Lorcan beams as though she’s awarded him a Michelin star.
I’m watching her eat her second fry when I register the shift. Ma has risen from her seat at the far end of the table and is moving toward the bar, where she pauses to straighten a cocktail napkin that doesn’t need straightening.
Her eyes find mine. One look. The silent summons I’ve been expecting.
I squeeze Prudence’s hand. “I’ll be right back. Lorcan’s got you.”
“I’ve got her,” Lorcan confirms, already pointing out different food choices on the table.
I cross the room to my mother, the formidable Kathleen O’Rourke.
Ma doesn’t waste time. She lifts her wine glass and takes a measured sip before speaking. “Another son. Another surprise wife. I’m running out of ways to act unsurprised, Ronan.”
“Ma—”
“What happened with Senator Whitfield’s daughter?” She sets her glass down with precision. “You attended her father’s fundraiser together. You danced with her. She called my office afterward to express interest. Her family has political reach, media connections, and a clean public profile.” Ma’s voice drops a register. “I had a dinner arranged for the two of you at Catalina’s. The reservation is still in my calendar.”
“Cancel it.”
“She can open doors for this family that?—”
“I’m married.” My voice is even, civil, and final. “It’s a done deal.”
Her rings clink against the stem of her glass. “Where did she come from? She looks as though she’s never seen a french fry before.”
“She hasn’t.”
Ma’s mouth thins to a line.
“I know you had plans for me,” I tell her. “The senator’s daughter, the real estate heiress, the investment banker from the North Shore—I know the whole list. Tear it up. Or better yet, use it for Lorcan. Prudence is my wife, and I expect her to be treated with the respect due an O’Rourke.”
Ma is silent for several beats. I brace for the counterattack—the same artillery she deployed against Nora.
It doesn’t come.
“Fine,” she says, her voice carrying something I’ve rarely heard from her—acceptance laced with exhaustion.
“You’ll be kind to her. Kind, Ma. Not neutral. Kind.”
Her chin lifts. “I’m not a monster, Ronan. I’m a mother who watches her sons choose paths she wouldn’t have chosen forthem. But they’re your paths.” Then she picks up her wine, takes another sip, and meets my eyes. “Does she make you happy?”
The question is stripped of strategy. For a fleeting moment, she’s not the calculating matriarch forging alliances. She’s a mother asking her son a simple question.
“Yes,” I say. “She does.”
She reaches out and straightens my collar—a private gesture so small and maternal that it catches me off guard. “Well… I’ll bekindthen.” She holds my gaze for a long beat. “Never let it be said this old bitch can’t learn new tricks.”
Then she nods, smiles, and carries her glass back to the table without another word.
I stand at the bar and release a breath. That’s progress—Ma is either learning, or she’s getting old. Either way, I’ll take it.
I turn back to scan the room.
Prudence is leaning forward in her chair, elbows on the table, her face animated in a way I haven’t seen before. Nora is beside her, laughing. Saoirse sits across from them, her chin propped on her hand, wearing a smile.
Lorcan is delivering what appears to be an animated account of one of his crazy shenanigans. His hands are moving in wide arcs. Prudence’s eyes follow them.
I lean against the small bar and watch her.
