The back door clicks, and Noreen stands there with three mugs and a grin of approval she tries to hide. She takes in the three of us in the grass—Cat blotting tears with the heel of her hand, Livia wedged between us, and my heart somewhere out in the clover—and she sets the tray on the stone wall.
“Well then,” she says tersely, her voice thick. “Since titles are sorted, we’ll have tea. And after, Matteo can learn how to shovel goat shite, which is the ancient rite of new fathers in this house.”
“Yes!” Livia crows, apparently delighted by both tea and her great auntie’s curse word.
“I’m honored,” I manage, and I truly am.
Noreen cuts me a look that says she’s going to count my honors, one by one. “You will be, Mr. Rossi.” Picking up the tray once more, she walks it out to us.
We drink tea out of mugs that say WORLD’S BEST AUNT and IRELAND FOREVER, and Livia explains moats with the authority of a small queen. The sun slides along the blue shutters and the goats settle in the shed. For the first time since I was nineteen and stupid on a sandy beach, I believe the tide might actually spare us.
Later, when Livia darts off to instruct the goats about the new castle policy, Noreen sidles close enough to jab a finger into my sternum. “You’ll bring trouble with you,” she murmurs, not unkind. “I’m not daft.”
“I’m trying to end it,” I answer, honestly. “All of it.”
“Mmm.” She studies my face a long moment, then nods once. “I have a friend in Belfast. Her parcel can arrive as soon as tomorrow morning. Clean papers, if they’re needed.” At my blink she adds, “You think you’re the only one withfamiglia? Goats talk, boy.”
I laugh, stunned. “Thank you, Noreen.”
“I’m not doing it for you,” she replies, and this time her mouth softens. “I’m doing it for my girl and her girl. But if you keep your word, I’ll do it for you too.”
I look out at the yard, at Cat kneeling and Livia showing her how to build a better moat, and I give Noreen the only promise that matters. “I’ll spend the rest of my life giving them the best and keeping them away from the worst of me.”
She harrumphs, satisfied enough. “Good. Now fetch the shovel,Papà. The goats won’t muck themselves.”
CHAPTER 47
A REAL LIFE
Caitríona
The countryside has settled on us the way a shawl does. It’s warm and a little scratchy, smelling of peat, soap and hay, but wonderful all the same. After nearly two weeks at Noreen’s, my pulse finally remembers how to walk instead of run. Livia wakes with the goats, naps like a cat in the sun, and drifts to sleep with daisies still tangled in her hair. I could live inside the sound of her laugh.
It's been a dream, absolute bliss. And I’m terrified for it to end.
After tea, the evening folds itself into the small rituals that have already become routine. Livia rinses her hands at the back step, splashing as much on her wellies as the basin, and then clambers onto the couch between Matteo and me with her book of choice clutched like a treasure.
“Papàreads tonight,” she decrees.
“I am honored by Her Majesty,” Matteo murmurs with mock gravity, scooping her into the crook of his arm. She fits herself there like she always belonged.
It’s a thin picture book about a girl who builds a cardboard castle with a suspiciously familiar moat. Matteo clears his throat, finds the Italian on the page—he bought a bilingual copy from the village—and starts soft. By the second page his voice hits that low, steady register that melts every raw edge I have.
“Una volta c’era una bambina…,” he reads, and Livia follows the pictures with a fingertip, occasionally correcting his pronunciation with a dead-serious, “No, it’s likeNonnosays it,” even though she’s never met anonnoin her life.
I don’t know much about Matteo’s father besides the rumors I’ve heard about the brutal Geminicapo. Would he make a decent grandfather to our daughter? Anyone would be better than my own shite father, that’s for certain.
Matteo grins and tries again, kissing her temple when he gets the pronunciation right.
I watch them in the lamplight, the way his mouth shapes careful vowels and her lashes shadow her cheeks, and I press my fingers to the locket at my throat. I used to believe secrets were armor. Now they feel like thieves that stole years we can’t get back.
He finishes the last page with a flourish. “E vissero felici… per sempre.”They lived happily ever after. Then he closes the book with a reverent little pat like he’s sealing a wish inside. Livia yawns so wide I can count her back teeth.
“Story again?” She’s already sliding down his chest.
“Tomorrow,” I whisper, tucking the blanket to her chin.
“Tomorrow,” she echoes, that impossible word.
