“Eira could have worn a potato sack and still looked like a movie star.” Saoirse shook her head with the kind of envious admiration only a best friend can balance. “Lashes like Liz Taylor, legs like a gazelle.” She carefully sat down, her smile wavering.
Saga examined the next photo, which she imagined Saoirse must have taken herself. A man and a woman standing on either side of Eira. The Goff family was the picture of posh London old money in their form of dress, but they lacked the British reservation commonly held in the upper crust. Mari and Osian Goff were embracing their daughter from either side. Mari, much like her daughter, possessed elegance like it was part of her DNA, her hair perfectly coiffed and immovable, while Osian’s hair and beard, while thick,were meticulously trimmed. The entire family seemed chiseled out of stone with their immaculate bone structure, but their expressions humanized them. Their smiles were wide, their eyes crinkled and squinted—so much that the photograph had failed to capture details properly, making even Osian Goff appear like he was wearing eye-makeup. It was the sort of family picture that made something in her ache; a mother and father rejoicing in their daughter’s accomplishment. “They look so happy.”
“We were all so proud of her,” Saoirse said in admiration.
“She never talked about them much.”
“It was hard after her mother died,” Saoirse admitted. “Eira handled it as well as anyone could. It became her drive to develop better treatments, cures, but Osian…” Her lips pursed. “I do believe it broke him. He was a family man through and through; they were his world. And now Eira…”
“At least they’re all together now,” Saga offered softly.
Saoirse gave a tight smile and busied herself with pouring each of them a cup of tea.
Seeing she’d hit a nerve, Saga tried to bring them back to happier topics. “How did you and Eira meet?”
“When I was a waitress at the café, just barely out of secondary school, she’d come in to study as an undergraduate. Said we had ‘the perfect study atmosphere,’ and ‘the only proper profiteroles outside of France.’” She chuckled. “I liked to joke she took a shine to me so I’d make sure her tea was topped up and her belly was full without having to break her concentration.”
“Did you just start talking one day?”
“More and more each day. Then she told me the day we’d met had actually been her first time in the café. She’d just felt drawn to it. I told her I’d found Hudson’s in much the same way.”
“I thought you were drawn to it because you had a crush on Grandpa,” Saga teased.
Saoirse brightened. “That was after I’d been inside. Discovering the café was serendipity, plain and simple. I’d just come from lunch with afriend, and yet, there was this old café on my way back to the tube. It had this beautiful aura. I knew somehow destiny awaited me behind its doors. Shortly after, your grandfather took my order, and after about three hours of conversing between customers, I asked if they were hiring.” She fixed a stare on her granddaughter. “There is magic there, Saga. It’s worked into the very foundation of the place. It drew me to William Hudson, it drew Eira Goff to me, and my life was forever changed by both.”
“May it bring me the same good fortune,” Saga said wistfully.
Saoirse’s eyes twinkled. “I believe it will.”
Saga added sugar and milk to her tea. “So she wandered in one day, grew addicted to the profiteroles, and you were friends ever after?”
“Inseparable,” Saoirse agreed. “Well, until…”
Saga’s heart ached. “I’m so sorry, Mamó.”
Saoirse O’Donnell did not weep openly, and so she merely smiled tightly once more.
Saga wasn’t sure if it was her particular way or a family inclination to repress such urges. It was only in times like this she saw any resemblance between her mother and grandmother.
The old woman took a deep breath, her eyes glassy, and exhaled simply, “The wheel turns unyielding, a stóirín. No amount of heartache can slow it.”
Saga remembered the tartlets she’d brought and picked up a plate to offer it to her grandmother. She could not stop the wheel of time, but she could at least help mend the heartache it caused. “Is it just Elis left now?”
Saoirse took the plate gratefully. “There’s also that rotten cousin of hers. Did you ever meet Carys?”
Saga shook her head. “No, but I heard Eira mention her a few times. I don’t remember what it was about, but it wasn’t good.”
“She’s a climber,” Saoirse muttered. “Opportunistic, vain, and deeply paranoid.” She rubbed her temple as if the mere thought of Carys could invoke a migraine. “I suspect I will have to help run interference between her and Elis. That boy’s got too much of his mother’s mouth and noneof her sense. If that’s not a recipe for a fight at a funeral, I don’t know what is.”
“I could help,” Saga offered. “Maybe we can just shove a tart in Carys’s mouth any time she tries to say anything.”
Saoirse chuckled. “Between Eira’s son, her cousin, and that godforsaken Hedda Schmidt, you’d be kept busy, that’s for sure.” Saoirse took a bite of her tart, followed by a contented hum.
Saga’s chest swelled with pride. That was the sound of a baking success. “Why invite them if they’re going to make a fuss?”
“Because Eira was of the belief that you don’t always get to pick your family, and funerals are times to bury the hatchet before you bury your dead.”
“Yeah, but Hedda wasn’t family, right?”
