Chapter 46
MY HEART STOPS
Matteo
County Down smells like rain and soap and something older than both, peat and endless patience.
Leo rolls us down a hedged lane no GPS would ever find, then stops at a white cottage with blue shutters and a yard held together by roughhewn stone walls.
As our car approaches, an old tawny goat bleats from behind a gate like it’s been left in charge.
Noreen, I assume, meets us on the stoop before the engine dies.
Cat’s great aunt on her father’s side is small and wiry.
She looks to be in her early seventies with a gray braid as thick as a rope and eyes that have never once lost an argument.
Standing at the top of the steps in a cardigan the color of moss and boots for work, not show, she eyes me suspiciously.
After one long look, I can already tell she’s decided I’m trouble.
Observant.
“Inside,” she says to Cat, in lieu of a welcome, and it’s not an invitation.
We follow her through a warm kitchen that smells of tea and toast and the kind of safety you can’t buy. I understand immediately why Cat chose this woman and this place to safeguard our daughter.
Daughter. The word echoes through my mind, still completely unreal. I have a daughter. We have a daughter.
Strewn across the kitchen table is a mess of crayons, a mug of daisies, and a paper sun with too many rays. My throat tightens.
Noreen angles her chin toward the back door. And I see her. Livia. My heart stops as a copper-haired little girl in yellow wellies flashes past the window, chasing two goats and an older girl with pigtails. Laughter drifts in. I feel the incredible sound in places I didn’t know were empty.
“That’s Aisling with little Livia. She’s our neighbor.
” Then Noreen turns her gaze away from the girls, hands braced on the sink, eyes narrowed in my direction.
“You handed me a child wrapped in secrets,” she says to Cat, voice clean as a blade, “and I raised her in truth. I love that little girl fiercely, and I won’t let any harm come to her.
So don’t you dare bring your lies to my doorstep. ”
Cat flinches, then straightens. “I won’t,” she whispers. “Not anymore.” Her fingers find the locket at her throat. “That’s why we’ve come. He’s her father.”
Those eyes, sharp as knitting needles, spear me. “Name?”
“Matteo Rossi,” I answer, palms open. “I—”
“I don’t want the curriculum vitae of your sins,” she snaps. “I want to know if you’ll make more of them.”
“No,” I reply immediately, and it’s the only word I have that feels big enough. “I won’t.”
“Words are cheap where you come from.” She tips her chin at Cat. “Now tell me the truth. All of it.”
So Cat does. She tells Noreen about the summer in Sicily, and I’m surprised how little she knows.
How willing she was to take on a child without any explanation.
Then she tells her about Belfast and a father who bargains in blood.
About Tiernan, the price on my head, the lie she told me, and the life she saved.
Noreen doesn’t soften, not at first. She listens like a ledger, like she’s adding and subtracting in air. When Cat finally finishes, the cottage is very quiet. The goats complain again just outside and a hint of that laughter still rings in the air.
“Mmm,” Noreen says finally. “Bad choices and good reasons. It seems as if that’s the family trade.” Her gaze flicks to me. “You already left once.”
“I did.” The words are heavy. “I won’t again. I swear to it.”
“You can’t promise that to a child,” she counters. “But I suppose you can try like hell to keep from breaking what loves you.” It lands like a hammer to the head.
I shift uncomfortably for a second then gather my resolve. “I love Caitríona, always have, and I already love Livia. I will never leave either of them again. I’ll spend the rest of my life making up for my past sins and keeping them safe.” Then I turn my gaze to Cat. “If she’ll have me, of course.”
Cat’s eyes spark with unshed tears.
Noreen turns to the window and lifts her chin. “Livia! Come inside, a stór! Bring Aisling with you.”
A stór. My Gaelic is shit, but even I know that one. My darling. Treasure.
The back door bangs and sunshine in yellow wellies barrels in with the neighbor girl behind.
Livia pulls up short when she sees us, curious, fearless.
Her hair is copper spun with fire, and her eyes are a tangle of my sea green and her mother’s sky blue.
She’s smaller than the ache I’ve been carrying and yet, somehow fills more space.
“Auntie Cat!” she crows, and my heart breaks in the most miraculous way. Cat drops to her knees at once, arms wide. Livia crashes into her, goats and pigtails forgotten. They sway together like they’ve been two pieces of the same thing all along.
I swallow the noise in my throat and fail miserably.
Noreen hears it anyway. She inches closer and her hand finds my elbow and squeezes once.
I can’t tell if it’s a warning or a mercy.
“You stand where I can see you,” she murmurs, “and you keep your hands in your pockets until I say.” Then, a small nod. “Go on, then. Look at the girl.”
I do. Dio, I do.
Livia leans back from Cat and notices me like a hawk notices a silver trinket. “Who’s that?” Her question holds no fear, light brows furrowing as she regards me.
Cat glances at her great aunt, and Noreen, queen of this small country, decides. “That,” she replies in a much too brisk tone, “is a friend who’s been away too long.”
Livia weighs her words, then steps forward three determined strides until the toes of her wellies touch my boots. She tips her head, studying the scar on my cheek like an interesting puzzle. “You’re very tall,” she blurts.
I huff a laugh that tastes like heaven. “I get that a lot.”
“Do you like goats?” she presses.
“I’m open to negotiations.”
She grins, satisfied. “Good.” Then she looks over her shoulder. “Auntie Noreen, can we show him the babies?”
“In a minute, a stór, I need a word with Auntie Cat first.”
The neighbor girl, a slip of freckles and pigtails likely just shy of ten, tugs at Livia’s sleeve. “Come on now, Liv, don’t forget about the castle,” she announces. “It still needs a moat.”
“Building proper moats is hard,” Livia informs me gravely, then trots outside with Aisling to educate the goats.
Noreen waits until the door closes and the yard swallows their chatter. Then she faces us again, softer but not soft. “You’ll tell her the truth.” Not a question.
Cat’s hand finds mine, slipping her fingers through my own in a knot. “We will.”
“And you’ll let her decide what to do with it.” Another non-question.
“Agreed,” I reply.
Noreen studies the seam of our hands like it’s an answer she can grade.
At last, she nods, the verdict rendered.
“Then you can have the sitting room,” she announces.
“I’ll make tea. I’ll take Aisling to her ma and give the goats a stern talking-to.
” A flash of something like humor. “And God help you if either of you makes that child cry.”
She’s gone before we can thank her, leaving the door ajar and a path straight to the small backyard kingdom.
Before I can follow her, Cat tugs on my hand stopping me. Her eyes meet mine, the brilliant blue in turmoil. “Are you sure?”
“Sure about telling our daughter that we are her parents?” Dio, she still thinks I’m a flight risk.
“Kitty Cat, I’ve never been more sure about anything in my life.
” I squeeze her hand and draw her closer, cupping her cheek with my free one.
“I would get down on one knee and ask both of you to spend the rest of your lives with me if I thought you’d allow it. ”
A rueful laugh tumbles out, then a tear slips free.
“I love you, Caitríona McKenna, and I wasn’t just talking out of my ass earlier. I will spend the rest of my life making up for walking out on you and Livia.” I pause and press my forehead to hers. “If you’ll let me.”
Her chin dips, and she leans into my palm. “Of course I will,” she whispers, voice tight with emotion.
Drawing her into my side, we finally step outside. Livia is kneeling in the grass, lining stones along a shallow trench that absolutely qualifies as a moat if you’re three. Dio, she must be almost four by now. When is her birthday?
Before I can ask, Cat speaks. “Why don’t you come inside, a stór, there’s something we need to talk to you about. Auntie Noreen made tea.”
She looks up, squints at the sun, then squints at us. “Tea is for grownups,” she declares. “And goats.”
“I’ve heard that.” I nod solemnly.
Cat sits cross-legged in the grass, and I fold down beside her. The world narrows to clover and sunlight and the way Livia’s hair throws copper sparks when she moves. My hands tremble, so I tuck them under my thighs.
“Sweetheart,” Cat begins, voice steady and impossibly brave. “We want to tell you a true thing.”
Livia blinks, interested. “Is it about the castle?”
“It’s about you.” Cat smiles, though her eyes shine. “You know how you call me Auntie Cat?”
Livia nods, expression serious.
“Well.” Cat exhales. “Sometimes grownups use the wrong words because they’re trying to keep little ones safe. And sometimes… we get braver later.” She swallows, then smooths a curl back from Livia’s temple, fingers shaking once and then not at all. “I’m not auntie, I’m your mammy.”
Livia’s mouth makes a small O. She looks at Cat, then at me, then back at Cat like she’s turning a gemstone to check all the faces. “For real?”
“For real,” Cat whispers. “I should have told you sooner. I’m so sorry, a stór.”
Livia places both small hands on Cat’s cheeks and leans in until their noses touch. “Okay,” she says, as if granting amnesty to the whole foolish world. “Do I still get to call you Auntie sometimes?”
“You can call me anything you like,” Cat chokes out, laughing and crying at once.
Livia considers me next, as frank as a judge. “And you? Who are you?”
“I’m your papà,” I whisper, the word a new language that fits my mouth like it was made there. “If… if you want me to be.”
She studies my face for a long second, then reaches and pokes my day-old scruff as if testing merchandise. “Do papàs read stories?”
“The best ones.”
“And fix things?”
“Everything I can.”
She nods, satisfied. “Okay,” she decides, and it knocks the air out of me. She scoots forward, climbs into Cat’s lap first then leans out and presses sticky daisy fingers against my jaw. I don’t move. I’m afraid if I breathe wrong, the world will crack.
“Can we all read a story tonight?” she asks. “After tea. And playtime with the goats.”
My laugh is a broken thing. “We can read twenty.”
“Too many,” she scolds, but she’s smiling. She looks back at Cat. “Do I have to get new shoes if I get a papà?” She tries out the Italian accent, and it’s absolutely perfect.
Cat snorts and cries harder. “No, sweetheart, you can keep your wellies.”
The back door clicks, and Noreen stands there with three mugs and a grin of approval she tries to hide. She takes in the three of us in the grass—Cat blotting tears with the heel of her hand, Livia wedged between us, and my heart somewhere out in the clover—and she sets the tray on the stone wall.
“Well then,” she says tersely, her voice thick. “Since titles are sorted, we’ll have tea. And after, Matteo can learn how to shovel goat shite, which is the ancient rite of new fathers in this house.”
“Yes!” Livia crows, apparently delighted by both tea and her great auntie’s curse word.
“I’m honored,” I manage, and I truly am.
Noreen cuts me a look that says she’s going to count my honors, one by one. “You will be, Mr. Rossi.” Picking up the tray once more, she walks it out to us.
We drink tea out of mugs that say WORLD’S BEST AUNT and IRELAND FOREVER, and Livia explains moats with the authority of a small queen.
The sun slides along the blue shutters and the goats settle in the shed.
For the first time since I was nineteen and stupid on a sandy beach, I believe the tide might actually spare us.
Later, when Livia darts off to instruct the goats about the new castle policy, Noreen sidles close enough to jab a finger into my sternum. “You’ll bring trouble with you,” she murmurs, not unkind. “I’m not daft.”
“I’m trying to end it,” I answer, honestly. “All of it.”
“Mmm.” She studies my face a long moment, then nods once. “I have a friend in Belfast. Her parcel can arrive as soon as tomorrow morning. Clean papers, if they’re needed.” At my blink she adds, “You think you’re the only one with famiglia? Goats talk, boy.”
I laugh, stunned. “Thank you, Noreen.”
“I’m not doing it for you,” she replies, and this time her mouth softens. “I’m doing it for my girl and her girl. But if you keep your word, I’ll do it for you too.”
I look out at the yard, at Cat kneeling and Livia showing her how to build a better moat, and I give Noreen the only promise that matters. “I’ll spend the rest of my life giving them the best and keeping them away from the worst of me.”
She harrumphs, satisfied enough. “Good. Now fetch the shovel, Papà. The goats won’t muck themselves.”