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“There’s that.” He glanced around, and her nerves started to jingle. “Are you after another picnic? It’s a perfect place for it.”
“You like it?”
“It’s charming.” He took her hand, and she caught the scent of the field on him. The green of it. “Want a push on the swing?”
“Maybe.”
“Neither of us got much of that, did we, when we were children?” With her hand in his he began to walk. “I didn’t realize there was a park here. A nice spot, near enough to the village, and just out enough to make it an adventure. The trees are young, so I suppose it’s new, and still being done,” he added, noting the digging equipment and tarped supplies.
“Yeah, still needs some work.” She guided him around, as subtly as she could, beyond the little house to the gurgling fountain.
“A fine day like this, I’m surprised it’s not packed with kids.”
“It’s not actually officially open for business.”
“All to ourselves then? Sean’s along with us. He’d likely enjoy a romp through.”
“Yeah, maybe . . .” She’d thought he’d look at the fountain, but should’ve known he’d be more interested in the equipment, probably speculating on what was left to be done. “So, there’s this thing.”
“Hmmm?” He glanced back at her.
“Jeez.” Frustrated, she turned him around and all but shoved his face into the plaque on the fountain.
SIOBHAN BRODY MEMORIAL PARK
DEDICATED BY HER SON
When he said nothing, she shoved her hands in her pockets. “So, well . . . happy anniversary a few days early.”
He looked at her then, just stared at her with those wonderful wild blue eyes. Just said her name. Just “Eve.”
“I got the idea when the Irish invaded last fall and walked it by Sinead. She and the rest of them ran with it. Mostly I just sent money. Hell, your money since it’s what you dumped in that account for me when we got married. So—”
“Eve,” he repeated, and drew her in, hard, pressed his face to her hair.
She heard him draw a breath, long and quiet, release it as his arms tightened around her.
“So it’s good.”
He didn’t speak for a moment, only ran his hand up and down her back. “What a woman you are,” he murmured, and she heard the emotion in it, the way the Irish thickened just a bit in his voice. And saw it in those vivid eyes when he drew back. “That you would think of this. That you would do this.”
“Sinead and the rest did the heavy lifting. I just—”
He shook his head, kissed her. Like the breath, long and quiet.
“I can’t thank you enough. There isn’t enough thanks. I can’t say what this means to me, even to you. I don’t have the words for it.” He took her hands, brought them both to his lips. “A ghra. You stagger me.”
“So it’s good.”
He framed her face now, touched his lips to her brow. Then looked in her eyes and spoke in Irish.
“Come again?”
When he smiled now it lit her up. “I said, you’re the beat of my heart, the breath in my body, the light in my soul.”
Moved to melting, she took his wrists. “Even when I’m the pain in your ass?”
“Particularly then.” He turned to study the plaque. “It’s lovely. Simple and lovely.”
