Page 44 of Faithless Vows

The bed creaks behind me, followed by Róisín’s footsteps across the floor. Then her hand is on my shoulder, and I look up at her through my tears. “Maybe it would help if you did,” she says softly.

“I...” I start, then stop and swipe at the tears on my cheeks. “I wouldn’t even know where to start.”

Róisín sits back down on the bed, and I turn to face her. “Start at the beginning,” she says. “I know your da made the match, and I know Grandda never wanted it. We all knew that much. Just tell me what happened.”

I swallow hard. “Ronin was...” My words die there as my mind scrambles for the right thing to say.Everything. Thoughtful. Sweet. Mine.None of it feels right anymore. I shake my head. “Not who I thought he was.”

Róisín says nothing, and I try again. “I know our marriage was an arrangement. But Ronin asked to dateme. Said he wanted us to get to know one another before we married. He took me out. Brought me flowers. He was thoughtful and sweet and—” My eyes lift to hers, afraid I’ll find pity there, but all I see is sadness. “He even proposed to me. Asked me to marry him in front of both our families, and he looked at me like I was the only person in the room. We picked out a house together. He told me he loved me.” My voice catches. “I thought it was real, Róisín. All of it.”

“The wedding was perfect...” My voice wavers. “It was beautiful, and everything was the way I’d always dreamed it would be. When we got to the hotel for the reception, Ronin said he needed a word with his best man before everything got started, so they went off to the bar. It wasn’t long after they left that the emcee came over to say they were ready to announce us, and I went to find him.”

I stop there. Tears blur my vision, and Róisín reaches for the handkerchief I keep on my bedside table and passes it to me. I wipe my cheeks and take a shaky breath before making myself go on. Then I tell her the rest. Every humiliating, heartbreaking detail I’ve been reliving since that night. I cry through most of it and have to stop more than once when I can’t get the words out, but I keep going until I reach the end. “And then he took her hand and walked out of our reception with her.”

Róisín stares at me. “Jesus Christ, Alannah.” For once, she seems to have nothing to say. “I knew it was bad, but...” She trails off, her expression hardening. “No one tried to stop him? Uncle Seamus? Aunt Siobhán?”

I shake my head. “Ronin’s da stood up and made jokes of it. Smoothed it all over, then told me to fix my face.” I look down at the handkerchief in my lap. “And when I tried to leave, Da stopped me and told me not to make it worse.” A bitter laugh escapes me. “So I sat there. God, Róisín, they even cut the cake that took me weeks to pick out and served it to me.”

“Bastards, the lot of them.” Róisín spits the words, then her gaze drops to my hands. She reaches over and takes my left one, looking at the bare ring finger. “Where are your rings?The band and your Claddagh? We should sell the bloody things.”

“I don’t have them anymore. I left the band on my vanity when I packed. And Aidan’s little girl, Fia, liked the Claddagh, so I gave it to her.” A small smile touches my lips at the thought of her.

Róisín thinks that over, then smiles. “I like that. She’s probably parading around Boston in it by now, thinking she’s very grand.” Her smile widens into a grin. “Shame about the band, though. We could’ve sold that one and bought something nice with the money.”

A laugh escapes me. “You really would’ve sold it, wouldn’t you?”

Róisín looks almost offended that I’d even ask. “In a heartbeat.”

The look on her face makes me laugh again, and then she starts laughing too. A few more tears slip down my face, but I’m laughing through them now, and God, it feels good.

“Róisín!” Grandmam’s voice cuts through our laughter from downstairs.

Róisín’s laugh turns into a groan. “There she is.”

“If you’re finished hiding up there,” Grandmam calls, “you can come down and make yourself useful.” Róisín glances at me and presses a finger to her lips, as though keeping quiet might make her give up and go away. A moment later, her voice comes up the stairs again. “And bring Alannah with you. You can help her with the bread. Maybe she can teach you something, because Lord knows you’ve never been much use in a kitchen.”

Róisín’s eyes widen in mock outrage. “That’s slander.”

My lips twitch. “I haven’t been home in six years, and even I know you can’t cook, Róisín. It’s not slander if she’s telling the truth.”

She gasps at me. “The betrayal! Siding with Grandmam when she’s being cruel to me.” She pretendsto pout but gets to her feet anyway and holds a hand out to me. “Come on.”

I hesitate, and her expression softens. “No one expects anything of you,” she says. “All anyone wants is to spend time with you.” I look at her hand for a moment before I take it.

Downstairs, Grandmam already has everything for the bread set out on the counter. The smell of bacon simmering on the range fills the kitchen, and when I glance that way I see the big pot going, the lid rattling softly as steam escapes around it.

“There you are,” she says, not looking up from where she is peeling apples at the table. “Well? Get moving. The soda bread won’t make itself.”

Róisín drops into the chair closest to Grandmam, snags a strip of apple peel from the table, and starts eating it. “I’ll stay here and supervise. If I help, I’ll only slow her down.”

“Aye,” Grandmam says. “That much is true.”

I wash my hands at the sink and move to the counter, grabbing the mixing bowl and whisk. I’ve made this bread so many times I could do it half asleep. Flour first. Salt. Bread soda. I whisk them together, then pour in the buttermilk a little at a time, bringing the dough together with one hand the way Grandmam taught me years ago. I glance over at the apples she is chopping. “Are we making these sweet loaves?”

“We are,” Grandmam says, bringing the board over and scraping half the chopped apples into the bowl. “And we’ve the apple cake to make for after Mass tomorrow, so don’t go disappearing on me.”

I turn the dough out onto the floured counter and knead the apples in. Then I divide it in two and shape each half into a round loaf, rubbing a little flour over the tops with my hands. Grandmam hands me the knife she was using for the apples. “Mark them proper,” she says.

I find myself smiling at the familiar words and cut a deep cross into the top of each loaf. Grandmam gives an approving nod. “There,” she says. “Now they’ll bake right.” I lift the loaves onto the tray and slide it into the oven while Grandmam sets the timer.