Page 52 of Snowed In
“It’s Emily O’Sullivan’s daughter,” Mam interjects, as we glare at each other.
“And I’m bringing her around later, so if everyone could be semi-normal, that would be just great.” I take out my phone to text my eldest brother but stop at Hannah’s sudden wariness. “What?”
“Megan O’Sullivan?” she asks. “Didn’t she dump her fiancé at the altar?”
“She didn’t dump him. She left him.” The dumping came after.
“But she still ran from her own wedding.”
I pause at the tone of her voice, surprised by the hint of disdain I hear there. “Yeah,” I say. “She did. But that was a long time ago. You weren’t even there. You were like two at the time.”
“I was fourteen.”
“Same thing. You have no idea what went on.”
“I know it was rude,” she says. “I know Isaac was heartbroken.”
“How the hell do you know that?”
“Because I’ve known him since I was seven,” she says hotly. “He used to coach camogie.”
He did. I’d forgotten all about that. Every Saturday morning, he spent several hours of his free time teaching a bunch of kids how to hit a ball. Mam once said he had the patience of a saint. And the way Hannah’s looking at me now makes me think he’s more than wormed his way into her good books.
“He took a whole season off after she left,” she continues. “Mr. Heaney had to take over. And Mr. Heaney was shite.”
“Hannah,” Mam cautions.
“He was! We lost every match.”
“I don’t care, just keep your voice down. Your brother is sleeping.”
“She basically destroyed him,” Hannah says. “No one likes her.”
“I like her,” I say firmly. “And you can be team Isaac all you like in private, but she’s coming over later, and you’re going to be nice.”
“Of course, she’s going to be nice,” Mam says, even though the stubborn look on Hannah’s face tells me otherwise. “And Megan’s more than welcome here. I used to go to her mother’s parties every year. They’re a very nice family.”
“They are,” I say, staring at Hannah. “Thanks, Mam.”
My mother retreats to the kitchen, muttering something about extra plates, while Hannah drops back down to her study nest.
“She sent her engagement ring back in the post,” she says, her eyes on her notes. “She didn’t even send him a text.”
“How do you know that?”
“People talk.”
“People gossip, you mean.” But I cross my arms, feeling like I’m the one on the back foot. “I think you’ll like her if you give her a chance,” I say finally.
“I’m sure I will,” Hannah mutters.
It doesn’t make me feel any better.
* * *
It’s only an hour later when I’ve helped Mam with the dishes and signed my name to what feels like five hundred Christmas cards, that I finally hear my dad out front.
My relationship with my father growing up was complicated at the best of times, and as the years went by, they didn’t get any simpler. He’s a quiet man. A pretty calm one too. Patient and hardworking. He encouraged all of us to pursue our own lives, but he always thought I’d take over the farm.
