He strolled over. “Which one’s yours?”
“Oh.” She jumped and then smiled. The curve of her lips was like a touch on his skin, light and intimate. “Hi. None of them. That is, those two. That’s Sophie, playing”—she nodded toward one of Aoife’s teammates—“and that’s Lily, sitting on the Ping-Pong table, pretending she doesn’t know us. I’m watching them until their father picks them up.”
He smiled back. “So, you’re a nanny now.”
“Oh no. Their mother is one of my professors. I’m just helping out. Are you...” She glanced at the few adults on the sidelines. “Here with anyone?”
“My sister. Aoife.” He jerked his chin toward her, driving toward the rusty goal. “And our Gracie, over there with her nose in a book.”
“You have three sisters?”
“That’s right, Aoife, Grace, and Fiadh. And a brother, Jack.”
“It must be nice to come from a large family.”
“Sure. Unless you need to use the toilet.”
She laughed. “Sharing a bathroom is hard. Even with one sister.”
There was a break in the action on the other side of the field. A boyo from the other side left his teammates and approached Grace. Sam gave him a slit-eyed look.
The boys’ coach caught him glaring and came over, his legs like pale tree trunks under shorts, a whistle around his neck. He was Sam’s height and a good two stones heavier, like he ate raw eggs for breakfast. A regular rugger bugger.
“Hello,” he said. Not to Sam. To Dee.
“Hi.” She greeted him with the same smile she’d given Sam. Maybe a little more guarded. “I didn’t recognize you without your suit. I mean, your glasses.” Her face turned pink.
“Contacts,” he said briefly. He nodded to Sam.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Dee said, all flustered-like. “Tim Woodman, this is Sam Clery.”
Tim put his hand out. “I know you.” His accent was posh, his handshake firm and a bit stiff.
“Don’t think so, mate,” Sam said, nasal and quick.
“I recognize you. From Trinity dining hall.”
Working behind a shop counter, you learned to remember faces, even if you forgot names. This one came back to Sam. He’dserved him in the eating Commons, under the old portraits of privileged men of previous generations.
“You worked at Trinity?” Dee asked.
“He went to Trinity,” Tim said. “Only students serve at dinner.”
The financial aid students, dressed in black like waiters, to distinguish them from the dining Scholars.
Another year, and Sam could have been one of them. When the university scholarships were announced in April of his freshman year, Sam had stood in the square and heard the Provost call his name. His mam had been so proud. His da... Well. Martin Clery believed you learned more from the school of hard knocks than from any university. But to Sam, the recognition had been more than an honor, more than an acknowledgment of his hard work. It meant money: tuition paid, housing paid, a free meal in the dining hall every day. It meant freedom from guilt over his parents’ sacrifice, over leaving the shop behind.
His da died six weeks later. June 19th. The day of the funeral, the shop was closed. Out of respect, Janette said. The day after, Sam opened it up. He hadn’t left since.
“It was a long time ago,” he said.
“It’s good to see you again,” Tim said politely. He did not ask what Sam was doing here or what he was up to now. He glanced over his shoulder at his team of young louts. “I should get back to them.”
“I’m surprised you have time to coach,” Dee said.
He moved his shoulders, apparently uncomfortable. “The firm sponsors the team. Community involvement. Excuse me.” Another nod and he trotted off, like a good show pony.
Dee turned her deep-brown gaze on Sam. “What did you study at Trinity?”
