“Not really. There's mostly just more junk. Dad likes to collect things. He's incapable of turning down a good deal. Even if it's something he doesn't need.”
Eamon pointed to the dozens of fishing lures adorning the wall near the bottom of the stairs. “Is he a big fisherman?”
“Unless something has changed in the last few years, nope. I actually don't know if he's ever been fishing. He just likes the way they look, I think.”
On the other side of the staircase, still on the front of the house, was the alcove where Dad kept his desk and piles of old magazines and newspaper clippings. He'd been talking for years about getting it organized or turning it into a hobby room, but that never quite happened. He was always getting distracted by new ideas, new projects, new things to collect and acquire.
Eamon wandered ahead, looking at pictures Dad had of Amy and me on the wall—high school graduation, college graduation, a Christmas from when we were teenagers, me with a mouth full of metal.
“Nice braces,” Eamon said.
“Thanks. My dad's room is through there.” I pointed to the closed door on the far side of the office. “The rest of the bedrooms are upstairs. We can take our stuff up and get settled if you want.”
“Sounds like a plan.” Eamon grabbed our suitcase and Fiona's duffel from the bottom of the stairs and lugged it up while I followed.
“First door on the right.” He stepped inside and I flipped on the light. Dad had already set up the air mattress for Fiona and made up her bed. How very domesticated of him.
“So this is where the magic happened,” Eamon said, half laughing.
“You already made that joke about my office. And not quite, but you're funny.”
“You and Amy really shared this room?”
“Yep. From right after our mom passed away. We were sad and I think it helped us to be together.” Dad had moved Amy's bed back into her room about six years ago, when she'd brought several college friends up for a long weekend. The other furniture, like her old bookcase, was either living at my house or at Luke's.
“I noticed there aren't any pictures of your mom up in the house. Is that just because your dad moved on eventually?”
This was the danger of bringing Eamon here—questions about my mom. They were inevitable. And I had to answer them. I wouldn't keep anything from him anymore. At least not intentionally. “My grandmother took all of them when she died. She was really traumatized and I think she kind of freaked out. But she never gave them back, either.”
“Bloody awful.”
On a long list of awful things, that one wasn't actually at the top of the list. “It was.”
“How did she die? If your grandmother was traumatized. I mean, if you don't mind me asking?”
“A car accident. I was ten. Amy was eight. And we were in the car.” I waited to feel better after sharing these details I hadn't yet told him, but I knew very well that this was the sanitized version of what had happened. Not even a fraction of the real events.
Eamon pulled me into a hug and stroked my back. “That's so terrible, love. I'm very sorry.”
“Yeah. It's sad.”
“I don't know how you can live without any pictures of her. That must feel so strange.”
I couldn't have held back my sigh if I'd wanted to. I sank deeper into his embrace. “I don't need a picture, Eamon. I see my mother every time I look in the mirror.”
“What?” He grasped my shoulders and looked me square in the eye.
“My mother. Aside from not quite getting her amazing cheekbones, I look exactly like her. Exactly.”
Chapter Sixteen
I didn't sleep wellthat first night back in the house. There were too many memories around me, the kind you not only can't avoid if you shut your eyes, the kind that get worse when you do. I kept hearing my mother's voice in snippets from real life conversations more than twenty years ago—talk of flowers and weddings, true love and fate. How could she have ever betrayed our sweet, adorable dad? Or had she been in love with Gordon and I was simply too young and stupid to understand? Was their romance meant to be? Or was it a case of cruel timing?
I woke in the morning feeling on edge, although a kiss from Eamon on my forehead before he went downstairs to fetch coffee, and a smile from Fiona as she scrambled to go play with Julia's dogs, Tilly and Sadie, helped me shake it off. The nights had always been the worst in this house. I don't know why I'd expected that to be different.
My phone beeped with a notification—a returned message from Aunt Lucy.
Katherine,
