“Never mind that,” Jean said. “Where do you keep the aprons?” She pulled out drawers, rattling utensils and pot lids before she found William’s mother’s aprons. She took a wrinkled yellow one with an orange ruffle and started tying it around her middle.
“Can’t have that. I’ll be fine getting this all cleaned. Let’s go into the dining room, and you let me get this food on the table.” He took the apron from her and set it on the countertop.
The table was set for four, two across from two. Faye sat next to Thomas and across from William, who, along with Jean, had his back to the sideboard and mirror. It was disconcerting to look at her own reflection perched over his shoulder. She focused on clusters of photographs in tarnished silver frames instead.
“Are those photos of your family?” she asked.
William set his fork down and twisted in his chair. “Yes,” he said. “This is my mother and father when they were married. And then there’s one of my whole family together. I was only a boy, as you can see. Both of my sisters married and moved away. Before the war. And,of course, this.” He took a photograph, considered it, then handed it across the table to Faye. “You’re what? Twenty-two?”
Faye nodded, the frame cold in her hand.
“I was younger then than you are now,” he said. “I convinced my dad to sign the papers.”
His face in the photo was fresh and stern, the uniform so crisp, Faye could practically smell the starch. “So. You’re a soldier?”
One of her earliest memories of America was traveling on a northbound train, heading to Maine. Faye had watched the grimy city of New York give way, stop by stop, to a marine countryside. When soldiers boarded the train in Connecticut, she had cowered into Thomas. He stroked her head and back as if she were a trembling kitten, nodding to the men as they maneuvered down the aisle, the stomp of boots on metal like the drums of war. She nestled closer and dared to look at the soldiers who smiled wearily.The war is over for you,she thought.You’ve killed all the Germans and you’ve won and now we smile and hope to not provoke your anger.She wanted to say to them, to everyone on the train, “We are all so tired, aren’t we?” Instead, she turned to the window, rested her head against her own dim reflection, and watched the shoreline streak by.
At William’s dinner table, she shook herself slightly, shattering the memory. “I’m sorry?” she said, handing William his framed picture, careful not to drop it, though her hands were quite clammy. “What did you say?”
He put the photo back with the others. “Was. Iwasa soldier. Yes. I was lucky the Nazis didn’t kill me. Came back in one piece for the most part.”
Jean excoriated them both with a clap. “No talk of war. Let’s talk of more pleasant things. Tell us about your place here all alone. What else do you grow in your garden?”
The stew was good, though too salty. The biscuits, dry. Faye felt eyes on her the whole time, each pair hungry, as if she must add something about building boats or slaughtering lambs. As the table was cleared to make way for pie, talk turned to Ireland. “You were so young when you came over,” William said, stacking plates. “Do you remember much?”
Faye was used to the question. “Not much.” The wooden punt, the dirt road, the O’Kanes’ donkey braying every time it broke the fence. Fog rolling into Dunmanus Bay. Three girls holding hands; three girls scattered.
Behind her, Jean let out a sigh.
William pressed. “You must miss it. Ireland.”
Faye dared a tender glance at Thomas, who was plating the pie. “I miss who I was there.”
William looked at her, puzzled.
Something about his open face, the downward slope of his neck, strong arms poised to rise, like a robin protecting a nest. Being next to him felt safe. She wanted to tell William everything, blurt out what she bottled up.
As if she sensed Faye coming unglued, Jean jostled into the conversation. “What can a girl remember? A child. She has no idea what it was like for us there, laboring and pinching.”
“You went around to the neighbors to say goodbye,” Faye said. “I remember that.” There was a wake—tradition for Irish heading to America, like they were sailing west to their deaths. They had gone door to door, bristling child in tow.
Thomas touched Faye’s arm lightly. The gentlest warning.Steady, child.
Jean quivered. “Said goodbye is right.” She raised her hand and turned her head as if she’d left nothing at all behind.
“And so, you’ve been happy in America. That’s wonderful to hear. I’ve told Thomas. I’ve never been to Ireland, though my father, God rest his soul, he always talked of returning to Galway. I was in Franceand Germany. Not sure I would want to go overseas again. I’m fine right here at the farmhouse. Could be I’ve seen enough of this world for a lifetime.”
“Still, you must get lonely in this big place,” Thomas offered, glancing at Faye. She slanted her eyes at her father.I see what you’re up to with your matchmaking.
A dollop of sauce soiled the edge of William’s shirt. He made a tsking sound with his teeth and tongue. “I probably should have an apron. I’m not much for laundry, and these slacks are clean.” He looped the strap of the crumpled apron over his bent head then fumbled with the strings. “Faye, would you mind?”
He turned his back. Faye took up the dangling strings and tied them in a bow. Up close, she could smell his woodsy aftershave, his hair, his person. It was all she could do to stop herself from pressing against him.
She stepped back, fidgeted with the neckline of her top. “All set!”
William swiped his fingers through that swoop of hair, then delicately held out the ruffled hem and curtsied deeply, never taking his eyes off hers.
Faye put the back of her hand to her mouth and bit her knuckle gently, pushing laughter into her quivering shoulders.
