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.
Our dogs, 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 ushered out of 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.”
“Doesn’t mean she won’t decide before.”
I nod, resting my chin in my hands. My girlfriend is a genius.
Or at least she is in the retail management world.
She’s probably going to end up being CEO of some giant department store, and despite all her oh shucks little old me attitude the last few months, she’s been accepted into nearly every graduate program she applied to.
Which is, you know, great. Except they’re all over the place.
Not just Ireland. Spain. England. Germany.
And that’s not a problem. It really isn’t.
I told her to go where she wanted and leave me out of it.
That I’d either find a way to follow her or we’d do long distance.
I meant it. The last thing I’d ever want to do is hold her back.
But sometimes, it’s like I barely see enough of her as it is.
Another two to three years of snatched time and whirlwind visits?
It makes my heart hurt just thinking about it.
But at least we’ll have Christmas together this year. She’s going to spend a whole week here, and it can’t come soon enough.
“When’s she coming, anyway?” Mam asks as though reading my mind.
“Tuesday.”
“You’ll have to get Andrew to get the air mattress down before then. We need to get the smell out of it.”
I drop my head back, groaning. “The air mattress is the worst.”
“Well, it’s the only one we have.”
“Why can’t we just—”
“You can’t both sleep in your bed, Hannah, unless you want to lie on top of each other all— No!” Mam holds up a hand before I have a chance to speak. “I walked into that one and it’s my own fault, but I don’t want to hear anything more about it.”
“I was going to say, why can’t I just bring in the bed from Christian’s room?”
“Because that’s where the kids are sleeping.”
I frown at that. “They’re staying over?”
“Yes. With Liam. We discussed this.”
“We did?” My eldest brother lives in the next town over with his wife and two kids. They usually only come over for dinner on Christmas.
Mam gives me a stern look, guessing my thoughts. “I suppose the next thing you’re going to tell me is that you don’t love your niece and nephew anymore.”
I roll my eyes at her snippy tone. I wasn’t going to say that. Of course, I love my niece and nephew, how could I not when I am clearly their favorite aunt? But that means there’s …
“Ten people sleeping in the house for Christmas?”
“Only nine. Mairead will join us on Christmas Day because she has to work.”
“They’re not going to fit.”
“We’ll find a way,” she says, exasperated. “Since when has that been a problem?”
Never. And it’s not. But I haven’t seen Daniela in three weeks and there goes any hope of private time.
Like I said. I love Christmas. I love my family.
But sometimes it’s a lot. I spent most of my childhood growing up alone.
My three brothers, Liam, Andrew and Christian, were all older and had moved out by the time I was walking and talking.
As a result, I was, predictably, desperate for company.
And they bore the brunt of it whenever they came home.
I still get that urge. Eager for some distraction.
For their stories and their presents and for something new.
It’s like an instant reaction whenever anyone comes to stay.
But as I’ve gotten older, there are times when I wouldn’t mind a few moments to myself.
Or at least not to always be the last in line when it came to sleeping spaces and everything else.
Sometimes being the youngest is a curse.
The ache in my chest grows heavier, and I slip my phone out of my pocket and shoot a quick text to Daniela.
When are you coming again? Because it feels like TEN YEARS
It’s all I manage to send before Mam catches me.
“Get off that phone,” she says to me. “You’re not done yet.”
I drag my feet but secretly love it as she gestures me over, and I place my hand over hers on the knife.
It’s strange how you know you’ll remember some moments forever, but it’s like I can feel this one lock itself away. The light coming in through the window. The warmth of her hand on top of mine.
For a second, just a second, I close my eyes, letting her guide our movements into the dough as I breathe in her scent. The soft floral notes of the perfume that clings to her clothes. The sugar and cinnamon from the morning’s baking.
“We cut the cross to let the fairies out,” she told me once as we stood in this very spot. I was much younger then. Loving her attention and hanging on to her every word. Not much has changed, I guess.
I lean my head against her shoulder. “I’m sorry about the bread.”
“The bread’s fine,” she says briskly. “You did a great job.”
I didn’t, but it’s nice of her to lie, and I turn my head to kiss her cheek in thanks.
“What’s that for?” she murmurs, patting my hand.
“Nothing.” I step back, suddenly restless. “I’m going to find Andrew and Molly.”
*
I leave Mam to rescue the bread and step outside, squinting at the winter sunshine as I take off down the lane.
The weather is extra annoying this year. It’s not warm enough to not wear a coat but not cold enough to have one on for more than a few minutes. I barely make it to the gate before I’m sweating and I lower the zip as I hit the main road.