Page 87 of An Irish Summer

“I bloody know who this is,” she said, wiping her hands on her apron and pulling me into a hug the same way she did Collin. “Nice to meet ya, Chelsea.”

“Nice to meet you too. Thank you so much for having me for the roast. The house smells incredible,” I said.

“Aye, about time someone appreciates my cooking,” she said, giving Collin a once-over. “I like her already.”

“It’s only because she hasn’t eaten it yet,” he said.

“Fuck off, then.”

“You fuck off.”

“Don’t talk to yer sister like that,” said Collin’s dad, making his way into the foyer from what I glimpsed was a living room. “Welcome home, son.” They clapped their hands together and leaned in for an awkward hug before Collin presented me the same way he had to Aileen. “Da, Chelsea. Chelsea, Da.”

“Cormac,” he said, extending his hand. “Pleasure to have ye. Where the hell is Niamh?” he asked before we finished shaking hands, turning his attention to the stairs. “Niamh, get down here. Yer brother and his girlfriend are here.”

“Oh, I’m not—”

“Da, come on—”

Collin and I started at the same time, which made Aileen laugh. “Oh, boy,” she said, turning back to the kitchen. “This is going to be fun.”

I looked at Collin for reassurance, and he rolled his eyes behind his sister’s back. “She’s being dramatic,” he whispered. “It’s going to be fine.”

“I heard that!” she called over her shoulder.

As I followed Collin down the hall and into the kitchen, I took stock of the photos on the walls and any evidence of his childhood. The frames were crooked and a layer of dust coated the glass, but I could make out a sandy-blond toddler with rolled pants and his hands in the mud, unmistakably the same Collin as the man standing in front of me. There were also a handful of photos of his sisters, clearly outside in their front yard, and even some of the four of them, but a noticeable lack of photos of his mother.

Her absence was not lost on me, and I remembered Collin telling me the night he braided my hair that she wasn’t around much. I wondered if I might find out why today.

The kitchen was cozy and cluttered the way a kitchen is when it’s been used for generations. Cookbooks sat atop the cabinets collecting the same dust as the frames in the hallway; pots and pans hung from the ceiling with rusted, chipped bottoms; sweaters draped over the backs of mismatched kitchen chairs; an ancient iron kettle boiled on the gas stove. It was like a painting.

“D’you cook, Chelsea?”

“Aye, we aren’t starting—”

“I wasn’t asking you,” Aileen said, waving Collin off.

“Not well,” I admitted. “But I’d be happy to help today wherever I can.”

“But she won’t, because she’s the guest,” Collin said to Aileen, throwing a glance over his shoulder at me. “Make yourself comfortable, Chels. I’ll make you a tea.”

“Tea sounds grand, thanks.” Niamh appeared in the kitchen with soaking wet hair and an oversize hoodie, pinching Collin’s cheek as she passed him. “Glad to see you haven’t forgotten your family after all.”

“I call you three all the time, do I not?”

“But ya never come around anymore, do ya? Maybe we have Chelsea to thank for this visit.” She extended her hand to me and I shook it, feeling the weight of her rings against my fingers. “Niamh,” she said.

“It’s a pleasure.”

“Tell us,” she said. “How’d you convince our brother to get his arse back home for a roast? Unless, of course—as his family—we don’t want to know.” She wiggled her thick eyebrows, and Aileen elbowed her in the ribs.

“Niamh, be normal for once, would ya?” she said.

“No one in this house knows the meaning of normal,” Niamh said. “Don’t pretend.”

They mumbled something to each other in Irish before Collin cleared his throat and changed the subject. I tried not to think about what they might have been saying.

“It really does smell great, Leen,” Collin said, crossing to the stove. “What’ve you got on?”

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