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Niall stared at the closed door for a second.

Then he looked down at the picture again. He was mortified that she’d seen it, but now that she was gone, he was crumpling beneath the weight of the memories it brought. How happy he’d been. How certain his future had seemed. He gripped the frame, his knuckles white, and strode over to the sideboard where his mother kept the doilies and good linens, shoving the picture inside a drawer, then slamming it shut.

His father was carving the roast and his mother was pouring more wine as he entered the dining room. There were only two free seats, and they were next to each other.

Perfect, he thought grimly. He didn’t know what to make of Cordelia’s offer, or why he’d accepted it, and he was wishing now that he hadn’t. The last thing he wanted was this woman poking around in his private life, making him feel like even more of a failure. Miss New York City Photographer. He bet her schedule was full of parties and bottomless brunches and glamorous events.

But then he remembered how she’d stared at her glass and insisted she wasn’t a photographer anymore. The fragility in her expression, like an eggshell about to crack. He hadn’t thought her capable of vulnerability – weren’t all Americans annoyingly confident?

“I like that American,” Róisín declared as Niall sat down. “Cordelia!” she called as Cordelia came hurrying back from the bathroom. Her cheeks were flushed again, her eyes bright, and for a second Niall wondered if she’d been crying. Christ, he hadn’t made her cry, had he?

She stumbled for a fraction of a second when she saw where she’d been seated, then walked in an exaggeratedly calm manner to slide into the chair next to him. She smelled like bergamot and something faintly piney. It was unexpected – he’d pegged her for a high-end, flowery perfume kind of gal.

“Now see here, Cordelia,” Róisín said, grabbing the bowl of boiled potatoes and scooping a large helping onto her plate. “Alison’s been telling me you’ve seen hardly any of this island or done anything to write home about – that’s going to change. Starting tomorrow.”

Colin was grinning as he helped himself to the Yorkshire pudding. Cordelia’s lips had formed a small O as if she wanted to say something but couldn’t decide what. Niall’s father passed her a plate of pot roast.

“O – okay,” Cordelia stammered.

“There’s no use arguing with her,” Alison said. “Right, Gran?”

Róisín patted Alison’s knee. “No use at all, my darling. I always get my way. So you come on up to the house tomorrow and we’ll get started.”

“Uh, started on what?”

“I wouldn’t ask if I were you,” Colin said in a mock whisper, handing her the platter of sautéed mushrooms. Once his plate was full, Niall ignored the chatter and dug in. His thoughts drifted back to the newspaper in the kitchen, then skittered to the image of Deirdre on top of Patrick on the floor of the pub. He squeezed his eyes shut and when he opened them, Colin was watching him, worried.

“Your parents must be very proud of you, Cordelia,” Eoin said, leaning back in his chair. “Making a go of this photography thing.”

Cordelia choked on a mouthful of potato and then cleared her throat. “Yeah.”

“And that makes you money, does it?”

“Eoin,” Fiona said.

“What? I’m just asking a question.”

“How did you get into photography?” Alison interjected.

Cordelia fiddled with her napkin. “Um, I was always into arty things. I used to drive my mom crazy, drawing on my sneakers with magic marker and getting glitter glue all over the couch. Then my dad brought home this old Polaroid camera and I fell in love. Took pictures of everything. And it kind of grew from there. I got accepted to SVA – that’s the School of Visual Arts in New York. Then I got mentored by this really famous street photographer and things just took off.”

“I’m surprised you’re able to make a living,” Eoin said. “Seems awfully risky to go to school for that sort of thing.”

Cordelia gave a little half smile. “You sound like my mom. She wasn’t a fan.”

“It worked out wonderfully I would say,” Fiona said. “Look at you now. Traveling the world.”

Two pink spots appeared on Cordelia’s cheeks. “Yeah,” she said, but her mouth turned down.

“Took a lot of hard work, I’ll wager,” Eoin said. “And determination. And making the right choices.”

Niall felt his blood begin to boil. As if losing the Fallen Star had been a choice. As if Deirdre leaving him had been Niall’s choice. Fiona was shooting daggers at her husband, but he didn’t seem to notice.

“It definitely took hard work,” Cordelia said, taking a cautious sip of wine.

Eoin drained his own glass and pointed a thick finger at his son. “Now, Niall here – ”

Colin groaned and Róisín said, “For fuck’s sake, Eoin, give the boy a break.”