.

  Now I’m staring at an envelope from the grandpa who made an effort to see me and talk to me on a regular basis. He always knew where I was living and even sent me checks from time to time to support me as a starving artist with a blog. Nothing he’d ever sent required a signature, and everything he sent was prompted by a phone conversation. I grab the manila envelope and turn it over in my hands, something loose inside slides to the other end with a thunk. Just before I started to tear the edge of the envelope open, my cell phone starts chirping from the nightstand.

  Leaving the envelope on the counter, I rush to my phone, expecting the call to be from Grandpa Molloy. He would explain whatever it is that the mysterious package contains. Instead of showing Grandpa’s phone number, I nearly throw the phone across the room when I see it’s my sister calling. My blood ran cold. I haven’t spoken to that bitch since finding out she was a sneaky slut. Why on Earth did she think I would answer her now? I let it ring as I return to the kitchenette and drop the phone on the counter. I grab the envelope again. Almost as soon as I tear it open, my cell phone rings once more; no, it’s my mom. I’m not going to fall for whatever reunion bullshit they’ve cooked up this time. I reach in and pull a letter out of the packet and peek inside. There’s a key at the bottom.

  “Hmm, that’s odd.”

  The obnoxious ring startles me again. For the love of all that’s holy, I cannot take my family psycho dialing me when I’m in the midst of a mystery. But this time, when I pick up the phone, the caller ID indicates it’s my grandparents' landline. Something must have happened, but I would definitely rather talk to my grandpa about it than anyone else.

  “Hello?” I say after sliding the green phone icon to the center.

  “Blake? Honey?”

  “Dad? Why are you calling from Grandpa Molloy’s? It’s not a holiday.”

  “No, honey, it isn’t. Listen, we need you to come back to Boston. Nana called this morning and told me the news. Turns out, Grandpa has been sick for a long time and didn’t want to worry anyone.”

  The pause on the other end is accented by the sound of my father trying to fight back his tears. No. I know what he’s going to tell me. I can feel it in my gut. I can’t handle the heartbreak.

  “Honey, grandpa passed away last night.”

  I hang up the phone and drop it on the bed. I couldn’t respond, I couldn’t even speak. The tears cloud my vision as I pick up the handwritten letter from the man I will never see again. If he had been sick for a while, he knew he was dying. He must have written this letter to me knowing full well he wouldn’t be alive when I received it. When my phone rings again, I stuff it under a pillow on the bed. I sit down with the envelope and pull the blankets up over my legs.

  To Blake,

  I’m sure you’re wondering why I would write you a letter rather than picking up the phone to call you. I wish I could hear your voice, but if I did, I’m afraid I wouldn’t be able to tell you everything you need to know. I’ll get the tough stuff out of the way. I’m sick, kiddo. I’m dying. I found out a few months ago when I went for a routine check-up. It’s aggressive cancer, and we didn’t catch it in time to even prolong my life for a few months. I’ve decided to try to enjoy my last few days on this Earth rather than suffering by pumping my body full of poison meant to slow the inevitable. By the time you receive this letter, I will probably be gone. The nurse who keeps me comfortable tells me my body is shutting down. Before I lose all sense, I’m forcing myself to write you this letter.

  My sweet Blake, you were my first grandchild, the absolute joy of my existence. I love you more than words can express. Of course, I love all my grandchildren, but you have always been my buddy. I know things have been hard for you in recent years. I don’t blame you for cutting your parents and sister out of your life; it’s been a source of contention between your father and me every time we talk. I know you well enough to see the heartbreak of losing Vince is not what has kept you away these past few years. The betrayal of those who were supposed to love and support you was what drove you away.

  I don’t talk about my past much, you know that. But, I feel some explanation is necessary considering what I am going to ask you to do. I was the eldest of seven children born to my parents. We lived on a farm in Kinnitty, a tiny town in County Offaly. After our parents died, it was down to me to carry on the family tradition of operating the dairy farm. Your nana and I wanted nothing to do with the dairy business. We had other plans, we wanted to emigrate. Both of us wished to adventure, we wanted to start over in America. Our family had lived in the same town for generations, and to emigrate was like chopping down the family tree and setting it on fire. Before we left, I made arrangements for my brothers to continue to operate the farm. We converted the manor house into a bed and breakfast and hired a manager to take over.

  I never saw my family again. I still own the farm, the dairy business, and the bed and breakfast. We make good money off that business and make sure all of my siblings receive their fair share of the profits. They cash their checks, but they’ve never forgiven us for what we did with our lives.

  It is the greatest regret of my life that I never returned to make amends with my siblings. I never set foot in my homeland again. If Ireland is in your blood, you never stop feeling the call to return, but I ignored it. I built my life in Boston, grew a family of my own. Now, as I face my final days, I wish I’d done more to mend what was broken. I wish I’d taken my family back to Kinnitty to see what my parents built, and my brothers kept running. I wish I’d shown you where you came from. Out of all my grandchildren, you are by far the most like your Irish ancestors. Not only in appearance but in personality. You’re stubborn, willful, and blunt. You have a fire in you that cannot be extinguished no matter what you face. You’re strong. Stronger than I ever was. And that is why I am going to ask you to do something for me.

  In this envelope, you will find the key to the bed and breakfast and a one-way plane ticket to Ireland. I’ve made all the arrangements for you. The caretaker knows you’ll be coming and will pick you up from the airport in Dublin. I need you to go home for me. Take the piece of me you carry in your heart back to my home and make amends with my family. But, while you’re there, I want you to find yourself.

  You have always been a free spirit. You never really wanted to settle down. I remember when you were little, you’d tell me that you never felt like you were home. Blake, my beautiful granddaughter, I want you to find yourself and love what you see. Please, do this for me. Go to Ireland, discover yourself, tell the world about your journey in that blog of yours. I’ve loved reading about your travels so far, imagine the doors that will open in your mind when you go on a mission to find your way in this world.

  With love,

  Grandpa

  I stare at the letter as the tears reform in my eyes. The plane tickets are tucked in a smaller envelope. He arranged everything. I’d be flying out of Capital Region International Airport in two days. Lansing feels just as much like home as every other town I’ve settled down in over the past few years. There’s a pang of guilt nagging at me when I think about leaving this apartment behind, but it’s a month by month lease. Nothing is holding me in Michigan, let alone in the United States. I pick up the key to the Molloy Bed and Breakfast. I’ve got no idea where Kinnitty is, let alone County Offaly. Looks like it’s time to use the Google. As much as I don’t want to look at my phone, I grab it and start my search. Of course, I knew my grandparents came over from Ireland when they were young. They still had thick accents even after living in America for nearly fifty years. There are so many unanswered questions surrounding m
y grandfather's past that it makes me desperate to do some research. Time to break out the big guns.

  I grab my laptop and start looking for whatever I can find about the Molloy family. There really isn’t much online, not even when I dig deeper by looking for the Molloy’s from Kinnitty. Maybe searching for my nana’s maiden name, which also happens to be why my parents chose to name me Blake. Because I know so little about their lives in Ireland that I can’t be sure if anything I found could really be linked to nana’s family.

  The insufferable ring of my cell phone nearly makes me jump out of my skin. Now my father is calling from his own cell phone. After staring at the screen for a few seconds, I answer the call.

  “Hello?”

  “Blake! We’ve been calling you non-stop.”

  “Yeah, I put my phone on do not disturb for a bit. I had something pressing that required my attention.”

  There’s silence on the other end of the line. Of course, my dad probably didn’t have a clue that his father sent me this package. Beyond any of that, he clearly has no idea why I’ve been avoiding them all these years.

  “Listen, everyone has different reactions to receiving news like this. But we want you to come home. The funeral is in two days.”