Page 42 of Merrily Ever After
Hannah
Chapter One
December
Cork
The kitchen is a mess. I mean, it’s usually a mess, but today it’s especially messy, and considering it wasn’t when I came in thirty minutes ago, I’m slightly worried that it’s my fault.
“Or maybe it’s yours,” I say to the mutt by my side. “Because you’re so troublesome.”
At my attention, Polly presses her wet nose against my palm, looking for treats.
When I was growing up, we had dogs who were purely farm dogs. Hardy sorts who slept outside and wouldn’t come in even when I tried to coax them. When the time came to say goodbye to them and hello to new ones, it was expected they would fulfill the same roles.
Fourteen-year-old Hannah had other plans.
I may have corrupted the dogs. Or at least that’s what Dad says. Personally, I don’t think there was any corrupting about it. I treat them as they should be treated, with love and affection and lots and lots of food. They’re not solely farm dogs, they’re house dogs.Ourdogs, and we’re all a little better for it.
But still, Dad insisted on training them, which is why it’s unusual for Polly to be full-on begging for treats like this. I wonder if she can sense that it’s Christmas. Not like the holiday itself, but that there’s something different. New scents in the air. New food in the fridge.
I always dote on them a little more at this time of year. “Tis the season, after all. And no one celebrates it like us.
Christmas is a multi-week event in our family. It always has been. I’m not sure why. But there was always something to do. Families and friends to visit. Shopping to be done. We’d be forced to clean the house one day only for it to be ruined the next by a marathon of baking or a rowdy dinner party with relatives who pop out of the woodwork once a year. I’m still not sure how we just don’t descend into chaos after a few days. Maybe we would if it wasn’t for Mam.
And yet, for all her organizing and frankly unnerving ability to remember the names and dietary requirements of all our third cousins, as soon as it strikes midnight on December first, Colleen Fitzpatrick runs around the place in state of constant stress, pretending we’re all foisting this upon her and not the other way around. She secretly loves it, though. I know she does. Which is why we show up for her. Why we come home and sign every card and wrap every present she tells us to. Because we love her. And we want to make her happy.
Or at least, in theory, we do.
I gaze down at the mass of dough before me, knowing I went wrong but not at which step.
I’m not a great baker. Or bread maker or whatever. You think growing up with a parent who loves to cook would mean you’d pick up a thing or two. But beyond chopping vegetables and washing potatoes, we weren’t actually allowed to help. In fact, we were often usheredoutof the kitchen more often than not, so those family skills never passed on to me. So, really, this isn’t my fault at all.
Polly nudges me again, her eyes round and pleading.
“Trust me,” I tell her. “You don’t want it.” And I officially throw in the towel. “Mam?”I call. “I ruined Christmas.”
A few seconds later, I hear familiar footsteps, and my mother appears in the doorway. She’s still in her pajamas but has covered them with an apron and the furry boots one of my brothers got her two years ago. In one hand, she holds a spool of ribbon, and in the other, the TV guide. A rolling pin pokes out from the apron pocket.
“What’s wrong?” she asks as if there was an actual emergency and not just a me one.
I gesture at the dough. “I burnt it.”
“You can’t have burnt it; it’s not in the oven.”
“And yet,” I sigh, stepping back as she hurries over, petting Polly as she goes.
Mam takes one look at my efforts and tsks. “It’s soda bread, Hannah, it’s not rocket science.”
“And I’m not a chef.”
“Yes, well, that much is clear.” She grabs the bowl from my hand, rescuing my attempt. “It would help if you stopped daydreaming. You’re just distracted because of Daniela.”
I don’t deny it. But it’s rude of her to say it out loud like that.
“Has she decided yet?” Mam continues.
“No.” I slump against the counter, watching her work. “I told you. She’s got until the spring.”
