Chapter 34
Irish
By six that evening, the farmhouse had become louder than it had been in fifteen years, and I discovered almost immediately that wanting people back inside it was considerably easier in theory than dealing with what happened once they arrived.
Brigid came first despite not technically being invited until Eamon called to tell her about dinner, which apparently counted as an act of treason in her mind because she arrived carrying two covered dishes, a loaf of bread, a bottle of wine, and enough criticism to suggest she'd been waiting years for the opportunity.
She walked into the kitchen without knocking, inspected the food Skye and I had managed to prepare, informed me the potatoes were cut incorrectly, and then opened three cupboards before deciding Mam would be deeply disappointed by the state of the pantry.
I reminded her that Mam had been dead fifteen years and therefore probably had more significant concerns wherever she was, which earned me a wooden spoon against the arm and Skye's immediate betrayal in the form of laughter.
By the time Eamon and Niamh arrived with Orla bundled against the evening cold, Brigid had rearranged half the kitchen, Skye had surrendered responsibility for the potatoes entirely, and I had begun remembering why Mam used to threaten to bar certain people from the house despite never once following through.
Eamon stopped just inside the hallway. That quieted me faster than anything Brigid could have done.
He had been here after the murders. I knew that because somebody had told me years ago, though I couldn't remember whether it was Niamh or one of the Gardaí or perhaps Eamon himself during one of the conversations I'd been too numb to properly hear.
He had helped with practical things while I drifted between police interviews, funeral arrangements, and the kind of grief that made hours disappear.
Later, after I left Ireland, he had apparently checked on the property more than once before the maintenance company took over.
Still, standing here tonight seemed to affect him in a way I hadn't expected.
His gaze moved along the photographs beside the staircase before returning to me.
"Looks the same."
"Some of it." He nodded. Niamh stood beside him with Orla tucked against her shoulder, giving him the same space Skye had learned to give me. When Eamon finally stepped farther inside, his attention settled briefly on the kitchen doorway.
"You all right?" I asked. His mouth twisted.
"Was going to ask you that."
"Answer first." He looked toward the room beyond.
"Aye. Strange, though."
"Very."
"Last time I was here..." He stopped, and I understood.
"No need." His gaze returned to mine. For a second we were twenty-three again, both of us standing on the wrong side of something neither had known how to survive. Then Orla made a sound from Niamh's shoulder and the moment broke naturally rather than painfully.
"Right," Eamon said. "Apparently we're not allowed emotional depth until after she's fed." Niamh handed him the baby.
"You say that like you've ever been allowed emotional depth." Niamh laughed.
"Married me anyway."
"Temporary lapse in judgment."
Skye appeared from the kitchen carrying glasses. "I've heard that excuse before."
I looked at her. She smiled. Something in my chest shifted with the ease of it.
This was what I had wanted without understanding it when I told Skye the house needed people again: not a dramatic reunion or some perfect restoration of everything we'd lost, but interruptions, Brigid insulting dinner, Eamon getting in the way, a baby fussing while Niamh tried to remove her coat, and Skye moving through the kitchen as though not knowing which drawer held the serving spoons was no reason to stop.
The farmhouse didn't need to become what it had been.
It needed permission to become something else.
Dinner was chaotic enough that I barely had time to think about where everyone sat until we were already eating.
Eamon ended up in Da's old chair again, though this time the sight didn't catch beneath my ribs with the same sharpness.
Brigid sat beside him because she claimed she needed access to the bread and everyone knew that was a lie.
Niamh took the chair nearest the doorway so she could reach the pram, while Skye settled into the place across from Da's that had apparently become hers after two mornings without either of us consciously deciding it.
I sat beside her rather than at the end or in Da's old place, choosing a seat that felt like my own.
The realization came halfway through Brigid explaining why Eamon had once been banned from a parish dance, and I nearly missed whatever defense he tried offering because I was staring at the edge of my plate.
Skye nudged my knee beneath the table. I looked toward her.
"What?"
"You're doing it."
"Doing what?" I raised an eyebrow at her.
"Thinking too loudly."
Eamon heard and responded. "He always did that."
I stared across the table. "Nobody asked you."
"See?"
Niamh laughed. Brigid pointed her fork toward me. "Your mother used to say she could tell when you were brooding because the whole room got annoyed."
"That doesn't make any sense."
"It made perfect sense to Siobhan."
Skye leaned closer. "I believe her."
"Of course you do."
"I've met your brooding."
"Professionally?"
"Extensively." Eamon's eyebrows rose.
"Should I ask?"
"No," Niamh and I said at the same time.
Skye nearly choked on her wine. The laughter that followed filled the kitchen so completely that for a moment I stopped hearing anything else.
I looked at Eamon with his hand resting over the back of Niamh's chair, at Brigid eating food she'd complained about while taking another serving anyway, at Orla asleep in the pram despite six adults talking over one another, and finally at Skye beside me with laughter still brightening her face.
Mam would've loved her. The thought came without warning.
It hurt, but it was a good kind of hurt, if such a thing existed.
Mam would've thought Skye stubborn, argumentative, too willing to walk into places she had no business entering, and therefore probably perfect.
Da would have followed her through the farmhouse while she explained what was wrong with his lighting and argued every recommendation purely out of principle.
Maeve would have interrogated her about Scotland, business, books, and every personal detail she could extract before pretending none of it had been intentional.
Finn would've flirted until Skye threatened him with something heavy, then spent the rest of the evening trying to convince her to help him travel somewhere ridiculous.
For years, imagining people I cared about meeting the family I'd lost had been impossible because it required placing new life inside the same mental space as the dead.
Tonight, the two existed together. I didn't have to choose. That mattered.
After dinner, Eamon helped clear the table without being asked, which Brigid loudly described as proof of Niamh's civilizing influence.
Niamh fed Orla near the sitting-room fire while Skye and Brigid debated whether the climbing rose outside the front windows should be cut back or trained along a new support.
Brigid claimed Mam would've considered removing any of it an act of war.
Skye said she had no intention of removing it but wanted to stop the plant from dismantling the mortar.
Brigid informed her the wall had survived worse than roses, at which point Skye launched into an explanation of moisture retention and historic lime mortar so detailed that I escaped to the kitchen before either of them could recruit me. Eamon followed.
"Coward."
"Aye." He leaned against the counter. For a moment we listened to the women argue in the sitting room. Then he glanced toward Da's study.
"Brennan's lot finished?"
"Just about." I shrugged although we both knew that it wasn’t a small thing to either of us.
"Take everything?" He gave me a quizzical glance.
"Not yet. Catalogued it in place. Some originals eventually will go for forensic testing."
"And Finn's note?"
I looked toward the study. "Photographed. They left the original for now." Eamon nodded.
"He wrote about me?"
"Aye."
His expression changed. "Good things?"
"Absolutely not."
"Little bastard."
I smiled. "He said Da told him to give you the packet if something happened." Eamon stared at the floor.
"I wish he'd done it sooner." The words were quiet. I understood what he meant. "If I'd known there was something in the cellar..."
"You didn't." I cut him off before he could go any further.
"Could've found it after."
"You didn't know."
"Same argument you've been getting from everyone else?"
"Pretty much." He gave me a dry look.
"Annoying, isn't it?"
"Fuck off." His smile disappeared almost immediately.
"I'm glad you're staying a bit."
I folded my arms. "Didn't say how long."
"Still."
I looked through the doorway toward Skye. She had moved closer to the fireplace, one hand gesturing as she explained something to Brigid while Niamh watched with the patient expression of someone enjoying the argument without intending to participate. Eamon followed my gaze.
"So."
"No."
"You don't even know what I was going to say."
"I do."
"Do you?"
"Aye."
"Then what's her plan?"
I looked at him. "See?" "That's not what you were going to ask."
"No. But now I'm curious." I exhaled.
"She has a business in Edinburgh."
"I gathered."
"Partner recovering in England."
"Aye."
"I'm in Carolina."
"Also gathered."
"Farmhouse is here." Eamon smiled slightly.
"You've discovered geography."
"I hate you."
"Still doesn't answer anything."
"There isn't an answer yet." He considered that. Then shrugged.
"Good."
I frowned. "Good?"
"You were never patient."
"I'm patient."
"You once dismantled a shed because the door stuck."