Aisling had blustered back, ‘But that’s silly.’
‘Aisling,’ Quinn had said in a way that suggested she was very naïve when it came to the stuff of life. ‘Sometimes it’s easier to go with the flow than to upset someone over things that don’t matter in the big picture.’ She’d had the feeling he was talking about her and hadn’t pressed it further, not wanting to hear something she might not like.
‘How’re you, Mrs Moran,’ Aisling asked now, noting she had her customary shamrock apron tied around her waist.
‘Aisling dear, I’ve told you a million times you’re family. It’s Maeve and I’m very well although I’m having problems getting the stains out of Quinn’s chef whites. I’m after trying vinegar and baking soda.’
Aisling wished her mammy could hear this conversation. Not the part about slaving over Quinn’s whites, the other part, because it was her fault she struggled with being on a first name basis with her soon to be in-laws. It had indeed been ingrained in her to address her elders with a Mr, Mrs or Aunty this or that. Perhaps she should go for the middle ground and call Mrs Moran, Mrs Maeve. ‘Have you been baking? It smells wonderful in here.’ She was only being polite because Mrs Maeve was always after whipping something up in that kitchen of hers. This house was a dieting woman’s worst nightmare.
‘I have and you’re in luck. There’s a batch of biscuit brownies fresh out of the oven, that’s if Quinn’s not eaten them all.’
Aisling groaned inwardly. Mrs Maeve’s biscuit brownies were the best.
‘They’re his favourites as you know,’ the little woman continued. She reached out and rested a hand on Aisling’s forearm to waylay her a moment longer. Her voice dropped almost conspiratorially. ‘When you’ve a moment, Aisling I’ll show you how to bake them, I’ve been making notes of all his favourite foods for you because you know how the saying goes. The way to a man’s heart—’
‘Is through his stomach,’ Aisling finished for her. Mr Moran had told her the other day he was on the fence about his son finally leaving home because he was sure the baked goods on offer would go downhill.
‘You’ll find Quinn in the kitchen going over his books. Oh, I nearly forgot. How did you get on with your hair appointment?’ She looked at Aisling’s hair which was flowing loose as per her usual style. She’d taken all the bobby pins and woven flowers out once back at the guesthouse. She didn’t want to ruin the surprise on her wedding day. She patted her hair self-consciously and told Mrs Maeve this.
‘And your dress, did you find what you wanted?’
The thought of her beautiful dress made Aisling smile. ‘I did and I love it, it’s perfect.’ She quickly added. ‘You know you were welcome to come along with us. My mammy was saying she’d like to get to know you better, now we’re all going to be family. Are you sure I can’t tempt you to join us tonight too?’
‘I must organise a lunch for us all and it was thoughtful of you to include me, Aisling, but sure you know how tired I can get when I’m out and about too long and you didn’t need me huffing and puffing about the place. As for a hen night, I’ve not got the stamina.’ Maeve felt guilty seeing the earnest expression on Aisling’s face. She was telling the truth about not having the stamina for this evening’s festivities but the truth of why she hadn’t gone along to help Aisling choose her dress was because her future daughter-in-law was so frazzled of late. She’d only met Maureen a handful of times too and she’d been worried about treading on toes, or saying the wrong thing to Aisling. Not that she’d told Quinn that of course.
‘I wouldn’t have minded.’ She didn’t want her future mammy-in-law to feel pushed out of things because this wedding was as much about her son as it was about Aisling and her side of the family.
‘Well I’m sure you’re going to be the most beautiful bride, Dublin’s ever seen, dear. And sure, you’ll have a grand time tonight. It will do you good to let your hair down. You’ll find Cathal on his chair in the front room if you want to pop your head in and say hello. I’d best get back to the whites.’
Mrs Maeve scuttled off and Aisling ventured into the front room where Mr Moran was reclining in his La-Z-Boy chair with a newspaper held open in front of him.
‘Hello there,’ she called, stooping down to pet Tabatha the cat who’d gotten up from her corner of the sofa in order to greet her. The cat rubbed against her legs purring loudly as Mr Moran lowered his paper and peered over top of it. ‘Hello there, yourself, Aisling. How’re you doing?’
‘Grand thanks, yourself?’
‘Oh, I can’t complain.’
Aisling noticed the cup of tea with a piece of the brownie tucked in alongside it on the saucer on the side table next to where he was sitting, and picturing his wife buzzing around making sure he was comfortable thought, no you can’t. It’s the life of Riley you’re after living. He was a lovely man but he was also a solid, lazy, lump of a man and woe betide Quinn if he made noises about purchasing a La-Z-Boy chair when he moved into O’Mara’s.
‘All set for tonight, then?’ she asked, referencing Quinn’s stag do. Hugh, the oldest of the Moran boys, was to be his baby brother’s best man and it was in this role that he’d organised the stag do. Aisling was pleased about this because Hugh at forty, married with four sons of his own, was a sensible family man unlike the two middle Morans, Ivo and Rowan, neither of whom was married and both of whom who had long-suffering
