Chapter 12 #2
Sweeney grabbed a fat red apple from the table as she wandered out to the back, finding Fin in the same place he’d been every morning since they’d arrived—reclined in the squatter’s chair, his legs propped on the rests, one hand cupped around a mug of tea, the other bent at the elbow and stuffed behind his head.
There was a distinct nip in the air this morning and he was wearing an unzipped hoodie over his pyjama top as he stared out at the garden.
‘Good news?’ he asked as she claimed her squatter’s chair.
‘That depends.’
Rolling his head to look at her, he asked, ‘On what?’
‘On whether you’re my mother or my bank account.’
Fin laughed. ‘Pretend I’m your mother.’
Sweeney shook her head at the weirdness of that proposition. ‘I’m going to stay on in Ballyshannon for a bit.’
He didn’t say anything for a beat or two, then a slow smile warmed his face. ‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah.’
There was nothing slow at how his smile morphed to a grin. It was lightning fast and utterly infectious. It lit his whole face, tickling at her ribs, pulling at the corners of her mouth and tugging at her heart strings. She could really, really get used to that smiling face.
Which made her slightly panicky.
‘It’s only until the volcano settles down,’ she warned. ‘I’ll be leaving as soon as it’s safe to travel there. Could be a week, could be tomorrow. I just don’t know at this point.’
‘Sure.’ He nodded enthusiastically. ‘It’s just great that you’re staying on for a bit.’
Sweeney rolled her eyes. ‘You’re only happy because you won’t have to face all the town questions solo.’
‘Hell yeah.’ He let out a laugh as his hand came to rest on his belly. ‘But that’s not the only reason.’
She couldn’t see his face because he chose that moment to take a sip of his tea, but the statement caused a little jolt somewhere around her middle—as if his hand was on her belly—and as much as she wanted to ask, she didn’t.
They had a lot of years of friendship ahead of them—there was no need to go down rabbit holes.
‘You know it’s only going to cause an increase in gossip, though, so we’re going to have to stick together on this one, Fin.
Try to keep a lid on this whole fake fiancé scheme.
Clearly Mills and Boon over there’—she gave a backwards jerk of her head in the direction of her childhood home—‘aren’t going to be any help. ’
He laughed again. ‘Of course. Don’t worry, I’m as keen to disrupt the Feeney sightings as you.’ Presenting his crooked pinkie finger, he said, ‘Feeney business for the footy field only.’
Sweeney linked her crooked pinkie with his in the way they’d probably done a hundred times before.
But this time, it felt different. This time he wasn’t her goofy best guy friend from down the street.
This time he’d kissed her under some mistletoe and his grandmother’s Claddagh ring was right there in front of her like a bloody great golden noose for her finger.
‘Footy field only,’ she agreed. She quickly disentangled their pinkies, because the sudden desire to lace the rest of her fingers through his was startling and visceral.
Draining his mug in a couple of big swallows, Fin placed it on the wooden arm. ‘Have you told your mum yet?’
‘I’ll do it after breakfast.’
‘Oh my god.’ He shook his head. ‘She is going to have a literal cow.’
As kids they’d been Bart Simpson devotees and they’d spent a lot of time mimicking one of his favourite expressions, Don’t have a cow, man.
The thought of possibly seeing that come true all these years later was too much in this Dali-esque landscape they were navigating and they both burst into laughter.
*
Sweeney got right to the point when she called an hour later.
She probably should have schlepped over the road and imparted the news to her mother face-to-face, but old Edna Mullins, two down and two over, was watering her front yard, and Sweeney really didn’t want to have a repeat of the interrogation she’d had yesterday about her and Fin’s upcoming nuptials.
Especially when Edna was so tight with Marjorie Weaver.
‘Really?’ Her mother’s voice was tentative at first then surprisingly husky as she continued on. ‘You’re staying in town?’
‘For now,’ Sweeney confirmed, a note of warning in her tone. ‘But I’ll have to go as soon as the Indonesian job is back on again. Probably at short notice. It could be a week, it could be tomorrow.’
It wasn’t going to be tomorrow—that was a definite due to the continuing eruptions—and she sure as hell hoped it wasn’t going to be any longer than a week, because that was a long time to stay cooped up indoors shielding themselves from the town grapevine.
But that note of hope husking her mother’s voice twisted a knife through her heart.
Sweeney knew her mother—and Ronnie—had this vision of her and Fin working together to take the underdog small town footy team to glory in the big smoke. But that was three weeks away and the volcano wouldn’t disrupt things for that long.
Would it?
‘Of course. Of course. I’m just so … happy.’
There was a very definite sniffle then, which clutched a hand around Sweeney’s heart.
Was her mother … crying? Yep, she was. It was muffled but she was definitely crying.
And, to her surprise, Sweeney almost cried too.
Guilt and a whole lotta god knew what rising from the depths of her core in a sweep of scalding emotion that swelled in her throat and pushed at the backs of her eyes.
This was the first time she’d heard her mother cry in a lot of years.
It had been such a commonplace occurrence after her father died that Sweeney had become immune, possibly even hardened, to it.
Suddenly she was ashamed of her teenage self for her lack of compassion. And at her adult self for staying away.
Grief was a rough ride and different for everyone, and her mother had eventually come out the other side. Blinking hard, Sweeney blew out an unsteady breath. ‘Mum?’
‘I’m fine.’
Connie cleared her throat, but not before Sweeney heard the forced smile in her mother’s voice, which somehow made her feel a little worse, especially given what she’d rehearsed to say next.
But it had to be done because staying on in Ballyshannon longer had larger ramifications now thanks to the great sixtieth birthday party fiancé fraud, and she needed her mother, and Fin’s, to just lay off already.
‘You and Ronnie have to stop, though, Mum.’ Sweeney softened her tone to conciliatory as she felt her way forward.
‘Fin and I have agreed to not rat you out, but with me staying on now it’ll only keep the whole Feeney thing a live topic.
The more we’re forced to perform in public, the more potential there is for us to be caught out in this lie.
So promise me you won’t keep feeding it.
No more cake tasting. Or whatever else you two are cooking up. ’
‘There’s nothing else.’
There might not currently be, but that didn’t mean something wouldn’t just crop up that she and Ronnie might jump on, particularly if goaded by Marjorie the master manipulator, who’d apparently decided there was a fraud being perpetrated and it was her job to expose it.
So, Sweeney needed to be very clear and very firm.
And there was one way she knew for sure would demonstrate her conviction.
‘I mean it, Mum. No picking out china patterns or buying bridal magazines at the newsagent. If you can’t promise me that, then I can always go and stay with friends in Melbourne.’
Her mother’s quick in-drawn breath caused Sweeney’s own breath to hitch. It was a strange moment. Angry, grieving, frustrated teenage Sweeney would have made that threat without a second thought, but grown-up Sweeney was apparently a lot more squeamish.
Unfortunately she wasn’t done yet, either. ‘Fin and I are staying close to home for the duration. The club house is the only place we’re venturing. And we need you and Rhonda to make a concerted effort to downplay things, not encourage the gossip, especially on the WhatsApp group.’
‘We promise,’ Connie agreed quickly, not hesitating in including the absent Ronnie. ‘But … we can still see you, right?’
Her mother’s tentative question made Sweeney feel lower than a snake’s belly. It was official, she was a truly terrible daughter. ‘Of course,’ she rushed to assure. ‘Fin and I will come to dinner every night and we can hang out when you’re not at work.’
Despite the threat she’d made, the last thing Sweeney wanted was to shut her mother out.
And she knew Fin didn’t want to shut Rhonda out either.
Coming home like this after so long had been surprisingly good.
She’d been dreading it and, sure, the whole Feeney thing had been an added complication, but the Ballyshannon-shaped ball of animosity wound tight in her chest for so long had unravelled without her even being aware.
She wasn’t a teenager anymore, desperate to fly away from everything that felt big and hard and thorny.
She was an adult with an adult perspective who’d lived and loved and forged enough distance to gain some perspective.
An adult who had chosen—thanks to Fin, anyway—to fly back to familiar streets and familiar faces and that sweet familiar air.
To memories that ached now instead of cut. That were bittersweet, not just bitter.
‘I’d like that.’ The thick edge in Connie’s voice produced an answering thickness in Sweeney’s chest. ‘I’d like that a lot.’