Chapter 11
Cillian
Nora has rearranged the pantry four times.
I know because I counted. The first time, she alphabetized the spices.
The second, she organized them by frequency of use, which she explained to me quietly when I asked.
The third, she moved everything back to alphabetical order.
The fourth happened this morning while I was on a business call.
When I walked in for breakfast, the cans were sorted by color.
She’s eating less. I’ve been watching.
She takes small portions and pushes half her food around her plate when she thinks I’m not looking. She’s losing some of the soft weight she’s gained since arriving—I can see it in the hollow beneath her cheekbones, the way her collarbones are more pronounced again.
I sit across from her at breakfast and set down my coffee.
“You’re not eating.”
“I’m not very hungry.”
“You said that yesterday.”
She looks up briefly, then away. “I’m fine.”
She’s not fine. She hasn’t been fine since the family dinner two weeks ago, and every reassurance I offer lands and dissolves like it never touched anything solid. I tell her she’s enough. She nods. I tell her Ma is wrong. I can see she doesn’t believe me.
I push my chair back. “Come here.”
She comes. She always comes when I ask, which is maybe its own kind of wrong—she’s been conditioned to respond to requests from men, and I can’t always tell the difference between her wanting to accept and her being afraid to refuse. So I watch her face. I watch her body. I look for tells.
She sits in my lap. Her hands rest against my chest, and her breathing eases. That’s real. Whatever is happening inside her head, her body knows she’s safe with me.
“Talk to me.”
“There’s nothing to talk about.”
“There’s everything to talk about.”
She traces the button on my shirt. “I’m just tired.”
“You’re pulling away. I can feel it.”
She doesn’t deny it, which tells me more than anything. She presses her forehead to my jaw, and I hold her. For a moment, the pantry, the untouched plates of food, and the shadows under her eyes are just details. She’s here. She’s in my arms. I just want to prolong this for as long as I can.
My phone rings. Then again. I put it on mute. Then my office line rings.
I ignore all of it.
I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised when half an hour later, two of my brothers, Declan and Ronan, show up at my front door.
Reluctantly, I usher them into my home office.
Ronan stands with his hands in his pockets, staring out the window. The mood in the room has a specific silence. The silence of men who’ve decided to confront me about something they know I won’t like and have been arguing about who goes first.
Declan must have drawn the short straw. “The Sullivan deal,” he says.
“We’ve been over this—” I begin to say, but he cuts me off.
“Patrick Sullivan called this morning. The deal is officially dead. They’re going with the Callahan group instead. Projected loss over five years—” He slides a folder across the desk. “Comes to twenty million, conservatively.”
I open the folder. The numbers are exactly what I expect, and honestly, I care very little.
“Then we find another deal.”
“Cillian.” Declan’s voice carries the weight of a man choosing carefully. “This is because you married the Murphy girl instead of Aoife Sullivan.”
He’s probably right, at least partially.
It might also have something to do with the fact that a certain cocky Sullivan, who thought he could flirt with my wife at the charity gala, is now sipping his meals through a straw and will be for the next four to six weeks.
But I’m not about to mention that to my brothers.
“Her name is Nora.” I close the folder. “And my marriage isn’t up for discussion.”
“Nobody’s saying it is.” Ronan’s voice is measured. “But we need to acknowledge the cost to the business.”
“Acknowledged.” I push the folder back. “Find another deal.”
They exchange a look they don’t intend for me to catch, but I don’t miss anything. I let it go.
“The Romano family has expressed preliminary interest,” Ronan says. “If we move quickly—”
“Then move quickly. Bring me something concrete.”
Declan stands. I think we’re done. But then he adds, “She’s making you soft.”
The room goes still.
“Careful,” I warn.
“I’m saying what I’m seeing. You’re distracted. Less focused. You left the Harrison meeting twenty minutes early last week—”
“Because I had somewhere to be.”
“Because she called.”
She hadn’t called. I’d wanted to get home to her. There’s a difference, but explaining it to Declan would require a vocabulary he’s never developed for this kind of thing.
“The business is fine,” I say. “The Sullivan loss is one we can absorb. If that changes, I’ll adjust. Until then, my marriage is not a variable in your calculations.”
He leaves without another word. Ronan lingers.
“He’s not wrong about the distraction,” he says. “But he’s completely wrong about the cause. You’re not distracted because of her. You’re distracted because you’re worried about her.”
I don’t answer.
“Whatever’s going on, fix it. I’m not talking money right now. I’m talking brother to brother. Not for the business. For you.” He pauses at the door. “She’s good for you, Cillian. Don’t let the family poison that.”
I sit for a long time, considering Ronan’s words. Fix it. If only I knew how.
My mother calls at noon.
“There’s a women’s luncheon tomorrow to benefit The Children’s Hospital. I’d like Nora to come.”
I set down my pen. “Why?”
“Because she’s your wife. It would be good for her to be seen doing charitable work. To be visible in the right circles.”
“The last time you were in the same room with her, you said—”
“I know what I said. I’m trying to do better.” A pause. Calibrated. “You asked me to try, Cillian.”
I did. I don’t entirely trust it, but I said I’d give her the chance.
“Be kind to her, Ma. I mean it.”
“Of course, darling.”
I tell Nora that evening. She’s in the kitchen, her hands busy, her back to me. She’s been cooking more this week—simple but tasty meals that I love.
“Ma called to invite you to a women’s luncheon tomorrow.”
Her hands go still on the cutting board.
“Do I have to go?”
“No. But it might be worth going. Being introduced to a few other women in our circle.”
She turns. The wariness in her face is evident. She’s calculating risk, reading subtext, doing the math on whether this is a trap.
“Will you be there?”
“It’s a women’s luncheon. But I’ll drop you off and pick you up.”
She considers my words. “Okay. I’ll go.”
“Nora, you don’t have—”
“I’m your wife. I should do these things.” She turns back to the cutting board.
Should. Not want to, but should—as if this life is a duty. We’ll work on that.
I cross the kitchen and put my arms around her from behind, pressing my lips to the top of her head.
“You don’t have to earn your place here.”
“I know,” she says.
She doesn’t know. But she’s trying to believe it.
In the morning, before she leaves for the luncheon, I pull her back to bed.
She laughs—surprised, but pleased—and lets me draw her down against the pillows. I take my time with her, slow and deliberate, watching her face the whole time. Her eyes stay open. She’s here with me, not somewhere in her head calculating what she owes or what this costs.
Afterward, she lies against my chest, and I run my hand through her hair.
“At the luncheon today, I want you to remember that you are enough,” I tell her. Then, I repeat it just to make sure it sinks in. “You are enough.”
She lets me hold her for another minute, and then she sits up and smooths her hair.
“I’ll make you a deal,” she says. “I’ll remember I’m enough if you promise not to worry about me. I’ll be fine.”
“Deal. But if you need me, call me.”
“I won’t need you.”
She says it to reassure me. It doesn’t. I watch her get up and start getting ready, and I sit with the particular helplessness of a man who can control everything in his world except the one thing that matters most.