“This is your family?” Her big, pretty eyes are so wide they may actually fall out of her head.
“Aye.” I give her hand a squeeze. “I guess a few couldn’t make it; it’s usually more crowded.”
We’re greeted in quick succession as we move through the house—to where the alcohol is—that’s key.
There’s my brother Arthur and his friendly, beady-eyed wife, Victoria. My weirdest cousin, Robert, whose claim to fame is a record-breaking collection of decorative socks. There’s my never-married twin aunts on my dad’s side, Bertie and Lois, who can finish and start each other’s sentences. And on and on it goes—an assembly line of introductions:
Have you met Abby?
This is my girl Abby.
Say hello to Abby.
“My head is spinning,” she exclaims when we finally make it to the back. “This is worse than medical school—I’m never going to remember who’s who.”
I lean in close and press a kiss to her hair. “We’ll make you flash cards, and have study sessions that rely heavily on flashing.”
Abby laughs out loud. And it’s now officially my very favorite sound.
But then she angles her head, her brows scrunching in confusion at someone across the room.
“Tommy—I think that girl just ran her finger across her neck at me. Like the sign for slitting a person’s throat.”
I glance over. “Yeah, that’s Mellie. She lives next door—she’s got a bit of a thing for me.”
“Wow.” The corners of Abby’s magnificent mouth turn upward. “Should I be worried?”
“Probably.” I wink. “Stay close to me. You’ll be all right.”
And she’s laughing again.
Over her shoulder I spot my dad behind the bar, with my mum in her apron beside him, and I lead us over.
“Dad, Mum—this is Abigail Haddock. Abby, these are my parents, Rupert and Maggie.”
I gave my dad the inside scoop on Abby a few days ago.
“Welcome, Abby.” He comes out from behind the bar, shaking her hand first and then hugging her. “It’s so nice to meet you, lass.”
And she glows, blooming beneath the light of his warmth like I knew she would.
“It’s a pleasure to be here, Rupert, thank you. I’m happy to meet you both as well.”
“You’re every bit as lovely as Tommy said you were.”
Hands on her hips, my mum’s gaze darts from my father to Abby and back.
“Tommy said, did he? He hasn’t said anything to me.”
My dad pats her arm. “You were busy, my pet.”
“Oh, this is for you.” Abby lifts a bakery box from the shopping bag in her hand and passes it to my mother—with a banoffee pie inside that she stopped to purchase on the way here.
My mum turns the pie this way and that like a food critic or a health inspector searching for nits.
“Store bought, how fancy. You don’t bake your own?”
“No,” Abby confesses, “I’m afraid I’m not much of a baker.”
“She’s a surgeon, Maggie,” Dad announces—already so proud.
“Hmm, I see.” My mum smiles in that derisive, snooty way that’s not really a smile at all. “I’ll just take it to the kitchen for later. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, Maggie.”
My mother continues to smile—sweet as arsenic.
“You may call me Mrs. Sullivan.”
Right. Fucking grand.
Things go downhill from there pretty quick.
With a beer in my hand and a soda in Abby’s because she’s on call, we claim a comfy corner and talk to my uncle Bardan about the goings-on at the harbor where he’s a dockworker.
From the corner of my eye, my sister Janey approaches Abby on her right. While Bardan goes on about the installation of the new pilings, I hear Janey’s voice, low and lethal.
“Hurt him again and I’ll hurt you.”
My head snaps around.
“Lay off, Janey. It’s not necessary.”
But Abby lifts her chin and doesn’t shy away from my sister, which is good—if you ever go up against a raging mother-bear it’s best not to show fear.
“I understand.”
After Janey moves on, I try to put Abby at ease.
“Don’t pay her any mind. If she didn’t like you she wouldn’t bother threatening you.”
Janey makes a liar out of me when Logan and Ellie arrive—hugging Ellie warmly and taking chubby-cheeked Finn from her arms.
And that’s how it goes the rest of the day.
The extended relatives are kind enough to Abby, and she and Ellie really hit it off, chatting long and easy. But my sisters—they ignore her. Blatantly. Nastily. And I have no clue why.
Once I catch Bridget and Janey and Fiona whispering and giggling in Abby’s direction—like mean girls in fucking school. The only reason I don’t blow like a firecracker is because she didn’t notice, and I don’t want to embarrass her.
A few hours later, out in the back, my niece Rosie comes running over excitedly, displaying her mud-coated little hands. She stumbles, but Abby catches her—and ends up with two perfect mud handprints on the front of her dress.
“Hey, Tommy,” Andy calls from the grass where he and my cousins are playing football. “Lionel’s gotta run. You wanna fill in for him?”