Josh was gracious. He told Hugh he hated what they were going through, and he told River that he would call her tomorrow. “I plan on staying out long enough to have a few shots with Cormac and Ciaran to celebrate my new business venture,” he grinned. Obviously excited.
“Okay. Don’t drink too much, Josh,” she grinned. “Raven’s birthday-baby shower is in two weeks, and you promised to have Rave’s birthday present finished.”
“What did you decide on?” Rowan asked.
“Josh is making a wall hanging of the Muscogee Nation logo. And since it has a bit of green, the green shamrock in the center should look super cool.”
“I can’t wait to see it. Raven will love that it represents both our parents.” Rowan sighed, her eyes a bit glassy. Their eyes always got a bit glassy when their parents were mentioned. “You know it crushed Mom when she found out her mother’s family had either passed away or moved with no forwarding address.”
“Family was everything to her, and to not have her own to meet her husband and us— it was a blow.” She and Rowan were standing by then. They touched each other’s hands in remembrance of their parents. An acknowledgment of their loss. Hugh stood behind Rowan, not touching, but there if her sister needed him.
“I was sorry to hear about your mother, Josh. She is watching, you know, and is so proud.” River had told her sisters. They were devastated for the blacksmith.
Josh nodded his head, not trusting himself to speak, she imagined. Hugh shook his hand and thanked him again for the wolf sculpture.
Then... her heart aching that Patrick wasn’t next to her, River third-wheeled her way home.
18
Patrick had been sitting in his rental for hours, or perhaps it was only minutes. Getting out seemed so final. Grabbing his luggage seemed so permanent. He wanted to turn the car around— go back to Dublin... to River.
A soft knock on his window got things moving. Startled, Patrick looked out the driver’s side glass. Bébhinn Byrne, with her intricate white braids and soft smile, stood in the drive, waiting for Pat to get out.
Pathetic, Pat. It was only for five weeks. He would work on himself. He would continue to write River. In fact, he’d stopped and posted another letter to Rowan when he passed through Longford.
Attempting to embrace the inevitable, he got out of the car. “Hello, Bébhinn.” He was sure his cheeks were red. Rowan wouldn’t have held anything back from her beloved grandmother.
“Well, young man. You’ve made a right mess for yourself, haven’t you?”
“I have, yes,” he admitted.
“Do you love, River?”
“Yes.” Patrick barely got the word to pass his constricted throat.
“Well, then... well. I suppose I can work with that.”
And then the most unexpected of things happened. River’s grandmother opened her arms, inviting Patrick in. He stepped forward tentatively. Nan was having none of that. She wrapped her arms around him, bringing his head to her shoulder. And that was that.
Deep, guttural moans— the pain he’d been holding in from the minute River saw the picture— came pouring out. Patrick didn’t know how long he cried. Bébhinn held him through it all. Only when the tsunami of emotion washed out of him and away into the Irish countryside of Roscommon did the older woman pull back.
Patrick was embarrassed at the... whatever that was, but Bébhinn acted like she held wailing grown men every day. “Come, now, Patrick. Grab your bags. I’ve got beef stew warm on the hob. The rolls are all but done.”
He followed the older woman inside. He’d barely paid attention to the outside, but the inside was beautiful. The sisters must get their eye for design from their grandmother. And God, the house smelled of everything delicious, his stomach rumbling in appreciation. The room was comfortable, with the whitewashed walls and floors. There were cream-colored thick wool rugs, blankets, pillows, and paintings done in greens and yellows, oranges, blues, and reds. It looked like a garden. River had told him Bébhinn was an avid gardener.
River. Christ, he wanted to talk to her. Wanted to see her smile again. Smile at him. Taking a deep breath— refusing to cry again —he followed Bébhinn to the second floor where the bedrooms were, or the first floor as the Irish called it. Apparently, they entered their homes on the ground floor.
At the top of the stairs, she pointed to a closed door. “That is my room. Across the way is the guest bedroom. The girls’ room is the last. It’s the largest of the three since they all end up sleeping in the same room anyway,” she smiled fondly. “You’ll probably have noticed how they gravitate toward each other.”
Patrick huffed out a laugh as she opened the door to their room. “Dad, Bran, and I are very close. We noticed right away, after meeting your granddaughters, that they were next level close.” The room held one large bed placed in the middle of the longest wall, with a comfy-looking couch at the foot. Three desks held knickknacks, makeup, and perfume. Each desk and the surrounding space were decorated in different color schemes.
“Ha, next level. Well put. Okay, then, I’ve made some space in the walk-in for you to hang your clothes. This,” she indicated a large middle drawer in the only clothes chest, “is Rivers. I moved most of her things to the side.”
“Why are you having me stay in here and not the guest room? I don’t want to invade their space, Bébhinn.”
“Call me Nan, please. We are family. As to the room, it’s homier in here.” As she explained, Patrick moved toward River’s desk. Picking up and setting down some of her things. “You’ll be living here for a while, and I want you to feel comfortable. The girls have a nook in my attached garden room you also might enjoy of an evening. It’s where their parent’s ashes rest.” That last part was said more quietly.
“Thank you. This room is great.” He meant it. It made him feel not so alone. Closer to River.
