A New Release! The Rosewood Whistle

Cover Design by Nika Dixon

I've been busy putting the finishing touches on my latest story, a contemporary romance set in western Ireland and Dublin. I'm happy to say, the book is out, on Kindle and in print!

The Rosewood Whistle is something different for me. No fairies, no parallel worlds, just a tribute of sorts to Ireland's traditional music, spellbinding legends, and unique humor told through the cautious but compelling relationship of a man and woman offered a second chance at love.

Here's the Blurb:
Surrounded by Ireland’s music and myths, a widowed American writer meets a tour guide leery of love…

On her own at the end of a long and difficult marriage, Gemma Pentrandolfo still hears the critical voice of her husband taunting her from his grave. To foster her independence, she schedules a summer vacation in County Mayo intending to write her first book, and she=s counting on Ireland for inspiration. An idea presents itself when she explores Achill Island with a silver-tongued tour guide whose good looks prompt her to write more than her high-minded novel: she transcribes her years of longing in a steamy fantasy no one is meant to see.

Years have passed since an accident claimed the self-absorbed wife who scorned Ben Connigan and his music. Since then, the former tin whistle ace has avoided marriage, though he never lacked for female companionship before he traded his high-tech career for the slow-paced life of a hometown tour guide. Ben has accepted the end of his run of discreet affairs, until he takes Gemma touring. Her passion for Ireland impresses him. Her love of Irish music soon compels him to dust off his whistles. Knowing she'll leave at the end of the summer, he sees no harm in keeping her company—until he dares to dream of spending the rest of his life with her.

But he knows it can't be, not while the ghosts of their partners still haunt them. Not unless the music and myths of Ireland can help them find their way…

And an Excerpt:
Scully tapped his arm. “Go buy her a drink, Ben.”

“What?”

“You’re staring at her like she’s one of them feckin’ U F of Os.”

“She’s windin’ your clock, Big Ben,” said Tom. “Be said and led by me: paddle the wave when it comes along. Buy the woman a bloody drink.”

A vigorous nod bespoke Scully’s agreement. “At least give her your business card. She’s a Yank. Probably wants to see the sights. Trace her roots and all that shite.”

Ben raised a hand. “Back off. I need no advice from a pair of henpecked husbands wearing their wedding rings through their noses.”

Undaunted, Scully and Tom tilted their drinks to their smirking mouths. The gleam in their eyes dared Ben to act. Despite their jowls and glasses, they might have been fifteen again.

He wasn’t about to reveal the incident with the hose to these two. They didn’t have to know he only meant to apologize, not initiate farcical courtship rituals.

So why did a pendulum swing in his chest, its speed increasing with every stroke?

Something to do with her drenched blouse and pants. Would she remember him? Accuse him and his garden hose of lewd behavior? He swallowed a mouthful of beer and wiped his hand across his lips. The pendulum slowed. Aware of the eyes digging into his back, he kicked himself out of his chair and swaggered to her table.

She read her menu through little gold glasses. Tiny laugh lines enhanced her eyes and her curving lips. No lipstick. Ben liked that. She held the one-page card in her long slender fingers. No nail polish.

No paint nor powder, no none at all…

And no wedding ring. Scully was right about that at least.

She frowned at the menu as if she couldn’t decide what to order. He thought he might suggest the soup, or perhaps the fish and chips, or maybe…

He’d reached the chair where she’d laid her coat. She sensed him there, for she looked up. Eyes as brown as Belgian chocolate widened in surprise. Her mouth fell open; her cheeks turned crimson. No doubt about it, she knew him. Now what?

Fortune favors the bold, and all. Exploiting her befuddlement, he pounced. “We haven’t been properly introduced. I’m Ben Connigan. Might I sit?"

Her eyes returned to their normal size; the red in her cheeks softened to a tea rose hue. She slipped off her glasses and smiled at him, and his heart flopped like a fresh-caught trout.

* * * * *

To learn more and read additional excerpts,

visit The Rosewood Whistle Page on my website.

* * * * *

The Rosewood Whistle / eBook Available from

Amazon Kindle

Barnes & Noble Nook

Available in Print from
Amazon
 

A Most Feminine Sea Captain

Statue of Grace O'Malley at Westport House

The Town of Westport (Cathair na Mart in Irish: the City of the Beeves) is nestled on the Atlantic coast of western County Mayo, the heart of Pirate Queen Grace O'Malley's territory. Westport is one of Ireland’s few planned towns. In the eighteenth century, the Browne family, owners of the magnificent Westport House, commissioned James Wyatt to design the town to accommodate their workers and tenants. The Brownes are direct descendants of Grace O’Malley, and Westport House stands atop the remains of one of her many castles. Her dungeons are still beneath the house, and we viewed them as part of the self-guided tour we recently enjoyed for the second time.


Dungeons of Westport House





Entrance to Westport House

 

Before visiting Westport House, we spent a pleasant morning strolling the flower decorated stone bridges crossing the Carrowbeg River, the lovely tree-lined Mall, and the town’s inviting streets. We reacquainted ourselves with favorite shops and pubs before stopping into the Tourist Office for a schedule of the ferries that ran to our destination for the next day: Clare Island, the onetime headquarters of Grace “Granuaile” O’Malley. That evening, we attended a Sean-nós dance presentation called Granuaile, loosely based on the life of—you guessed it—Grace O’Malley.



Clare Island Harbor

The next morning, we drove to Roonagh Quay and caught the ferry for a twenty minute ride across Clew Bay. A rainbow shot over the sea as we approached the hills and cliffs of Clare Island, whose most famous resident was sixteenth century chieftain Grace O’Malley. We went ashore and headed straight to the remains of her castle. The square tower wasn’t as big as I expected, but it was still spectacular to see.



View from Clare Island



Grace O'Malley's Castle
Clare Island




Born around 1530, Grace O'Malley was the only child of Dudara “Black Oak” and Margaret O'Malley. The O'Malley clan had ruled over the Clew Bay area for centuries, making their living as seafaring merchants. Even as a young girl, Grace wanted to follow her father to sea. Her parents tried to dissuade her, stating as one of their arguments that her hair would become ensnared in the ship’s rigging. Undaunted, Grace cut off her hair, earning her the nickname Grainne Mhaol, or Grace the Bald, later shortened to Granuaile. She sailed with her father, and legend has it that on one voyage, pirates boarded their ship. Grace saved her father’s life by jumping on the back of a pirate who threatened him. Her refusal to accept English rule eventually landed her at the court of Queen Elizabeth I, where she was received as a queen in her own right. Grace and Elizabeth died in the same year, 1603.



Ruins of Cottage on Clare Island







Clare Island Abbey



Soaking up the history around us, we hiked along roads bordered by buzzing hedges of brilliant red fuchsia, coming at last to the Clare Island Abbey, which houses a canopied tomb in which Granuaile is supposedly interred. The ancient church was locked, but we explored the grounds and hiked some more before returning to the harbor. Too late for the early ferry and much too early for the last ferry, we thought to find a pub or restaurant, but tourist season was past and the restaurants were closed. We met a couple from Dublin in the same proverbial boat, and together we prevailed upon a local hotelier to open up for us. Drinks in hand, we shortened the rest of the afternoon by exchanging delightful tales with our new friends.

Another rainbow arched across the sky when we returned to Westport, a good omen for the next day’s jaunt to Connemara.

Knock Moo

Bridge in Westport Town

The Town of Westport, County Mayo, served as our base of operations during our recent visit to Ireland. As Westport is only 80 miles north of Shannon Airport, we drove up the day we flew in. 80 Irish miles are a lot longer than 80 New Hampshire miles, and we were jet-lagged and driving on the “wrong” side of the road, but we had Gertrude, our trusty GPS, and we planned to stop in Tuam to visit the King of the Connaught Fairies.

Tuam, a small town in the Province of Connaught, lies about 20 miles northeast of Galway City. The name is derived from the Latin word tumulus, which means burial mound. Back in the Neolithic and Bronze Ages, the inhabitants used the area as a burial ground.

St. Jarlath's Wheel

According to legend, St. Jarlath founded a monastic settlement there in the early 6th century after his abbot told him to "Go, and wherever your chariot wheel breaks, there shall be the site of your new monastery.” Jarlath's wheel broke at Tuam, and to this day the town has a broken chariot wheel as its heraldic symbol.

In the 11th century, the O’Connor kings of East Connaught built a castle in the town. They wasted no time defeating the O'Flaherty chieftains of West Connaught and became the Kings of All Connaught—at least above the ground.

The Annals of the Four Masters states that the Milesians, the ancestors of the modern Irish, arrived in Ireland 1700 years before Christ. They defeated the Tuatha de Danann, the magical Tribe of the Goddess Danu. Most of the Dananns left the Emerald Isle, though some opted to stay. They became known as the Daoine Sídhe (Deena Shee), the People of the Mounds. Their leader, a womanizing rascal named Finvarra, negotiated a truce with the Milesians that gave half of Ireland to the sídhe—the bottom half. The sídhe could stay as long as they remained underground. For the most part, they complied, living in great subterranean palaces. Eventually, they became known as the fairy folk, and for all we know, they’re still there.

Finvarra, the King of the Connaught Fairies, allegedly lived near Tuam in a palace beneath a hill called Knock Ma. Recent archaeological evidence has uncovered many ancient tombs on the hill. Tradition holds that among them are the tombs of Ceasair, the granddaughter of Noah of Noah’s Ark fame, and Maeve, the Iron Age Queen of Connaught. (Maeve is supposedly buried in Sligo too, but hey.) I wanted to stop and see Knock Ma, as I included both the hill and King Finvarra in Glancing Through the Glimmer, the young adult novel I recently completed.

Finding Knock Ma proved difficult for two tired Yanks, however. We spotted a mailman beside a green An Post truck and stopped to ask for directions.

“Do you know a place called Knock Ma?”

“I do indeed,” sez the red-haired postman. “Are yez thinkin’ of takin’ a hike?”

“No,” sez I, “we’re looking for fairies.”

“Ah, they’re all over the place,” sez he, and happily gives us directions.

Views of Knock Ma

We turned down a side street and found an agitated woman in the middle of the road brandishing a closed umbrella, as if telling us to move on quickly. An odd sight, but we are still jet-lagged and starting to remember we are now in Ireland, on Irish time, and approaching a fairy fort. We waved at the woman and passed by her, stopping up the road to take a few pictures of Knock Ma. The hill was vast, much bigger than I expected, green, lovely, and dotted with neat little houses and lazy cattle. We turned around and pulled over for one last picture. The woman with the umbrella ran up to the car, and we rolled down the window.



“Are yez in a hurry?” sez she.

“No,” sez I, thinking she might want to chat. Wrong answer.

“Well the cows are coming!” sez she. “Pull over! Pull over now!”

We looked up and saw a herd of brown cows galloping straight at us. Apparently the woman and her umbrella had been trying to clear the road to make way for this bovine charge. My husband edged the car as close to the fence as he could, and we stared in horror, expecting to die in the stampede, our rental car damaged beyond hope, poor Gertrude devoured in a single chomp. But the cows stumbled by and gave us an entertaining show.

Laughing but tired, we followed the mailman’s directions and found the start of the Knock Ma walking trail. The weather was clear, so we parked and thought we’d stroll for a bit. We didn’t get far before a sign warning hikers to leave nothing valuable visible in their cars made us turn back. Our luggage was blatantly conspicuous in the rear of the hatchback rental car, Gertrude was on the windshield, and we really were too exhausted for an extended hike. We’d just have to come back some day. Happy that we got to see Knock Ma at all, we enjoyed a late breakfast in Tuam town and drove on to Westport.