Page 100 of Her Irish Savage

Today. I don’t believe her for a second. I think about my sister-in-law’s jaundiced face, her drawn cheeks beneath her tight-wrapped headscarf. “I hope she feels better soon,” I say, and I mean it.

When I pick up my computer, I’ll get a pad of paper too. A box of envelopes. Stamps if they sell them. I’ll write Kimi a note. I don’t have a return address to put on the letter, nothing to scare her off from opening it. She might get a few lines into my apology before she decides to throw it away.

I’m halfway to the door when Hannah calls out, “Excuse me!”

When I look back, she nods toward the counter that stretches across the shop’s front window. “If you have time to take a seat? I’ll just finish up here and…”

I don’t know what goes afterand. But I take my coffee to one of the high stools while she finishes with the customers in line. I make the cup last, same as I do the muffin. I watch the traffic walking by outside the bakery.

It’s a beautiful late-July morning. The sun catches on a patch of cobblestones exposed beneath the asphalt street. The afternoon will be hot. People are already wearing shorts and T-shirts.

I want to see more days like this. I want to watch the summer turn to autumn, turn to winter, turn to spring. I want to breathe the city’s rhythms, from Red Sox to Patriots to Bruins, and back again to baseball. Somewhere, deep in my bones, my body knows I’m home.

“Freshen that up for you?” Hannah’s holding a carafe of coffee.

I hold out my mug.

“You’re my Uncle Pat, aren’t you?”

For one panicked moment, I want to deny it, but that’s absurd, because this is the entire reason I came here this morning. Fighting the urge to spread a hand over my tattooed sleeve, I say, “I am. I was married to your Aunt Jenn.”

Hannah nods. “There’s a picture of you on my mother’s mantel, from your wedding day. You look so young there.”

My lips twist in something that might be mistaken for a smile. “Time flies.”

A faint blush spreads beneath the freckles on her cheeks. “I mean, you both looked so in love.”

“We were.”

She hooks a foot on the stool next to me, pulls it out, and sits down. “Mom’s not just out today. She’s back in the hospital. She had a bad reaction to her last round of chemo.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“I’ll be sure to tell her you asked after her.”

I stare into my coffee cup. “Maybe that’s not such a good idea. I don’t want to make anything more difficult for her.”

“Naw,” she says. “She’s tough. She can take it.”

“I hope so. I really hope so.” I take a napkin from the dispenser on the counter. I pat my pockets, but I don’t have a pen—I never do.

Hannah fishes one out of her apron. “Will this help?”

I scrawl my phone number on the paper. “If you need anything… You or your mom.”

She glances at the number as I hand it over with her pen. “Yeah,” she says. “Um, thanks.” For a moment, I worry that she thinks I’m making a pass. But her eyes have grown glassy, and she’s trying hard not to blink. The set of her shoulders tells me she’s changing the topic on purpose when she says, “Let me pack up a box of those tarts. Your wife seemed to like them.”

My wife…

I must look as confused as I feel, because Hannah’s voice takes on the sing-song tone of a kindergarten teacher, like she’s reminding me of something I forgot two decades ago. “The cherry tarts. She ate them the last time you were here.”

“How the f—helldo you know what my wife ate?” Hannah wasn’t even born when Jenn died.

“I gave them to her. After Mom made you sit outside. At first I was embarrassed that Mom made such a scene, but then I saw how cute you two are together?—”

“How cute…” I repeat, because I’m finally beginning to understand the confusion. Hannah isn’t talking about Jenn. She’s talking about Fiona. She thinks Fiona and I are married.

“Oh, crap,” Hannah says. “I’ve embarrassed you. What can I say? I’m a hopeless romantic. And when I see two people who pay that much attention to each other… You’re so… I don’t know. What’s the word? Attuned?”

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