I didn’t stick around for any more of the conversation, but I’d already heard enough. Aoife Sullivan.
I had pictured someone cold, or brittle, or obvious in her hostility. Aoife Sullivan is none of those things. She’s tall—several inches taller than me—with auburn hair that falls in a smooth, expensive curtain past her shoulders. Her eyes are green, pale and piercing. Her suit is dove gray and fits her the way clothes fit people in fashion magazines, but rarely in real life.
She extends a hand. Her manicure is perfect. My nails are bitten to the quick.
“So you’re Cillian’s surprise bride.” Her smile appears to be warm, but her eyes are not. “How…unexpected.”
“I’m Nora,” I say, and shake her hand.
Her grip is measured. Confident without being aggressive. She holds on a beat longer than necessary, and I have the distinct impression she’s taking stock of me the way a buyer appraises something before deciding it’s not worth the asking price.
Kathleen seats the three of us together. Of course she does.
The luncheon begins. A server appears with a menu I don’t entirely understand. I order what Aoife orders, because it seems safe, and I spend the first ten minutes listening to the table talk around me and counting the white stitches on the hem of the tablecloth.
Aoife turns to me with the air of someone deciding to becharitable. “Kathleen tells me you and Cillian had a whirlwind courtship.”
“We did.”
“Cillian always did move fast when he made up his mind.” She glances at Kathleen across the table. “He and I had a bit of a courtship of our own before… Well, before he married you.” A small laugh escapes her perfectly painted lips. “As I said, your marriage was unexpected, and we were all quite surprised.”
The long pause after her statement is very precise.
“Aoife and Cillian have known each other for years,” Kathleen says, picking up her water glass. “Our families go back quite a way.”
“Cillian and I practically grew up together.” Aoife touches her hair, a gesture so practiced it looks natural. “I was at Declan’s twenty-first birthday party. I’ve known Ronan since secondary school.”
“We’d always hoped—” Kathleen starts, then stops. Sets her glass down. “Well. Things change.”
The unfinished sentence sits there. I’m supposed to hear what she didn’t say. I do hear it. I hear it very clearly.
Conversation moves to charitable endowments, to someone’s fundraising gala, to a new hospital wing being named after a family whose name I don’t recognize. I have nothing to contribute to any of it. I know how to stretch a grocery budget. I know which diner shifts pay the most in tips. I know how to keep the gas bill down by not using the heat until the winter temps drop to well below freezing.
None of that is useful here.
Aoife turns to me again. “Do you have a background in philanthropy?”
“No.”
“Business?”
“No.”
“What did you study?”
“I didn’t go to college.” I hold her gaze. I’m not going to look away. “I needed to work.”
“Oh, of course.” Her voice is gentle in the way that isn’t. “Not everyone has the same opportunities. I did my MBA at Northwestern, but I realize that’s not accessible for everyone.”
She says accessible the way someone says it when they mean something else entirely.
“I’m sure Cillian finds your—” she pauses, as if searching for the right word, and I know she’s already found it and is making me wait— “simplicityrefreshing. He carries so much on his shoulders. It must be nice for him to come home to something uncomplicated.”
Simplicity. Uncomplicated.
I set my fork down on the side of my plate. My hands are steady. I’m proud of that.
Kathleen is talking to the woman on her left now, but she’s not missing any of this. I can tell from the angle of her head.
