Life wasn’t without struggles—my husband was who he was—but I could honestly claim in this love story of ours, all my dreams had come true.
We dropped the kids who could run off with my dad in a section of the property they liked to explore together because the stream was just “fascinating” to my dad. He’d tell them stories about faeries while also keeping them rooted in scientific facts.
Cian drove on to a more secluded spot. The field was filled with wildflowers and berry bushes.
“The smell here is indescribable,” I whispered.
“Like Irish Spring,” Cian said, turning forward after checking on the twins, who had fallen asleep. “I can almost taste it.”
“What?” I turned to him, exploding with laughter.
He laughed too, and that distracted me from his odd response, especially when he turned the radio on and caressed my cheek with his calloused thumb. Merrick played softly.
“What’s it to be, Maeve O'Callaghan? You still chose life with me?
“Forever,” I breathed out.
He nodded, and lifting up some, removed a folded picture from his pocket. After he handed it to me, I realized it wasn’t a picture but an article from a news site in Boston. My eyes devoured the words before I met his.
“Dermot?”
“The night he ran, he must have run to a construction site, where he fell into wet cement. The workers either didn’t notice or didn’t care. Or didn’t want their work to be shut down because of his death. They covered him. The men who were workin’ that day are claimin’ they never saw him. He was just found.”
“They’re blaming you?”
“No.” He shook his head. “The police know I don’t use arrows as weapons.”
Keely. She’d hit him three times with her arrows. She and Cash were coming to visit us in a couple of days. If Cash didn’t already know, it was going to be an interesting turn in one of our conversations.
I set the article on the dash. I didn’t want to see it.
“I have something for you too,” I whispered.
Cian’s eyes grew wide when I handed him another ultrasound picture, but then narrowed. “Two?” he asked.
I laughed. “Not this time. Just one.”
“Like Talula.”
“Yes, like Talula.”
He caressed the picture with his callused thumb, then looked at me when I set another picture over it. He lifted it, studying the two young girls standing side by side, arms around each other’s necks.
“I know those faces,” he said. “Our children in the features of our Mams.”
“My dad found this picture in his closet.” My dad lived with us too. “I guess my mom had a box of small belongings she took with her from Ireland when she was a kid. Somehow, the box got pushed to the back of the closet, and well…you know my dad. He collects. He was looking for something else and found this.” I turned the picture over. In a young girl’s handwriting was scribbled:Caitlin Shea and Mona Flynn.
“Caitlin Mona,” Cian said, his eyes not moving from the picture.
“Gives new meaning to our daughter’s name.”
“Yeah,” he said. “It does.”
“Seems like our moms were friends in school. Not sure exactly what happened, but…they must have lost touch when my mom moved from Ireland to Boston.”
“That’s what happened,” he said, his voice breaking some. “Mam told me. Didn’t realize her Caitlin was also your Caitlin.”
“Pretty cool,” I said.
