Then she says, "Brigid sends me a tin of the same tea. From Galway. Every Christmas. She’s done it since I went back for Brendan's funeral."
"It is the same shop."
"It is."
We sit at the kitchen table for a long second, considering the architecture of two mothers in two countries who have been sending tea to two other mothers in two countries for nine years without ever meeting.
Then Cathleen says, "My daughter has chosen well."
"I know I am the lucky one, Cathleen."
"Good. Just keep knowing that."
? ? ?
Cake at 1:30 PM. ‘Happy Birthday’ in three languages: English, Greek, and Gaelic, because Cormac has insisted on the Gaelic version after Stavros sang the Greek. Nora blows out three candles. She doesn’t understand the candles, but she understands that everyone is watching her; she loves the attention.
Cormac gives her the stuffed elephant.
"This is for Brontos," Cormac says, kneeling. "His name is Phelan. He’s from Ireland. He’s come a very long way. So Brontos has a friend."
Phelan goes into Nora's arms next to Brontos. Phelan is twice as large and has two eyes. Brontos, in Nora's hands, is formally introduced to Phelan. The introductions take fifteen minutes.
Stavros gives her the wooden boat. He’s carved it himself. Nora announces immediately that the boat will be in her bath, which is what Stavros has hoped for.
Dimitri gives her a small box.
Nora opens it. Inside is a tiny silver chain bracelet with a small silver letter N as the charm. Dimitri has chosen it himself, which, I am realizing, is the first piece of jewelry my middle brother has bought for any woman in this family since Sophia in 2019. Nora examines the bracelet. She looks at Dimitri.
"Thank you," she says.
Dimitri nods. He doesn’t smile. He does what Dimitri does: he stands slightly apart from the rest of us and watches the family hold itself together with an expression I cannot fully read.
I file the expression. I will think about it later.
? ? ?
Cathleen flies back to Florida on Sunday evening. She kisses Nora's forehead at the airport then she kisses Maeve. She doesn’t kiss me, but she does shake my hand, which, from Cathleen Callahan, is, I have learned in forty-eight hours, the highest available endorsement.
She holds my eyes for one second. "Lex."
"Yes."
"You said the words to me before you said them to her?"
"Yes."
"Do not make me the only person who has heard them."
"I will not."
She squeezes my hand once. She walks through security.
? ? ?
A Friday, a few weeks on. Maeve comes home from grand jury prep at 7:42 PM and finds a small black velvet box on the kitchen counter.
Inside it: a thin gold chain. The chain is delicate. There is no pendant. There is no monogram. There is no inscription. The chain is the kind of quiet anonymous gift a man gives a woman when he’s decided that the gift cannot signal anything except that he was thinking of her.
