Chapter Seventeen
Alannah
I sit by the window in the rocking chair Grandda brought up for me.
He put it here the morning after Grandmam first got me out of bed two weeks ago, and I’ve spent most days in it since, my knees pulled up and a blanket across my lap, looking out at the yard and the fields beyond.
There’s always someone moving about outside, family coming and going between the houses and Grandda’s men crossing between the sheds and outbuildings.
It’s better than lying in bed staring at the ceiling.
I’m watching Aunt Maeve pin the last of her washing to the line when heavy footsteps sound on the stairs.
A moment later, my door opens without a knock and Róisín steps in with a folded stack of clothes in her arms, a pair of shoes balanced on top.
“Morning, cousin,” she says cheerfully, bumping the door shut with her hip as she crosses to the bed and drops the lot onto it before sitting down beside the pile.
“Morning, Róisín,” I say quietly, looking at the pile beside her. “What’s all that?”
“A few things Mam sent up,” she says. “Some are hers. Some are mine. You’re too tiny for any of it to fit you right, but it’ll do well enough for now, till we can get you out to the shops and sort you.”
I look back at her, my brows drawing together. “I’m hardly going anywhere.”
Róisín lets out a breath through her nose. “Aye,” she says. “And that is exactly the problem.”
Of course she didn’t come up here just to bring me clothes. My eyes start to sting. I don’t think I can do this today. I turn back to the window. “Róisín, I’m not really in the mood for company just now.”
“Well,” she says dryly, “that’s unlucky for you. Because I’m here.”
I don’t respond. I just keep watching the little spider I noticed earlier building its web in the corner of the window frame.
I hear her shift on the bed. When she speaks again, her voice is quieter. “You’ve been gone six years, Alannah. I only just got you back, but it still feels like you’re an ocean away.”
She wouldn’t understand. My fingers tighten in the blanket on my lap, and I press my lips together, keeping my eyes on the window.
“We’ve all missed you,” she says. “So much. And I know you’re hurting. I know that. But don’t shut us out.” She pauses. “Have you even talked about what happened? Properly, I mean. To anyone?”
Her voice is so gentle, and I just can’t hold it in anymore. I clap a hand over my mouth, but a sob breaks through anyway. Another follows, and then I’m crying so hard my shoulders shake, tears running hot down my cheeks.
The bed creaks behind me, followed by Róisín’s footsteps across the floor. Then her hand is on my shoulder, and I look up at her through my tears. “Maybe it would help if you did,” she says softly.
“I...” I start, then stop and swipe at the tears on my cheeks. “I wouldn’t even know where to start.”
Róisín sits back down on the bed, and I turn to face her. “Start at the beginning,” she says. “I know your da made the match, and I know Grandda never wanted it. We all knew that much. Just tell me what happened.”
I swallow hard. “Ronin was...” My words die there as my mind scrambles for the right thing to say. Everything. Thoughtful. Sweet. Mine. None of it feels right anymore. I shake my head. “Not who I thought he was.”
Róisín says nothing, and I try again. “I know our marriage was an arrangement. But Ronin asked to date me. Said he wanted us to get to know one another before we married. He took me out. Brought me flowers. He was thoughtful and sweet and—” My eyes lift to hers, afraid I’ll find pity there, but all I see is sadness.
“He even proposed to me. Asked me to marry him in front of both our families, and he looked at me like I was the only person in the room. We picked out a house together. He told me he loved me.” My voice catches.
“I thought it was real, Róisín. All of it.”
“The wedding was perfect...” My voice wavers.
“It was beautiful, and everything was the way I’d always dreamed it would be.
When we got to the hotel for the reception, Ronin said he needed a word with his best man before everything got started, so they went off to the bar.
It wasn’t long after they left that the emcee came over to say they were ready to announce us, and I went to find him. ”
I stop there. Tears blur my vision, and Róisín reaches for the handkerchief I keep on my bedside table and passes it to me.
I wipe my cheeks and take a shaky breath before making myself go on.
Then I tell her the rest. Every humiliating, heartbreaking detail I’ve been reliving since that night.
I cry through most of it and have to stop more than once when I can’t get the words out, but I keep going until I reach the end.
“And then he took her hand and walked out of our reception with her.”
Róisín stares at me. “Jesus Christ, Alannah.” For once, she seems to have nothing to say. “I knew it was bad, but...” She trails off, her expression hardening. “No one tried to stop him? Uncle Seamus? Aunt Siobhán?”
I shake my head. “Ronin’s da stood up and made jokes of it.
Smoothed it all over, then told me to fix my face.
” I look down at the handkerchief in my lap.
“And when I tried to leave, Da stopped me and told me not to make it worse.” A bitter laugh escapes me.
“So I sat there. God, Róisín, they even cut the cake that took me weeks to pick out and served it to me.”
“Bastards, the lot of them.” Róisín spits the words, then her gaze drops to my hands. She reaches over and takes my left one, looking at the bare ring finger. “Where are your rings? The band and your Claddagh? We should sell the bloody things.”
“I don’t have them anymore. I left the band on my vanity when I packed. And Aidan’s little girl, Fia, liked the Claddagh, so I gave it to her.” A small smile touches my lips at the thought of her.
Róisín thinks that over, then smiles. “I like that. She’s probably parading around Boston in it by now, thinking she’s very grand.” Her smile widens into a grin. “Shame about the band, though. We could’ve sold that one and bought something nice with the money.”
A laugh escapes me. “You really would’ve sold it, wouldn’t you?”
Róisín looks almost offended that I’d even ask. “In a heartbeat.”
The look on her face makes me laugh again, and then she starts laughing too. A few more tears slip down my face, but I’m laughing through them now, and God, it feels good.
“Róisín!” Grandmam’s voice cuts through our laughter from downstairs.
Róisín’s laugh turns into a groan. “There she is.”
“If you’re finished hiding up there,” Grandmam calls, “you can come down and make yourself useful.” Róisín glances at me and presses a finger to her lips, as though keeping quiet might make her give up and go away.
A moment later, her voice comes up the stairs again.
“And bring Alannah with you. You can help her with the bread. Maybe she can teach you something, because Lord knows you’ve never been much use in a kitchen. ”
Róisín’s eyes widen in mock outrage. “That’s slander.”
My lips twitch. “I haven’t been home in six years, and even I know you can’t cook, Róisín. It’s not slander if she’s telling the truth.”
She gasps at me. “The betrayal! Siding with Grandmam when she’s being cruel to me.” She pretends to pout but gets to her feet anyway and holds a hand out to me. “Come on.”
I hesitate, and her expression softens. “No one expects anything of you,” she says. “All anyone wants is to spend time with you.” I look at her hand for a moment before I take it.
Downstairs, Grandmam already has everything for the bread set out on the counter. The smell of bacon simmering on the range fills the kitchen, and when I glance that way I see the big pot going, the lid rattling softly as steam escapes around it.
“There you are,” she says, not looking up from where she is peeling apples at the table. “Well? Get moving. The soda bread won’t make itself.”
Róisín drops into the chair closest to Grandmam, snags a strip of apple peel from the table, and starts eating it. “I’ll stay here and supervise. If I help, I’ll only slow her down.”
“Aye,” Grandmam says. “That much is true.”
I wash my hands at the sink and move to the counter, grabbing the mixing bowl and whisk.
I’ve made this bread so many times I could do it half asleep.
Flour first. Salt. Bread soda. I whisk them together, then pour in the buttermilk a little at a time, bringing the dough together with one hand the way Grandmam taught me years ago.
I glance over at the apples she is chopping. “Are we making these sweet loaves?”
“We are,” Grandmam says, bringing the board over and scraping half the chopped apples into the bowl. “And we’ve the apple cake to make for after Mass tomorrow, so don’t go disappearing on me.”
I turn the dough out onto the floured counter and knead the apples in. Then I divide it in two and shape each half into a round loaf, rubbing a little flour over the tops with my hands. Grandmam hands me the knife she was using for the apples. “Mark them proper,” she says.
I find myself smiling at the familiar words and cut a deep cross into the top of each loaf. Grandmam gives an approving nod. “There,” she says. “Now they’ll bake right.” I lift the loaves onto the tray and slide it into the oven while Grandmam sets the timer.
Once the loaves are in, I wash out the bowl and turn to check on Róisín, who’s gone quiet.
I find her steadily working her way through the pile of apple peels Grandmam left on the table.
She catches me looking. “What?” she says, already reaching for another.
“I’m helping clean up.” She winks and pops it into her mouth.
Shaking my head, I turn back to the counter and begin mixing what we need for the cake while Grandmam finishes chopping the rest of the apples.
By the time the cake batter is ready, the soda breads are done. I take them from the oven and set them on a cloth to cool while Grandmam pours the batter into two ceramic pie plates. Once the cakes are in as well and the timer is set, I sink down into the chair beside Róisín.
Grandmam has taken up humming The Rose of Tralee again under her breath as she moves about the kitchen.
Beside me, Róisín lets out a soft snicker, and Grandmam cuts a pointed look her way.
“I’m only saying,” Róisín mutters, “there are other songs in Ireland.” That draws a small laugh out of me before I can stop it.
Still humming, Grandmam goes to the range and lifts the lid from the big pot simmering there, checking the bacon joint with a fork before pushing it back down into the water.
A bowl of cabbage wedges sits ready beside her.
“Are you staying for your supper, then?” she asks Róisín without looking at her as she reaches for the cabbage.
“I’d love to stay for supper, Gran,” Róisín says, nudging my shoulder with hers.
Grandmam tips the cabbage into the pot, then uses her spoon to tuck them down into the water around the bacon before settling the lid back on.
The back door opens, and my grandda steps inside, stamping the damp from his boots before shutting it behind him.
His eyes go first to Grandmam, like always, as she opens the oven to check the cakes, still humming.
Crossing the room to her, he picks up the song where she left off, singing the next line in his deep baritone. “She was lovely and fair as the rose of the summer...”
Grandmam glances over at him, a smile already tugging at her mouth. “Oh, away with you.”
He reaches her, slides an arm around her waist, and draws her in close.
She gives him a half-hearted swat with the dish towel before letting him pull her in, and when he goes on singing, she laughs and rests one hand lightly against his chest. His voice lowers on the next line.
“Yet ‘twas not her beauty alone that won me...”
Beside me, Róisín rolls her eyes as though she has watched this all her life and is thoroughly tired of it, but there is a smile on her face all the same.
I grew up watching it too, but I can’t seem to look away.
They move together so easily. No show of it.
No effort. Just the kind of closeness that’s been there so long neither of them has to think about it.
My chest aches at how sure I’d been that one day I’d have this too.
Both my grandparents’ marriage and my parents’ were arranged.
Love came later for them both, though it was never a guarantee.
But I had considered myself the lucky one.
Ronin hadn’t just accepted the match our fathers made and left it at that.
He’d asked to date me first. He’d proposed when he didn’t need to.
How was I not meant to believe that meant something?
I had felt chosen. I believed Ronin when he told me he loved me, but in the end he showed me what a fool I’d been to trust him.
Whatever I thought we had, whatever I believed I meant to him, it was never love.
Ronin didn’t love me the way he said he did.
If he had, he could never have done what he did to me and walked away.
I see that now. I only wish I hadn’t believed so completely in something that was never real. But sitting here in my grandparents’ kitchen, watching them sway together, Grandmam resting her cheek against my grandda’s chest while he sings, I know this much: whatever I thought I had, it was not this.