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“Still torn up about Deirdre? No, I don’t think so,” Alison said. “When he first walked off that ferry I thought I would be knocked clean over by the rage rolling off him. Angry and bitter and sad, he was. Not anymore, though. Not by a mile. And then last night at dinner, I mean … lord, the sparks were flying.” Cordelia’s head snapped up. Alison was grinning. “Think everybody noticed except Owen—he was too bothered by how delicious that meal was. Oh, I hear Gran coming.”

“Wait, everybody noticed?” Cordelia said, panicking, as the front door burst open and Róisín strode into the kitchen.

“Well, look who’s dressed and out of bed. It’s a miracle. Americans, Alison,” she said, shaking her head.

“Yes, Gran,” Alison said. “But as you can see, we’re both ready to go.”

“Just a minute, now.” Róisín walked up to Cordelia and leaned in as close to her face as her height would allow. “Niall’s a fine thing, as I’ve said before. And he’s a good man. So if you do anything to hurt him or break his heart, I’ll murder you in your fecking sleep. Clear?”

Cordelia blanched. “I don’t want to hurt him, Róisín. I haven’t even—I mean—nothing’s actually happened yet!”

“Hasn’t it? Christ, girlie, what are you waiting for! Didn’t you hear me say he’s a fine thing and a good man? Can’t let him go slipping between your fingers. Now, let’s get a move on. It’ll be a grand day if I can be getting Cian Byrne to start tearing his hair out before noon.” She cackled as she left the kitchen. Alison came up and put an arm around Cordelia’s shoulders.

“This is going to be quite a week,” she said.

The days passed in a blur and before Niall knew it, Friday had come and the first day of Pátrún began.

The pub had been growing busier, and he’d seen Cordelia twice when she came in to have dinner with Alison, but he’d hardly been able to speak to her, it had been so packed. Róisín had come by O’Connor’s on Wednesday for a whiskey and asked him rather pointed questions about whether Niall was fully over and done with “that fecking trollop,” as she called Deirdre.

And he was. He didn’t need to stew over Deirdre anymore. His brain was no longer interested. Where once he’d clung to his misery as a way of keeping Deirdre close, now he felt himself release it like the string of a balloon, watching it float away and not really caring where it might blow off to.

And he realized he desperately wanted Cordelia James. Well, he’d probably realized that sometime between helping her over the stone walls by the Black Fort and shoving sauce at her in his parents’ kitchen, but still. The thought was there and it wasn’t going away. He just hadn’t worked out what to do about it yet.

“Niall!” his father shouted from the kitchen. The pub was closed, but there was a lot to do before they opened for lunch. Niall was working tonight but had the next two days off—his father wasn’t about to let him miss the currach races. He, Colin, and Alison were on a team.

Niall hurried through the swinging doors. A large bowl of mixed spices was sitting on the counter. Owen pointed.

“There,” he said. “I’ve made your rub for the lamb.”

“Oh,” Niall said. “Great.”

“Go on then,” Owen said. “Try it. Got to make sure it’s as good as it was on Sunday.”

Niall could not recall a single time his father had ever asked him to approve anything in this kitchen. He quickly rearranged his face and stirred the bowl, tasting the spoon.

“Just a dash more paprika and it’ll be perfect,” he said.

Owen grunted and grabbed the smoked paprika from the shelf.

Colin popped his head into the kitchen. “Niall, come help me with the lights.”

Niall washed his hands and headed outside. Strings of fairy lights lined the windows and the roof of O’Connor’s. Colin was hanging large lanterns on tall posts up and down either side of the road. Already Cottage Road was filling with people, tourists stopping to check the menu in the glass stand by the door. Niall felt a burst of pride, knowing that his dish was on that menu—Owen had new ones printed yesterday. They were calling it St. Enda’s Lamb.

“Best food you’ll find in all of Inishmore,” Colin said to the passersby. “Come by tonight for live music!”

“You’re a regular one-man billboard,” Niall said, laughing.

“I want every tourist in this town to eat that lamb of yours,” Colin said. “Every islander too. Give your da something to think on.”

There was a clopping of hooves behind him.

“Hiya, Róisín, Cordelia,” Colin called. Niall almost dropped the lantern he was holding. Cordelia wore an orange blouse with small white flowers on it, her raincoat resting over her lap, her camera slung across her chest. Niall couldn’t imagine a lovelier sight.

“Hi,” she said as they rolled up. “I’m heading to shoot the sandcastles down by the harbor.” Was it Niall’s wishful thinking or did she seem to be only speaking to him?

“Grand,” he said.

She smiled playfully. “Róisín says you two used to make really shitty ones when you were kids.”