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She sent it off, first to Liz then to Toby. And then, after a moment’s consideration followed by a heavy sigh, she brought up her mom’s thread and added the picture there. They hadn’t spoken since the fight at lunch.

Great day on the island, she wrote.

She put her phone down and gazed out the window, the rain obscuring the fields outside, the world blurring to muted grays and greens. It didn’t bother her so much, not after the day she’d had. It was sort of beautiful even. She picked up her wine and opened her book, a deep contentment washing over her.

It took her a moment to place the feeling.

It felt like home.

9

Niall wasn’t sure what was going on.

Ever since that Sunday dinner, his father hadn’t mentioned Deirdre, or the Fallen Star, or the everlasting shame Niall had brought down upon his family.

He’d barely spoken to Niall at all. Working at the pub had become much easier now that Niall wasn’t being snapped at or reprimanded all the time. Though he did wish his father would say more than just Hello or Get this curry out to table three. Cordelia’s words had clearly struck a nerve.

“He’s doing some hard thinking, is all,” his mother had said when Niall brought it up. “About damned time too, if you ask me.” Then she’d patted his cheek. “You want feeding. Let me set you up with a bowl o’ stew.”

He hadn’t spoken to Cordelia since that night, though he had seen her driving past the pub in the cart with Róisín. And one time he saw her at the shop but he was ashamed to admit he’d hidden in the frozen food section. He didn’t want to invite another awkward situation where he’d end up feeling a right eejit.

With the pressure from his father off and the routine of work settling in, Niall found that the spring in his chest was unwinding, no longer necessary to keep him together. He was remembering how much he actually liked working in a pub. He liked the constant flow of conversation, the eager questions from the tourists and the tall tales from the locals, the laughter that came from people enjoying a good drink and a hot meal. The regulars had long gotten over the scandal of his return, and the article in the paper was old news now too. With no more gossip to be had, they joked with him more often, and engaged him in conversation when they came in for a pint or a bowl of potato leek soup.

When he was home, Niall found himself wandering into the kitchen more and more. He didn’t make anything. Sometimes he poked around the fridge and judged Colin’s grocery choices. Or he’d make sure the knives were sharp and the stove clean. Or he’d peruse the spice rack, which was shockingly bare.

That Friday was the seisiún and Niall got to work early for his dinner shift. It was sure to be a busy night; the pub was already filling up with both islanders and tourists. His mam was there at the table reserved for her.

“Hiya,” he said, bending down to kiss her cheek. The sky was growing dark, the rain a steady patter outside. It was cold enough that his father had started a fire in the fireplace, and it crackled merrily, each opening of the door bringing a blast of chilly wet air. “Sauvignon blanc?” he asked.

“That’d be lovely. Oi, Aoife!” she called as Aoife O’Shea, who owned the shop, entered, waving her over to say hi. Niall left to get her wine but first poked his head into the kitchen.

“All right, Da?” he said. His father was sniffing a bunch of wilted parsley.

“Parsley’s gone bad,” Owen said, tossing it in the bin in disgust.

“Just use some carrot greens,” Niall suggested.

“Really?” Owen looked up and their eyes met. Niall shrugged.

“That or celery leaves. Either would make a fair substitute.”

“Huh.” Owen looked away. “All right. I’ll try that. Cheers.”

“Yup.” Niall left quickly before the moment was ruined.

He took a few orders from the bar, then went to pour his mother’s wine.

“It’s bucketing down out there,” Colin said, coming up to get himself a water. The rain was beginning to lash against the windows. “Did you see Cordelia made it?”

Niall slopped some of the wine onto the bar and hurried to wipe it up. There were three figures at his mother’s table, all peeling off their raincoats and hanging them on the backs of their chairs. Róisín was in her usual plaid shirt and dungarees but Cordelia was wearing an Aran jumper, soft white in a honeycomb stitch—it looked like one Róisín had made. It was a little too big for her, falling to the middle of her thighs, and she wore it over soft gray leggings, her damp hair sticking to her neck in places. She was laughing with Alison as she pushed the sleeves up to her elbows and sat beside his mother.

He finished pouring the wine and turned to see Colin watching him.

“What?” he said.

“Nothing,” Colin said. He took a sip of water, eyeing Niall over the glass. “Maybe you’ll want to be a bit kinder to her this time. She got your da off your back.”

“If you’re going to stay behind the bar, then take some orders and pour some pints,” Niall said. “Otherwise get your arse on that stage.”