“You’ve such a beautiful singing voice.”
“I got it from my mother, didn’t I?”
“Your father has a fine, strong voice as well.”
“Hmm” was Meara’s response to that as she multiplied in her head. “Well now, you’ll want some of your photos, won’t you, to put around your room.”
“Oh.” Colleen immediately linked her fingers together as she did when she didn’t know whether to turn left or right. “I’m not sure, and how would I choose which. And—”
“I’ll choose, then it’ll be a nice surprise for you when you unpack. You know, I could do with some tea.”
“Oh. I’ll make some.”
“That would be grand.” And provide five minutes of peace.
With Colleen in the kitchen, Meara quickly snatched framed photos—captured moments of the past, of her childhood, of her siblings, and, though it didn’t sit particularly well, of her parents together.
She studied one of her parents, smiling out with the lush gardens of the big house they’d once had surrounding them. A handsome face, she thought, studying her father. A fine, strapping man with all the charm in the world.
And no spine whatsoever.
She wrapped the photo to protect the glass of the frame, tucked it in the box. She might be of the opinion her mother would be better off without the constant reminder of what had been, but it wasn’t her life to live.
And that life, right at the moment, fit into two suitcases, a shoulder tote, and three market boxes.
There would be more if the move became permanent—a word Colleen wasn’t ready to hear. More packing to do, but much more than that, Meara was sure, more life to be lived.
Considering the job done—or nearly enough—she went back to the kitchen. And found her mother sitting at the tiny table, weeping quietly into her hands.
“Ah, Ma.”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I haven’t made the tea. I feel at sea, Meara. I’ve lived in Cong and hereabouts all my life. And now . . .”
“It’s not far. You’ll not be far.” Sitting, Meara took her hands. “Not even a full hour away.”
Colleen looked up, tearfully. “But I won’t see you or Donal as I do.”
“It’s just a visit, Ma.”
“I may never come back here. It’s what you’re all thinking for me.”
With little choice, Meara shouldered the guilt. “It’s what we’re all thinking you’ll want once you’re there a little while. If you stay in Galway with Maureen and Sean and the kids, we’ll visit. Of course we will. And if you’re not happy there, you’ll come back here. Haven’t I said I’ll see the cottage is right here for you?”
“I hate this place. I hate everything about this place.”
Stunned, Meara opened her mouth, then shut it again without an idea what to say.
“No, no, that’s not right, that’s not true.” Rocking herself, Colleen pressed her hands to her face. “I love the gardens. I do. I love seeing them, front and back, and working in them. And I’m grateful for the cottage, for it’s a sweet little place.”
Taking a tissue from her pocket, Colleen dabbed away the tears. “I’m grateful to Finbar Burke for renting it to me for far less than a fair price—and to you for paying it. And to Donal for staying with me so long. To all of you for seeing someone rang me every day to see how I was doing. For taking me on little holidays. I know you’ve all conspired so I’ll move off to Galway with Maureen for my own good. I’m not altogether stupid.”
“You’re not stupid at all.”
“I’m fifty-five years old, and I can’t roast a joint of lamb.”
Because that brought on another spate of weeping, Meara tried another tact. “It’s true enough you’re a bloody terrible cook. When I’d come home from school and smell your pot roast cooking, I’d ask God what I’d done to deserve such punishment.”
Colleen goggled for a long minute, tears shimmering on her cheeks. Then she laughed. The sound was a bit wild, but it was a laugh all the same.