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Her frame is as bony and lithe as ever. “You’re imagining it.”
She giggles. “At least it’s happy fat. Did you hear me say boyfriend?”
“Quick promotion.”
She coos, and I poke a fingernail into the mound of flesh at the base of my thumb to remind myself what’s real. My best friend and I discussing happy fat and boyfriends is real. Jeremy Olk is real.
Colleen finishes my French braids and pulls me into a side hug. “Promise you’ll keep an open mind.”
My mind spent the last few days cracked open wide enough to drive a bus through. Snapping it shut feels like the safer option. “For you.”
She lays a hand on my cheek. “For you.”
I nod.
My fellow academician lounges on a comfy armchair in the lobby. Comfy, that’s a good word to describe him. I could use some comfy and real. Spending time with a person who will answer questions without a dozen layers of sneaky is surprisingly appealing.
Jeremy stands to greet us. He moves so formally; I expect him to bow. Instead, he offers me his arm. When I take it, I swear Colleen exhales in relief.
The tiny local restaurant he chooses in Dollymount near Dublin Bay definitely fits the comfy scenario. Jeremy raises a spoonful of lamb stew. “Ah, a taste of home.”
“Home? As in you’re from Ireland?” I assumed he was Boston Irish.
He dabs sauce from the collar of his red turtleneck. “Yes. Not far from here, Loilgheach Mór.” His Irish pronunciation is flawless.
“Your accent kicked into high gear there.”
He laughs and repeats the name in an English-friendly version. “Lullymore. It’s a bitty island, surrounded by a bog. Very timeless feel to the place.”
The last thing I need is another dose of timeless. My feet are staying rooted in a world with jeans, sneakers, and graduate students.
“You don’t need to Americanize it for me.” I study the pattern on the bowl. “I enjoy Irish with authentic flair. Are you fluent?” A stab of longing for the lilt in both Máthair and Sion’s accents hits me. It’s now clear why Sionnach’s voice reminded me of my grandmother’s. In addition to genetics, he grew up hearing the same songs, stories, and scoldings I did. From the same person. I take a breath to prevent the thought from digging in too deep.
“My parents would disown me if I wasn’t.” He grabs the edge of the table with both hands. “How is your grasp of Irish?”
I hold back a snort. Since my association with Sion, my sketchy Irish has become more like a first language than second. Probably a nugget Finnbheara threw in my swan/oak mix to benefit his lover’s son.
“I hold my own.” Smiling, I share my go-to tongue twister in Irish. When I finish, I raise a finger and translate so he knows I’ve got the goods. “There is a boil on the back of the bishop’s knee. But the bishop doesn’t know there is a boil on the back of his knee.”
Jeremy claps. “Nicely done.”
I dip my head in acknowledgement. He launches into an anecdote about the evolution of Irish slang as his name rolls around in my head. Jeremy—Dr. Olk. I can’t deny his intense academic vibe is alluring.
His next question returns me to the conversation. “Where did you pick up the mockery of the good bishop’s plight?”
“It was one of my grandmother’s favorites.” Thoughts of Máthair’s truth sour my rising good mood.
“Wish I’d known that jewel in seminary. It would have raised a few eyebrows.”
“Seminary? You were going to be a priest?” The shadow of Sion’s Father Colm nudges its way into my brain.
“For a minute and a half. My mother’s dream. Grad school in Boston was mine.” He lays a hand on his chest. “Academia always tugged hardest at my heart.” His eyes fix on the window where a steady stream of people pass in front of the restaurant on their way home from work. “As you’re aware, Ireland hasn’t always been the most hospitable place for priests.”
“There’s an understatement.”
His eyes dart to me, narrowing slightly and then relaxing. “Of course, Irish history bubbles in your veins.” He mimes a check mark in the air. “I’m sure the subject arose in your doctoral research.”
“I focused more on sacred sites and connections to druid and Celtic myths, not so much their Christian history.” A pit opens in my stomach. Was my interest in that particular topic a niggle from Finnbheara for his entertainment?
