IN LOVE AND WAR was a concept born several years ago, an idea that wouldn’t go away. Then, about a year after I’d first thought about the story, I had the opportunity to spend part of a winter in County Waterford, near the town of Cappoquin. Previous visits had been in the months of May and June which just precede the tourist season. While I was prepared for the damp, I wasn’t prepared for the short days and many shop and tourist closures. However, we managed to see many sights the average tourist wouldn’t, and we found ourselves the only Americans. I spent the early hours writing, the remainder of each day gathering interviews from a variety of sources: Irish farmhouse cheeses, an Irish school in the Waterford Gaeltacht, an angora rabbit farm where they used the fur for knitted garments, even a pub that catered to Republicans. In a few short weeks I had the bare bones for my plot, occupations for the protagonists, motives for the antagonist.

I returned home, wrote the book, and discovered that my publisher wouldn’t accept a story with an Irish heroine and New York wouldn’t touch a book about the Troubles. I despaired of ILAW ever finding a home, even though it was-and is–my favorite of all the books I’ve written. Oh, people liked it-it was twice a Golden Heart finalist. But nobody wanted to publish it. Sigh.

I kept writing, sold other books, stopped writing and then returned to it. Fast forward to the present and voila! Turquoise Morning loved the story. IN LOVE AND WAR is about Quinn Lawlor, an embittered war correspondent who goes to his ancestral home to heal. He’s wounded in body and soul. He’s disfigured, his television career is over, and he harbors a hatred of political and religious conflict. In the tiny village of Timnagh, he rents a converted castle keep from dairy farmer Meaghann Power. Almost immediately an attraction simmers, but Ms. Power is exactly the woman Quinn shouldn’t love. She has family secrets that would ostracize her from the community she’s lived in her entire life, and they would turn Quinn against her if he knew.

‘But where can we draw water,’
said Pearse to Connolly,
‘When all the wells are parched away?’
‘O plain as plain can be
There’s nothing but our own red blood
Can make a right Rose tree.’
William Butler Yeats

Timnagh, County Waterford, 1993

“Well, my girl, you’ve done it, now!” Brid O’Donnell’s efficient voice sliced through the stillness inside the cheese barn, sharp as a knife through curd.

Meaghann Power straightened, wiped milk-spattered palms on her white apron, and turned toward her aunt. No secret remained long in the village, but the speed with which this particular news had traveled surprised even her. “What have I done, Aunt Brid?” she began.

Arms akimbo, the stout middle-aged woman loomed in the open doorway in a dripping yellow mackintosh. She smoothed wisps of rain-dampened hair from her eyes as moisture pooled beneath her on the barn’s concrete floor. Aunt Brid’s usually set features tightened into a disapproving frown. Outside the barn door, Ireland’s continual rain misted the hillside and ran in rivulets, forming a lake in the driveway.

Meaghann plunged her hands into the sink’s soapy water and groped for the wooden paddle floating on the surface. Please God, not another lecture. She drained the suds and refilled the sink, staring at her work-roughened hands. A paraffin heater in the corner hissed as a drop of water landed on its black enameled surface. Above her a string of incandescent bulbs cast a golden glow over the paint-peeled ivory walls.

“Done?” the older woman snapped. “You invite a single man to live with you, then act as if it’s nothing!” Brid’s voice rose several decibels. “The decent people of the parish won’t be seeing it that way, and neither do I. It’s not seemly for a single woman and a strange man to be livin’ together,” Brid clucked. “This sort of carry-on may happen in Dublin, but not in Timnagh. And not in my own family.” She punctuated her remark with an irate shake of her head.

Caught by a gust of wind, the door behind Brid creaked on its hinges, and Meaghann stepped to the threshold and wrenched it closed. Only then did she face her aunt. “We won’t be ‘living together’. He’s renting the keep. And he’s not a stranger. The Lawlors came from the village.”

Brid gave a humph, then moved to the dusty corner where the heater glowed. “Hardly! They left thirty-five years ago. Besides, you know nothing about him. If you’d come to your senses and take Seamus, you’d not be struggling to run this farm by yourself.”

Meaghann stiffened her jaw. Didn’t she have the Devil’s own troubles trying to keep the place from falling to bits around her without her aunt determined to foist onto her every available man under seventy? With a sigh, she lifted the washed utensils from the sink onto a towel. “Aunt Brid, the truth of the matter is, I don’t want to marry Seamus. I­ ” She paused, not waiting to give thought to her reluctance, then plunged on. “I…don’t want to marry anyone–­least of all Seamus.” She’d wanted to marry once, but that was a long time ago. Then she could afford to dream, now…. Her jaw tightened and she picked up another utensil. Now there was just today, and an endless stream of work, which never quite got done.

Brid’s heavy arms criss-crossed her ample bosom. Ginger brows furrowed as she spoke. “The way I see it, you’ve little choice. I hate to remind you, but you’re growin’ no younger. Seamus is a good man, and a fine farmer.”

Meaghann whirled around, her hand wielding a three-foot paddle like a sword. “Seamus McHenry is fifty-seven years old!”

Brid snorted. “Don’t see as how you can afford to be choosey, girl. You’re goin’ on for forty yourself.”

How well she knew! Noisily, Meaghann expelled her breath, at this point not caring if her frustration carried over in her voice. “You’ve been at this for the last three years. Give it up. Seamus doesn’t want a wife­–he wants a mother for that brood of his. Five young ones and little Cara not out of nappies.”

Meaghann turned her back on her aunt and plunged the still-damp wooden paddle into the milk curd. She gave the curds another swirl, then, satisfied the culture was working, set the paddle on a plate. “I’m managing just fine, Aunt Brid. I don’t need a husband to help me run my farm.”

Bold words, those. She pushed the ribbed cuffs of her cardigan up her forearms. Fact was, she needed help in the worst way.

Jack Power’s daughter wasn’t one to crumble under a little adversity when keeping her farm meant everything­–security, a sense of place–of continuity. She’d grown up here in Timnagh, seeing the cycle of life repeat itself again and again. She loved the welcoming acceptance a small, close-knit community offered, as well as the chance to grow old with those you loved.

But there were times when the load she carried threatened to crush her.

Suzanne lives with her husband in Northern California. They share their mountain home with an elderly cat, several chickens and assorted wildlife that includes a trio of wild turkeys. After retiring from an engineering job in aerospace, she began designing jewelry and teaching water fitness. When not writing or crafting pendants and earrings, she can be found digging in the dirt. Gardening is a passion. You can visit her at www.bellerustique.com or www.suzannebarrett.com.