His eyes met Rosie’s for a moment, but she was quickly moving away as though those conversations they’d had in the garden were nothing but a dream, or a secret. He longed for more time to talk to her and find the connection again, a full acknowledgement of what had gone on between them, all those years ago.
He slipped into the chair beside Kate. ‘Morning, Kate.’ He smiled at her. ‘What do you need to know?’
‘All he knows about is which end of a cow is which,’ said Seán, laughing. ‘Or hurling. Ask him his opinion on the current Cork team and if Barry Murphy will take them to Croke Park in September for the final.’
Kate’s laugh actually tinkled, as though she’d practised it to sound melodious rather than the ungainly snorts and honks most people made when they were genuinely amused. She placed a hand on Patrick’s rolled shirtsleeve. ‘Well, Patrick…’ She gazed at him, a look in her eyes as though she was about to say something so deeply profound, something important. ‘I was just going to ask him if one should…’
He waited.
‘As someone who runs a bar, I wonder if one should use crushed ice in a margarita or cubes? I favour crushed.’
Small talk, he thought. The world turned on it, it was what people engaged in for most interactions, normally weather-related, but it could be anything, just to keep the machines of human connection going.
‘It’s all a matter of preference,’ he suggested.
‘But in your bar,’ she pressed, ‘which do you do?’ The hand on the arm again, the penetrating gaze. He admired this woman’s commitment to whatever she was committing to. ‘Well, while you’re pondering, we should have breakfast,’ she said. ‘And coffee. We need coffee. But last night was fun, wasn’t it? Getting to know each other.’
She and Niamh chatted together, while Seán turned to Patrick.
‘All right?’
‘Yes, you?’
Seán nodded. ‘Grand. We’re actually enjoying ourselves. I thought it was going to be hugely stressful. But it’s been a laugh.’
‘And you’re all right about…?’ Patrick nodded in their father’s direction.
Seán nodded. ‘As much as I can be. I’m just sad Mam isn’t here, that’s all. She would have enjoyed the craic, wouldn’t she? And seeing us together. She missed you when you moved to the States.’
‘I missed her.’ Seán’s words hit home, however much they hadn’t intended to wound.
‘It’s hard to think of her gone, isn’t it?’
‘It’s not real,’ said Patrick. ‘Sometimes I forget. And then I remember all over again.’
The two brothers looked at each other for a moment, both feeling the same thing: loss and love.
‘You know,’ went on Patrick, ‘there’s this guy who comes into the bar. Some kind of therapist, and we got talking, as you do. And he said that you need to know that your mother loved you before you were born and she loves you after she’s gone, and that’s the natural order of it all, but the love doesn’t go.’
‘Ah, stop,’ said Seán, wiping his eyes. ‘We can’t talk about her, not here.’ He smiled at his older brother. ‘But that’s nice to know.’
‘And you’ve got Niamh now.’
Sean nodded. ‘Mam loved her as well.’
‘Who wouldn’t?’
‘I know. I want you to have the same,’ Seán said. ‘Someone for you to love. Good-looking man like you, it’s a waste not to find someone.’
‘I want that too,’ said Patrick. ‘I’ve been burned, that’s all. Or rather, I burned myself.’
‘Self-sabotage?’
‘A bit.’ Patrick laughed. ‘Where did you learn words like that?’
‘Niamh gives me books to read,’ said Seán. ‘Highlights paragraphs that she thinks I need to read. It’s like having my own personal therapist.’
‘You’re lucky,’ said Patrick. ‘In so many ways.’
