10. Ronan
Ronan
“—and this one is the color of a sunset, Ronan. An actual sunset.”
Prudence’s face fills my phone screen, flushed and animated. Behind her, I make out the aftermath of what appears to be a fabric explosion—garment bags draped across the couch, tissue paper spilling from boxes stacked on the coffee table, a riot of color visible in every corner of the frame.
This is the fourth time she’s FaceTimed me today. I’m not complaining. Not at all.
“Show me,” I say, leaning back in my desk chair.
She flips the camera and angles it toward a dress she’s holding against her torso. It’s long-sleeved and a deep coral color. I’m sure it will be gorgeous on her.
“Nicholas left a note pinned to this one.” She flips the camera back to her face and squints at a small card. “It says, ‘For a Tuesday that deserves to feel like a Saturday.’ I do not understand what that means, but it is softer than anything I have ever touched.”
I grin. “It means you can wear it any day you want.”
She presses the dress to her face, eyes closed, rubbing the fabric against her cheek. When she opens her eyes, they shine.
I am watching joy—real, uncut, blazing joy. She is radiant over a dress she can choose to wear on a Tuesday. I’ve watched a thousand people receive expensive gifts—crystal, jewelry, cars—and none of them produced a fraction of this reaction.
It thrills me to see her like this.
“There are so many garments, Ronan. I counted forty-seven so far, and I have not opened everything yet.” She gasps suddenly. “I have not opened the shoes yet.”
I laugh heartily at her excitement. “Hang everything in our bedroom closet,” I tell her. “I cleared the left side for you.”
She beams, then disappears off-screen for a moment. I hear boxes being shuffled, tissue paper crinkling. When she reappears, she’s holding a pair of boots—knee-high in dark brown leather.
“Look at these shoes! The leather is so soft.”
She turns them over, examining the sole, the zipper, the stitching, as though she can’t believe they’re real. I imagine it’s a lot for a woman who has owned three garments at a time her entire life to now be holding Italian leather.
“Now,” I say, “Do you remember what a pub is?”
She sets down the boots and straightens, composing her face into a serious expression.
“A pub is a gathering hall where people go to eat food and drink alcohol and spend time together. The food and drink are purchased with money, and there is often music, and men and women become loud.” She pauses. “Is that correct?”
I press my lips together to keep from laughing.
She’s repeated what I told her almost verbatim.
For the past week, she’s peppered me with hundreds of questions, all aimed at fitting into this strange new world she’s been thrust into.
Even her formal speech is relaxing somewhat as she picks up my language patterns.
“That’s exactly right. Tonight, you’ll see one in person. O’Rourke’s. We’re attending my brother Cillian’s birthday bash. The whole family will be there.”
Her eyes widen at the word family, and I watch the questions stack up behind them. She’s met no one so far except Nicholas and the doorman, Thomas. Tonight, she walks into a room full of O’Rourkes—my brothers, their wives, and Ma, who…well…Ma can make Cabinet members stammer and billionaires sweat.
“Should I—is there a protocol? For meeting your family? Housemother Ruth once told me that a wife’s first duty is to—”
“The only protocol is that you be yourself.” I hold her gaze through the screen. “I’ll be right beside you the whole night. Nicholas will be over soon to help you get ready.”
She nods. Then her face crumples into guilt—quick, instinctive, a cloud swallowing sunlight.
“I’ve interrupted your work. Four times. I’m sorry, Ronan. I know you are a very important and busy man, and I should not bother you with shoes and dresses when you have—”
“Stop.”
She stops.
“You’re not bothering me. You could call me forty times a day and I’d pick up every single one. Understand?”
A beat. She bites her lower lip. “I believe forty is somewhat excessive.”
“Try me.”
Her guilt dissolves, and she nods, this time with the ghost of a smile playing across her face.
“I do need to finish a few things here,” I tell her. “Go hang up those clothes. I’ll call you back later.”
“Alright.”
“Prudence.”
“Yes?”
“The sunset dress. Wear that tonight.”
Her smile breaks wide open. “I will.”
We hang up.
I stare at the dark screen for three full seconds. Then, break into a wide grin. I can’t help it. I tap her name and call her back.
She answers on the second ring, confusion creasing her brow. “Ronan?”
“It’s later.”
A beat of silence. Then a laugh—bright, startled, and unguarded—bursts from her and hits me the way good whiskey does, straight to the bloodstream. I’m grinning at my phone, full-on idiot, zero shame, and I don’t care.
“You are very strange,” she says, still laughing.
“I’ve been told.”
“I like it.”
“Good. Now go open those shoe boxes.”
She’s still laughing when she hangs up, and I’m still grinning when Margaret appears in my office doorway holding a stack of contracts.
She stops. Blinks.
“Mr. O’Rourke?”
“Margaret.”
She’s staring at my face in shocked confusion. “Are you…smiling?”
“Don’t make it weird.”
“I’m not making it weird. I’ve worked for you for six years, and I have never seen a smile like that on your face.” She sets the contracts on my desk. “It suits you. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen you look anything other than calculating or annoyed.”
“That’s enough, Margaret.”
“It’s really nice to see, is all I’m saying.” She turns to leave, then pauses at the door. “Whoever she is, she’s good for you.”
Margaret’s gone before I can respond.
I lean back in my chair, spinning a pen between my fingers and sit with what Margaret just said.
She’s not wrong. It has been a very long time since I smiled at anything that wasn’t a closed deal or a tactical victory. It’s been a very long time since I’ve felt truly happy.