“Don’t listen to her. Potatoes are done, meat will be out in ten minutes,” Janette said. “Go wash your hands.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said.
Sam grinned. “She’s talking to Aoife.”
“Talking to all of you. Jack, those rolls are for dinner. Sam, get the girl a drink.”
I washed my hands, helped set the table, poured water and milk for the kids, and accepted a glass of wine. Meals at the farmhouse had always been serious affairs. Food was fuel, methodically consumed for the energy needed to get the fields planted and the animals fed. Uncle Henry ate silently, sometimes grunting his appreciation. Aunt Em occasionally reminded us girls to clean our plates.
At the Clerys’, everyone talked and ate at once, constantly interrupting, leaping from complaints about the school uniform (Aoife) to the Bohemians’ prospects against Drogheda United (Jack). I listened wistfully as the noise swirled and soared around the table. I was good at keeping quiet. At fitting in. But somehow I was drawn into a conversation with Grace about an English essay, an argument between Sam and Fiadh about selling artisan foods to their very mixed clientele.
I complimented her baking. “I’ve never made bread.”
“I’ll give you a recipe. It’s easy,” she said, apparently registering the doubt on my face. “You don’t have to knead or any of that.”
I was sure I could bake bread. Less certain how Glenda felt about me baking in her kitchen. But she hadn’t objected when I made cookies with the girls. “Thanks. That would be great.”
An orange cat wound under the table. Aunt Em would have had something to say aboutthat. Sophie and Aoife whispered withtheir heads together. Jack and Lily were talking about teachers they disliked.
Janette never once told them not to talk with their mouths full. But when Jack threw a roll at Aoife, she caught it neatly before it reached its target. “Enough of that, now.”
“Showing off for company,” Fiadh said.
The tips of Jack’s ears turned red. “Feck off.”
“Language,” Janette said mildly. “And what is it you’re studying at university, Dee?”
“I’m a writer. Well. Trying to be.” (“You write,” Tim’s voice said in my head. “I believe that qualifies you as a writer.”)
Grace nodded. “Like our Sam.”
“Leave it,” Sam said in the same voice his mother used to stop Jack from throwing the roll, and the conversation skipped on to other things. Football.Fortnite. Through it all, I was aware of him beside me, those blue-green eyes, his poet’s hair.
Something brushed my leg under the table. His knee? I blushed.
Janette’s eyes narrowed. “Aoife, don’t feed my food to that cat at this table.”
The cat. Of course.
After dinner, Aoife and Sophie went to the room she shared with Grace. Jack grabbed two game controllers and offered one to Lily. I got up to clear.
Janette took a plate from my hands. “Grace can help wash up. You spend time with Sam.”
She and Grace went into the kitchen, leaving us alone.
I smiled. “I feel like we’re being sent off to play.”
“No one ever accused Janette of being subtle.”
The TV roared to life.
Sam turned in irritation. “Jesus, Jack, turn it down.”
“We should probably go,” I said.
“They’re all right,” Sam said. “Come outside a minute.”
Outside was a cobblestoned alley littered with cigarette butts. Two chairs sheltered beneath the fire escape, screened from a pair of dumpsters by a few yellowing plants and some bicycles chained to ano parkingsign. I took a chair, careful not to kick over the black plastic ashtray by one leg. Sam lounged against the wall.
