Because, God help her, she loved him far too much.
She felt a sob rising up, brutally choked it back.
A temporary thing, she promised herself as she spread the bags over the compost piles again. This kind of burning in the heart couldn’t last.
No one could survive it.
She’d be herself again soon, and so would Connor. And all this would be like one of those strange dreams that weren’t dreams.
She told herself she was steadier now, that the physical labor had done her good. She’d go back, smooth things over with Mick, especially, and the others as well.
“You’ve done your penance,” she said out loud, stepped back, turned.
And her father smiled at her.
“So here you are, my princess.”
“What?”
A bird sang in the mulberry tree, and the roses bloomed like a fairyland. She loved the gardens here, the colors, the scents, the sounds of the birds, the song of the fountain as the water poured into the circling pool from a jug held by a graceful woman.
And loved all the odd corners and shaded bowers where she could hide away from her siblings if she wanted to be alone.
“Lost in dreams again, and didn’t hear me calling.” He laughed, the big roll of it making her lips curve even as tears stung her eyes.
“You can’t be here.”
“A man’s entitled to take a pretty day off to be with his princess.” Smiling still, he tapped the side of his nose with his index finger. “It won’t be long before all the lads in the county will start coming around, then you won’t have time for your old da.”
“I always would.”
“That’s my darling girl.” He took her hand, drew her arm through the crook of his. “My pretty gypsy princess.”
“Your hand’s so cold.”
“You’ll warm it up.” He began to walk with her, around the stone paths, through the roses and the creamy cups of calla lilies, the aching blue of lobelia with the sun showering down like the inside of a broken pearl.
“I came just to see you,” he began, using that confidential voice, adding the sly wink as he did when he had secrets to tell her. “Everyone’s in the house.”
She glanced toward it, the three fine stories of brick, painted white as her mother had wished. More gardens surrounded the large terrace, then led to a smooth green lawn where her mother liked to have tea parties in good summer weather.
All tiny sandwiches and frosted cakes.
And her room there, Meara thought, looking up. Yes, her room right there, with its French doors and little balcony. A Juliet balcony, he called it.
So she was his princess.
“Why is everyone in the house? It’s such a bright day. We should have a picnic! Mrs. Hannigan could make up some bridies, and we can have cheese and bread, and jam tarts.”
She started to turn, wanted to run to the house, call everyone out, but he steered her away. “It’s not the day for a picnic.”
For a moment she thought she heard rain drumming on the ground, and when she looked up, it seemed a shadow passed over the sun.
“What is that? What is it, Da?”
“It’s nothing at all. Here you are.” He broke a rose from the bush, handed it to her. She sniffed at it, smiled as the soft white petals brushed her cheek.
“If not a picnic, can’t we have some tea and cake, like a party, since you’re home?”