“I have to go into the shop, take stock in. I’m barely keeping up with the holidays.”
“I can help tomorrow, my off day,” Iona offered.
“I’ll take it.”
“I want to finish a little shopping myself,” Iona added. “My first Christmas in Ireland. And Nan’s coming. I can’t wait to see her, and to show her the house—well, what there is of it.” She leaned into Boyle. “We’re building a house in the woods.”
“She changed her mind on the tiles in the big bath again,” Boyle told the room at large.
“It’s hard to decide. I’ve never built a house before.” She looked at Branna. “Help me.”
“I told you there’s little I’d love more. Give me tomorrow, and we’ll spend an hour or so over wine at day’s end for looking at tile and paint samples and so on.”
“Connor and I start talking about what we might want our place to look like, sitting in the field above the cottage here. And my brain goes to mush instantly.” Meara swirled a bite of pancake in syrup. “I can’t really get my mind around the building of a place, and the knowing down to the color of paint on the walls.”
“Well, come for the wine and we’ll play with yours as well. And speaking of houses,” Branna added as she saw the door opening to her early-morning thoughts. “The lot of you have places—Boyle’s, Meara’s. There’s no need for all of you to pack yourself in here every night.”
“We’re better together,” Connor insisted.
“And there wouldn’t be the idea that sleeping at Meara’s flat would mean oatmeal for breakfast most mornings?”
He grinned. “It would be a factor.”
“I’ve a fine way with oatmeal.” Meara poked him.
“That you do, darling, but did you taste these pancakes?”
“I confess even my famous oatmeal can’t rise up to them. You’re after a bit of space,” Meara said to Branna.
“I wouldn’t mind some, now and again.”
“We’ll work on that as well.”
“It seems we’ve plenty to be working on.” Boyle rose. “I’d say we have to start with clearing up Branna’s kitchen, and getting to the work that makes our living.”
“When will you be back from your shop business?” Fin asked Branna.
She’d hoped the divergence of talk had distracted him off that, and should have known better. More, she admitted, avoiding working with him couldn’t be done. Not for the greater good.
“I’ll be back by two.”
“Then I’ll be here at two.” He rose, picked up his plate to take it to the sink.
•••
MAKING A LIVING HAD TO BE DONE, AND IN TRUTH, BRANNAenjoyed the making of hers. Once her house was empty and quiet, she went up to dress for the day, banked her bedroom fire to a simmer.
Down in her workshop she spent the next hour wrapping the fancy soaps she’d made the day before. Adding the ribbons and dried flowers to the bottles of lotions she’d already poured.
Candles she’d scented with cranberry she tucked into the fancy gift boxes she’d bought for the holiday traffic.
After a check of the list her manager had given her, she added salve, bath oil, various creams, noted down what needed replenishing, then began to carry boxes out to her car.
She’d intended to leave the dog home, but Kathel had other plans and jumped right in the car.
“After a ride, are you? Well, all right then.” After one last check, she slid behind the wheel, and took the short drive to the village of Cong.
The rain and the cold discouraged any tourists pulled to the area in December. She found the steep streets empty, the abbey ruins deserted. Like a place out of time, she thought, with a smile.
