Page 31 of Irish Legacy

Heat rose in Trish’s face, but she didn’t look away. The words came easier than she expected. “In case I want to spend some time in California.”

Emma stood and crossed the small space between them. She pulled Trish into a hug that smelled of rosemary and the perfume Natalie had given her last Christmas. Her arms held tight, the same arms that had steadied Trish through her father’s funeral and the long years after. “Of course we can work it,” Emma said against her hair. “We’re already business partners with the house next door. We can definitely find a way. Don’t let that factor into any decisions.”

Trish closed her eyes and let herself lean into the embrace. The breath left her lungs all at once. She had carried the pub alone for so long that asking for help still didn’t come naturally. But Emma made it simple. Emma always had. When she pulled back, Trish kept her hands on her friend’s shoulders.

“Quinn got a script last week,” she said. The fire crackled beside them. “A good one. I don’t want her to worry about whether or not to take it. If she wants it, I want to be able to go with her or visit her without thinking about the pub.”

Emma studied her face for a long moment. She didn’t look surprised. “This is getting very serious.”

Trish gave a quiet nod. “Felt that way from the start, I think.” The decision had formed slowly over the past weeks, growing each time Quinn chose the village over another red carpet, each time she kissed Trish like the world outside theirs didn’t exist.

Quinn stepped into the doorway from the kitchen holding two heavy crystal tumblers. Natalie walked right behind her with two more, the amber whiskey catching the golden glow of the hearth, ice clinking softly against the thick glass.

Trish pushed herself up from the sofa, her knees giving a familiar quiet pop that made her smile. Beside her, Emma reached out to take a tumbler from Natalie.

Quinn didn’t hand Trish her drink right away. She stood there in the soft light of the room, dressed in a heavy cream knit sweater that made her eyes look impossibly blue, her mouth curved in that private, tender smile she saved only for Trish. The sight of it still hit Trish straight in the chest. Her pulse pushed hard against her ribs.

Trish closed the step between them and slipped her arm around Quinn’s waist. Quinn shifted into the contact without hesitation, her side settling against Trish’s hip. She rested her lips against Trish’s temple for a brief, sweet second before handing over the glass.

The amber liquid swirled around the clear cubes of ice. Trish let her thumb trace the cut crystal, her arm tightening around Quinn. In the dark reflection of the windowpane across the room, the four of them stood in a loose circle around the hearth, the tiny tree lights twinkling behind them.

Emma lifted her glass first. The firelight caught the fine lines around her eyes.

“To absent friends,” Emma said. Her voice carried a low, steady weight.

A sharp tug pulled in Trish’s chest as she looked at her oldest friend. Emma’s hands were empty of her mother, her father, her brother, all gone too early, leaving her to build a life out of the quiet leftovers. Christmas always brought their absence back into the corners of the room. Yet Emma didn’t look broken by it tonight. She looked whole, standing shoulder to shoulder with Natalie. Trish raised her tumbler, the silence in the room pressing with a heavy, respectful weight, honoring the ghosts that had shaped them all.

Natalie stepped closer to Emma, resting her chin briefly against Emma’s shoulder before raising her own glass. Her dark eyes reflected the fire. She reached for Emma’s free hand.

“To all those who have gone before us,” Natalie said.

Trish took a slow breath, letting the words settle into her bones. For years, Christmas had been a quiet test of endurance. It was one of the very few days the pub stayed dark, the day the silence upstairs in her flat was loudest, reminding her of the dinner table her mother used to lay out and the way her father’s laughter used to fill the room. Standing here now, surrounded by the three of them, the old ache of missing her parents didn’t disappear. But it was easier to carry.

She thought of her father, Séamus, sitting on his favorite stool behind the taps at O’Shea’s, pulling pints with his bad shoulder and his quick smile. She thought of her mother, Máire. She thought of Bridget, who had lived and died in this very house, keeping the kettle hot for anyone who walked through the front door. And she thought of Anthony Fallon, young and bold in that black-and-white photograph, who had left Kilvolan decades ago only for his granddaughter to bring his memory back across the sea. They were all in this room tonight. Their memory wasn’t a weight, but a foundation. The fire was warm because of the hearth they had built.

Quinn lifted her tumbler next. She turned her head, her gaze lingering first on Natalie, then on Emma. Finally, her eyes found Trish’s, open and steady.

“To Kilvolan,” Quinn said. “For bringing us all together.”

“To Kilvolan,” Emma and Natalie echoed softly.

Trish held her breath under Quinn’s look.

It was terrifying, how easily life could have spun in another direction.

If Anthony Fallon hadn’t emigrated, if the village committee hadn’t decided to erect that bronze statue, if Quinn hadn’t come here to see it, they’d be strangers. And Emma would never have met Natalie if it weren’t for Natalie’s connection to this village, visiting her grandmother summer after summer. Kilvolan had pulled them all in and anchored them right where they belonged.

Trish swallowed down the knot in her throat and lifted her glass higher into the firelight, her thumb smoothing over the knit of Quinn’s sweater at her waist.

“To love,” Trish said, looking around the small circle before letting her gaze settle entirely on Quinn. “No matter the miles, and no matter the years. To us.”

She thought of the Atlantic—the thousands of miles that should have kept them from ever crossing paths. And the eighteen years between them, which everyone in the world thought was a barrier, but had turned out to be the very thing that made them fit.

Quinn’s smile softened.

“Sláinte,” they spoke together.

The clear chime of four crystal glasses meeting rang through the living room. Trish took a slow sip of the rich, smoky whiskey, letting the heat spread low in her chest. Quinn set her tumbler down on the small table beside them and turned back immediately, wrapping both arms around Trish’s waist and pulling her flush against her body.

Trish let herself sink into the embrace, and the sweet warmth of Quinn’s skin. Quinn’s lips pressed against her temple.

Outside, the winter wind rattled the dark glass of the window, but inside, the fire burned bright and steady, casting long, golden shadows across the room.

Trish closed her eyes, holding the woman she loved tight in her arms, and knew she was finally home.