Epilogue Part Two
Cillian
I turn off the electric shower and step out of it in a plume of steam. I grab my towel as the next series of knocks at the front door echoes faintly through the house.
“Again, Mathieu?” I ask. I sling the towel around my neck and pad through the house.
Red and green decorations adorn the living room—Jules wanted to do silver and gold, but Mathieu insisted otherwise—and a large Christmas tree stands in the corner of the room.
I eye the parcels nestled beneath its branches.
They’ll be opened in the morning. Nerves flutter through my stomach.
There’s another knock at the door.
“Would taping the keys to your—whoops”—I snatch the towel from my neck and thrust it down, hiding my—“sorry.”
Seán has already turned his back and covered his eyes. He groans as if he’s been in a shipwreck and injured his shoulder.
“I thought it was Mathieu.”
“I hate you,” Seán says. “I never, never wanted to ever see—”
“Come in, I’ll change.”
The open door lets in chilly air and winter mist, causing my skin to break out in goosebumps. The sky is that mid-winter grey that hangs around for an hour at three before giving way to darkness at four.
“Mary and Charles are parking. I’m going to stay facing this way until you’re gone.”
I snort and retreat to my room. By the time I’m back and dressed, the three are in and laying out food and drinks on the kitchen counters.
The mulled wine has a bright green label with gaudy gold script and tinsel lining its edges.
I realise Seán is watching me try to read the percentage and wave him off.
“Do you always answer your front door naked?” Seán asks.
Mary’s and Charles’s brows raise.
“I thought it was Mathieu.”
“Does Mathieu have to knock to be let into his own house?” Seán asks.
“Given that he forgets his keys everywhere… at least once a week.” Mathieu suggested leaving the door unlocked since we live so remotely, and though I grew up in a home where the front door was never locked, I vetoed that suggestion.
I don’t like the idea of someone having uncontested access to Jules and Mathieu.
Mathieu had given up his argument after seeing my expression.
Both had questioned the necessity of the security cameras I installed too, but they hadn’t argued about it.
Charles hugs Mary from behind and pecks her cheek. “Darling,” he starts.
Mary reaches back and strokes his cheek with affection. “The answer is no.”
“You could answer the bedroom door naked at least.”
“To my cousin?” Mary asks.
I stare at Seán, blaming him. Seán grins.
“Speaking of cousins, where are my in-laws?” Seán glances at the closed bedroom doors.
I twitch, but don’t react to the term otherwise.
Since our visit to Seán’s parents over the summer he’s been referring to Jules and Mathieu that way.
He caught me staring through a jewellery store window.
I hadn’t even realised Seán was there until he’d sidled up and asked which rings I was picking out.
My gaze slides to the tree. The little boxes under it make me itchy.
“Have they wrapped themselves up as presents for you?”
“Have you hit your head?” I ask. Seán does his fair share of ribbing, but not usually to this extent. When I fix him with a critical stare, he smiles. “What?” I press. “Something good has happened to you.”
“I’m spending Christmas Eve with my brother. That’s ‘good’, isn’t it?”
“Spit it out.”
Seán’s smile widens.
“I’m evicting you if you don’t stop this behaviour.”
Mary and Charles laugh to themselves as they peel away. “We’re grabbing the rest of our things from the car!”
As soon as they’re gone, I double down. “Tell me what it is.”
Seán tilts his head back, groaning again. “Cillian.”
“Something good has happened.”
“Nothing in particular.”
“I’m not spending Christmas with you if you’re acting like this.”
“Oh Christ.” Seán laughs. “You’re so comfortable here that you’re answering the door without clothes on. You’d barely even unpack your bags when you lived with me, including when you were a teenager at the family home. You’re happy and settled, and that makes me happy. That’s it, I swear to God.”
I can feel the way my brow wrinkles. Seán’s laugh softens to a grin. “That’s it, alright? Now, can you answer me? Jules and Mathieu? They’re not really wrapped up under the tree, are they? Those boxes look a tad small to fit them…I wonder what’s in them that has you wound up?”
If the kitchen counter wasn’t between us, Seán would be getting a right shove. He must see the threat in my eyes because both hands shoot up, palms flashing white surrender.
“They were running to the shop before it closed. They should be back any minute.”
Gravel crunches in the driveway, and it’s four people that enter the house. I go to Mathieu, taking the shopping bags out of his hands. “Is there more in the car?”
“This is everything,” Jules answers, brandishing the last two bags. There’s a mountain of biscuits in one, fizzy drinks in the other.
“Are more people coming?”
“No,” Jules says. “I just thought snacks would be good. The turkey smells good, is it almost ready?”
Mathieu dives in to divert Jules from getting anywhere near the food.
Despite Jules’s adeptness at following instructions, he’s terrible at cooking.
A tray of cookies he can manage, but something hearty like a roast is well beyond his wheelhouse.
Mathieu and I take turns cooking, and take turns pinning Jules down when he tries to help.
“Is there a pot we can use? I have mulled wine.” Mary grabs the bottle with the green and gold label.
I see the percentage symbol, and my attention snags as I try to decipher the numbers in front of it.
I feel the weight of Seán’s gaze, and I abandon my attempts.
This time I give him a look to stop with the looks.
“Here, I’ll do it.” Mathieu takes out two pots, pouring wine from different bottles into each.
The next hour is spent chatting and drinking and finishing off the dinner.
When we sit down to eat, everyone has an elaborate cocktail that Charles mixed up for us.
When I awkwardly stared at the drink being handed to me, Charles said in a good-natured manner, “Jules already said you don’t drink alcohol, it’s spirits-free. ”
I relax into the evening, though the parcels under the tree feel conspicuous, looming despite their innocuous size.
Mary talks about her classes, Charles talks about the under-sevens he’s teaching Gaelic football, Seán brings us back to Thailand for a discussion about his latest tour group, and me, Jules and Mathieu each talk about work and play in turn.
Mathieu has had a cocktail and two cups of mulled wine by the end of dinner, and Jules has had the same.
The knowledge makes me keenly aware of every smile they share with me.
Every measure of warmth I see in their eyes.
I suppose it’s some measure of improvement that I hardly register that Seán’s sipped his way through two cocktails.
“Let’s do presents,” Jules suggests.
Another round of drinks goes out as we move to the couch, and everyone exchanges gifts. I don’t reach for the small gifts under the Christmas tree, instead handing over bigger presents to Jules and Mathieu.
Mathieu opens his with a befuddled look, finding a thin black band. “A smartwatch?” he asks. He pulls out a keychain that’s small and inconspicuous.
“A key finder,” I explain. “If you go too far away from your keys, the band will vibrate.”
Jules laughs. Mathieu pouts. “I’m not that bad.”
“Cillian answered the door—”
I shove Seán before he can finish the sentence.
Jules’s gaze darts between us, a smile curving his lips.
He’s smiling too much, eyes glassy with alcohol.
I hate myself for the nerves that tighten in my stomach.
I wish I could just enjoy the affection in his face, that my body wouldn’t complicate it.
“Mary, that’s a big present.” I divert everyone’s attention.
“Yes, this is for you, Jules.” Mary hands over the large box.
Jules unwraps the present, revealing a gleaming black pot with orange figures painted on it.
I recognise the image at once. After we were free of the island, I asked if I could see the presentation Jules had talked about in the lean-to.
The image of Narcissus and Echo is the same as one that was shown on the marriage chests he studied.
Jules blinks, and the glassiness isn’t from alcohol. He traces the image in the air above, not touching the figures. It’s obvious before he manages to raise his eyes to Mary that he loves it.
“It’s your urn,” Mary says with a smile.
My warm thoughts grind to a halt. Mathieu chokes on air. “An urn?” he demands, outraged.
Mary’s expression drops. “No, wait, you see, you need the context.”
There are two more boxes past her feet. “Are those urns too?” I ask. I’m too bewildered to be horrified.
“Yes, but—”
“I love it,” Jules says. “Thank you.” He catches my eye and Mathieu’s and smiles. “Mary promised to make me an urn on the island. What myth did you do for Mathieu?”
Jules carefully offers Mathieu the box with his name. Mathieu’s got a doubtful look, but when he sees the image, he smiles. “Dante’s Inferno,” Mathieu says. I recognise the chosen depiction as one from his final presentation too, with the addition of horses.
Mary offers me the final box with a nervous smile.
Everyone’s attention turns to me as I open it.
When I pull off the protective wrap, my breath catches.
The shape of the urn is different from Jules’s and Mathieu’s.
Where theirs are classical Greek, mine is shaped like a boulder.
Tall, narrower on top, wider on the bottom.
I recognise it at once. I spent too many hours tracing the exact curling designs on the piece in front of me not to. I look at Jules, who looks quietly delighted, but shrugs. “Nothing to do with me,” he says.
I turn to Mary.