Connor saw the moment, squeezed Meara’s hand in his.
“Will you?” Fin asked.
“I’m about to put dinner on the table.”
He said, “Once,” and took her hand.
They had a way, Connor thought, a smooth way of flowing along with the music, in time, in step, as if they’d been made to move together.
His soft heart ached for them, both of them, for it was love ashimmer in their steps. Around the kitchen, they turned, flowed, turned, eyes for each other only, easy and happy as they’d once been.
Beside him, Meara stopped as he had, and leaned her head against his shoulder.
For one lovely moment, all was right in the world. All was as it had been once, how it might be yet again.
Then Branna stopped, and though she smiled, the lovely moment shattered.
“Well now, I hope you’ve all worked up an appetite.”
Fin murmured something to her, in Irish, but too soft and low for Connor to understand. Her smile fell toward sorrow as she turned away.
“We’ll have more music after our meal, and there’s wine aplenty.” Movements brisk, Branna turned the music down. “Tonight’s not for work or worries. We’ve food fresh from the garden tonight, and our own Iona made the soup.”
That pronouncement brought on a long, hushed silence that hung until Iona rolled out a laugh. “Come on! I’m not that bad a cook.”
“Of course you’re not,” Boyle said with the air of a man facing a hard, unhappy task. He went to the stove, spooned up a taste straight from the pot. Sampled, lifted his eyebrows, sampled again. “It’s good. It’s very good indeed.”
“I don’t know if a man in love’s to be trusted,” Connor considered. “But we’ll eat.”
They ate a bounty from the garden, kept the conversation light and away from all things dark. Wine flowed freely.
“And how’s your mother faring in Galway?” Fin asked Meara.
“I’m not ready to say she’s there to stay, but closer to it. I had a talk with my sister, who’s that surprised it’s a happy arrangement—for now in any case. My mother’s working in the garden, and keeping it in trim. And she’s struck up a bit of a friendship with a neighbor who’s a keen gardener herself. If you could hold the cottage a bit longer—”
“As long as you need,” Fin interrupted. “I’ve a mind to do a few updates there. When you’ve time enough, Connor, we could talk abou
t a bit of work on the place.”
“I’ve always time enough for that. I’ve missed the challenge and fun of building and fixing since we finished off the cottage. Did you truly do the soup, Iona, for it’s more than good.” So saying, he took another ladle from the tureen.
“Branna watched me like Roibeard, and took me through it step by step.”
“I’m hoping you’ll be remembering the steps, as I’ll be asking you to make it at home.”
Pleased, Iona grinned at Boyle. “We’ll have to plant tomatoes. I’m pretty good with a garden. We could try some next year—in patio pots.”
“Sure maybe we’ll find something with a bit of land by then, and you can have a proper garden.”
“It may be you’ll be too busy with weddings and honeymoons next spring to plant tomatoes,” Meara pointed out.
“And we’ve more than enough here to share,” Branna added. “You haven’t found a place that suits you more than where you are?”
“Not yet, and no hurry on it,” Boyle said, glancing at Iona.
“None,” she confirmed. “We like being close to all of you, and to the stables. In fact, we’re both set on staying close, so until we find something that hits all the notes, we like just where we are.”
“Building your own tends to hit those notes, as I’ve reason to know.” Fin poured more wine, all around.