Page 61 of Her Irish Savage

It stings that she knew I’d be coming. Dowd must have put her on alert. Or she figured I’d be sent here, tail between my legs, the instant word spread that Fiona and I were inside thedún.

But I thank her, because the woman’s never done a thing to hurt me in the past. She might be the only true ally Fiona has inside this house. “You’ll have one too?”

Her smile is genuine as she heaves herself to her feet. I suspect there aren’t a lot of men who talk to Oona here. She’sinvisible to the Crew, making meals happen, keeping the fridge well-stocked. But no one sees a woman working behind the scenes.

She brushes a gnarled hand against my shoulder on her way over to a cupboard. After fetching a second mug, she reaches for a brightly colored tin. It takes some effort for her to work the lid loose, but then she reveals a cache of homemade shortbread. She sets a dozen squares on a plate.

I fiddle with the sugar bowl in the center of the table. I shift the creamer. My fingers find the ring on my third finger, and I spin the titanium band, trying to beat back the brain squirrels.

I shouldn’t have let Dowd call me Cujo without fighting back.

I shouldn’t have left Fiona behind.

I shouldn’t be sitting at this table like a feckin’ child.

The electric kettle comes to a boil, its eerie blue light switching off. Oona takes the lid from a stoneware teapot. She pours in a bit of hot water and swirls it around to warm the pot. Tosses in a handful of dark leaves from a battered green tin. Fills the pot with water. Sets a strainer over the first mug and waits.

And it occurs to me, as I watch Oona Maguire’s perfect efficiency, that she might have some useful information to share.

I wait a few minutes, until she’s poured for both of us. The tea is black as tar, and I don’t blame her for cutting hers with a dollop of heavy cream. I salute her with my mug, and when I take a sip, it tastes like close calls and late nights and the first time I ever bled for the Crew. I chase it with a bite of shortbread that crumbles over my tongue like crystallized butter.

“You still have a way with the baking, Oona.”

“The only sweets Aran Dowd will eat,” she says with pride, going back to peeling her potatoes. She doesn’t have any way of knowing she’s opened a door wide.

I march through before she can get suspicious. “Except for Dunkin’,” I say.

“Aran won’t touch those lumps of lard!” She sounds indignant.

I push a little harder. “I’m certain I saw him there, just the other day. On Beacon Street, near Back Bay.”

Oona laughs. “Listen to you, pulling my leg. You know as well as I that if Aran got a sudden mad itch for store-bought shite, he wouldn’t cross out of Southie to scratch it.”

I laugh too, because I don’t want her remembering we had this conversation. But when I raise my mug to my lips, I try to recall the face of the man who sat across from Dowd. The face that was familiar that day. The face that still lingers in my memory, just beyond my grasp.

I change the subject before Oona can think too much about Dowd straying. “Father Bertram’s words were lovely at the funeral.”

She makes a face. “Father Bertram’s learned to recite a few good prayers.”

“That cigar box you gave to Fiona. She was certainly pleased to get it.”

For the first time since I’ve entered the kitchen, Oona looks at me with suspicion. “Herself’s told you that, has she?”

“I could see, just from the expression on her face. And later, when she was going through her treasures…”

Oona shakes her head, her lips turned up in the faintest hint of a smile. “You’ll not get me telling my Fiona’s secrets that easily. If you want to know what’s in the box, you’ll have to ask her. Honestly, Paddy. Do you think I was born yesterday?”

She ruffles my hair before she carries my mug to the counter. Shortbread, strong tea, and now an old woman treating me like a kid. I’m surprised by the wash of warmth I feel.

As Oona tops off my mug with hot tea from the pot, she offers her own overly casual observation. “Fiona’s not yet twenty-five years old.”

I don’t say anything, because every direction from here is dangerous.

“How long has it been since you left Boston?” Oona asks. She sets my mug on the table with enough force that a little teasplashes over the side. Rather than clean it up, she stares at me with watery blue eyes that don’t blink.

That’s a kinder question than she could have asked. She doesn’t say, “How long has it been since your wife died?” Or, “How old would your son be if he’d been born alive?”

I’m willing to bet every cent I’ve earned in the last ten years that Oona knows the answer. My life shattered twenty-five years ago, and yes, Fiona Ingram is young enough to be my daughter, and no, I don’t know what the fuck I’m going to do about that.

---