When I woke, I threw on my simple black dress and blew out my hair. I left it loose and straight instead of shoving it into my habitual ponytail, and even scrounged up some eyeliner from the black hole of my messenger bag. When I finished, I could see hints of my mother in my reflection. For a moment I just stared, slightly uneasy, before attempting on a whim the look she had been particularly famous for. It was a cross between a smile and sneer, an expression of unrelenting disdain for the mere mortals that wanted her attention.
It looked so ridiculous on me that I laughed, and headed down to breakfast.
Downstairs, the O’Connor women waited in unrelenting black. Different blacks; Kate looked elegant in a sheath and pearls, Lauren looked like the dress could double for cocktail hour, while Anna’s looked kind of poufy and alternative. She didn’t have her dark eyeliner on for once, but she hadn’t given up the combat boots either.
We’d already started in on our eggs and hashbrowns when footsteps sounded in the hall. I couldn’t see him, but I could feel Mike’s presence behind me, palpable and elemental as a gust of wind or a burst of light. “Morning, everyone.” He tugged on my ponytail. “Morning, Natalie.”
Kate smiled.
I flushed. “Good morning.” I glanced up, and froze.
He’d put on a suit, his black jacket sharp, his white shirt crisp. His brilliant hair gleamed in sharp contrast. I sucked in a breath. He grinned down lazily and filched toast off my plate.
I blinked at him. “You stole my breakfast.”
He gave me one of his devastating smiles, before turning to his mother. “Wow, Mom. You look great.” He dropped into the chair beside me, angling his leg so his knee brushed mine. I tried to keep from jumping and he tugged the plate of sausages toward him.
Kate O’Connor set down her coffee mug. “Thank you, Michael. Your compliments are always so sweet and so unexpected.”
He gave her a puppy-eyed expression. “I remember flowers and cards at every holiday.”
Kate smiled. “You are always so sweet.”
“This is the problem with my family,” he said to me, sotto-voice. “They say one thing, but I suspect they actually mean two or three other things. Makes conversation very complicated.”
Kate laughed. “And doesn’t Natalie look lovely too?”
I jerked up as they all turned my way, Kate smiling a little too smugly. Mike turned his head, ever so slowly, and tilted it up and down as he took me in. I tried to fight the rising color in my cheeks. God, why didn’t he ever blush? He was the redhead.
“Yeah,” he said. “She does.”
I was almost positive both Anna and Lauren kicked their brother when he said that.
I kept stealing glances at him all through breakfast. I couldn’t seem to help myself. I was used to seeing him in jeans or in running gear, not in a formal suit. A red tie hung loosely around his neck, and I barely heard anything as he laughed, his eyes glinting, lips parting...
I placed my silverware down and practically leaped into the air. “Excuse me. I have to get my...something...from the car.”
Outside, I leaned against the warm stone of the inn, my breath rushing in and out. This was crazy. I couldn’t get involved with Mike when Kilkarten lay between us. Maybe once we were back in New York, or after his sisters decided definitively that there would never be an excavation, but when everything still hung in the air—it felt too much like emotional manipulation.
Lauren’s voice floated out, and I jerked upright and tried to look like I totally hadn’t been fantasizing about her brother. But she was nowhere. Instead, I noticed the closest window propped slightly open. Ever so stealthily, I sidled over until I stood next to it. A rose trellis got in my face and made the world smell all pink and orange and candy-like.
Lauren kept speaking. “She’s really pretty. I mean, she always looked pretty, but normal pretty. Today...”
I preened.
Kate ruined that. “You know who she reminds me of?” She paused, and I pictured her taking a long sip of coffee. “Tamara Bocharov.”
Oh,
But what had I expected, putting on a dress and make-up?
I guess I hadn’t expected anything. I’d just wanted Mike to think I was pretty, due to my certifiable insanity.
Still, no one said anything. Kate sighed. “You’re all too young to remember her. That’s depressing.”
“I remember when Pluto was a planet,” Anna said.
Lauren snorted. “Barely.”
“So who was Tamara?” Mike said.
“Oh, a model back in the day. She—”
“Ahh,” Anna said. “That explains why you like Natalie. I was wondering why you were hooking up with a girl who actually has a brain.”
“I told you, we’re not a couple—”
“Whatever. You should just admit it. The keys to a happy family are open communication.”
“For Christ’s sake—”
“Mike,” Kate said.
He groaned. I snickered, then clapped my hand over my mouth and pinched my nose shut to stifle the sound.
He groaned. “Don’t we have a memorial to go to?”
Four hundred years ago, local O’Connors and O’Malleys and Murphys painstakingly built the local church by hand, making it older than America, as Eileen’s son and grandchildren cheerfully informed us as soon as the building came into view.
Inside, light spilled across the pale wooden support beams and pews, making the whole room brighter than I’d expected. Whitewashed walls surrounded a handful of stained glass windows. I would never say it, because that would be wrong, but it looked pretty damn quaint.
People packed the pews, dressed in black and curiosity. They watched as we walked down the red carpet and sat beside Maggie and Paul.
The Irish O’Connors didn’t look so thrilled at the Americans’ presence.
“Thank you for having us,” Kate said formally. “I’m sure it’s still very difficult for you.”
Maggie looked her up and down. “Well, you can’t get over someone in a month, can you?”
Kate stiffened. “Not someone you have a strong bond with, no.”
Maggie’s lips curved. “This is where we all grew up.” She gestured around the church. “Brian and Patrick and I used to skip sometimes and go smoke by the Celtic cross.”
“I know.”
Both women narrowed their eyes and looked away.
The parish priest—Father MacCarthy, whose nephew was one of the crew I’d hired—called for all our attention. I’d never heard of parishes outside of Austen novels—didn’t Edward get a parish? Or Edmund? The
By Elizabeth Gaskell, I meant. Because I definitely thought about 19th century literature based on authors, not actors.
Father MacCarthy started in on the dearly departed. I studied Kate and Maggie and the space between, maintained with stiff shoulders and pointed glares.
After the mass finished, everyone filed out and headed over to Maggie’s. Some of the locals stopped to pick up food and flowers from home on the way over, while others enveloped the O’Connors completely. People
