“How could I tell?” Meara countered. “It was my first kiss.”
“Aw.” Iona drew in a sighing breath. “You never forget your first.”
“It wasn’t his.”
Connor laughed, gave Meara’s braid a tug. “It wasn’t, no, but I haven’t forgotten it, have I?”
“I was eleven. Precocious,” Iona claimed. “His name was Jessie Lattimer. It was sweet. I decided we’d get married one day, live on a farm, and I’d ride horses all day.”
“And what happened to this Jessie Lattimer?” Boyle wanted to know.
“He kissed someone else, broke my heart. Then his family moved to Tucson, or Toledo. Something with a T. Now I’m going to marry an Irishman.” She angled over, kissed Boyle. “And ride horses all day.”
Her eyes sparkled when Boyle linked his fingers with hers.
“Who was your first, Branna?”
The minute the words were out, the sparkle changed to regret. She knew. Of course she knew even before Branna flicked a glance at Fin.
“I was twelve as well. I couldn’t let my
best friend get ahead of me, could I? And like Connor for Meara, Fin was handy.”
“That he was,” Connor agreed cheerfully, “for he made sure he was where you were every possible waking minute.”
“Not every, because it wasn’t his first kiss.”
“I practiced a bit.” Fin tipped back in his chair with his pint. “As I wanted your first to be memorable. In the shadows of the woods,” he murmured, “on a soft summer day. With the air smelling of the rain and the river. And of you.”
She didn’t look at him now, nor he at her. “Then the lightning struck, a bolt from the sky straight into the ground.” She remembered. Oh, she remembered. “The air shook with it, and the thunder that followed. We should have known.”
“We were children.”
“Not for long.”
“I’ve made you sad,” Iona said quietly. “I’m sorry.”
“Not sad.” Branna shook her head. “A bit nostalgic, for innocence that melts faster than a snowflake in a sunbeam. We can’t be innocent now, can we, with what’s come. And what will come again. So . . . let’s have some whiskey in our tea and take the moment—as my brother’s fond of saying. We’ll have some music, what do you say to that, Meara? A song or two tonight, for only the gods know what tomorrow brings.”
“I’ll fetch the pub fiddle.” Connor rose, brushed a hand over his sister’s hair as he left the table. And, saying nothing, gave her the comfort she needed.
Meara stayed longer than she’d intended, well past a reasonable time to think of doing wash or making market lists. Though she tried to brush him off, Connor insisted on walking her home.
“It’s silly, you know. It’s not a five-minute walk.”
“Then it’s not taking much of my time. It was good of you to stay because Branna needed it.”
“She’d do the same for me. And it lifted my mood as well, though it didn’t get the wash done.”
They walked the quiet street, climbing the slope. The pubs would still be lively, but the shops were long snugged closed, and not a single car drove past.
The wind had come up, stirring the air. She caught the scent of heliotrope from a window box, and saw needle pricks of stars through the wisps of clouds.
“Did you ever think of going somewhere else?” she wondered. “Living somewhere else? If you didn’t have to do what needs doing here?”
“I haven’t, no. It’s here for me. It’s what I want and where. Have you?”
“No. I have friends who went off to Dublin, or Galway City, Cork City, even America. I’d think I could do that as well. Send money to my mother and go off