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“It’s Sunday,” Niall reminded him. “She always makes a roast on Sundays.”

Colin grinned. “I know. Why d’you think I made friends with you in primary school? Your sparkling personality?”

Niall punched him on the shoulder.

His mother hurried out the front door as he parked, waving eagerly, and Niall’s heart softened. Fiona O’Connor had big blue eyes, like her son, but wild brown curls that were always escaping whatever band or scarf or hairband she tried to tame them with. She wore a flowered apron over her grey slacks and a red Aran jumper.

“Gorgeous day, isn’t it,” she said with a grin as Niall got out of the car. She threw her arms around him. “My sweet boy.”

“Hi, Mam.” He breathed in the scent of soda bread and rosemary. “What’s cooking?”

“Well, the bread’s in the oven and I’m working on the roast for dinner. But there’s a bit of lamb stew if you’re feeling peckish. The kettle’s on and I’ve got some jam and scones if you like.” She glanced up at the sky. “Róisín said she’d stop by with carrots and a cabbage or two, but I hope she doesn’t, not in this weather.” She smiled at Colin as he came to give her a hug. “Colin Doyle, you look peaky. I’ll set up a bowl of stew for you.”

“That’d be grand, Fiona,” Colin said, throwing Niall a wink.

As soon as he stepped into the house, Niall was hit with a thousand memories – the upright piano where his mother would play in the mornings, the sheet music open to some hymn or other. Niall could still see the small lines on the doorway where Fiona had marked his height by age. A newspaper sat folded on an armchair by the window, reminding Niall of the Saturdays when he would beg his father to put it down and kick the football around with him in the yard.

But the smells – the smells were this house’s true treasure. Stewed meat and baking bread and fresh herbs, roast potatoes and garlic and the faint sweet scent of tea, all mingling together and calling to mind so many dinners at the simple dining room table. Watching his father season a whole chicken. Learning how to cut onions the proper way. Laughing as he punched an enormous mound of bread dough, a fine dust of flour clinging to his hair.

Niall swallowed hard. This kitchen was where he had first begun experimenting with his own recipes – his father would have never allowed him to try new things in the hallowed space that was the family pub’s kitchen. Fiona had been his first guinea pig when he tried a newly invented recipe after researching ingredients and dishes from all over the world, like making colcannon with wilted kale and Mexican crema or glazing a good fillet of Irish salmon with gochujang sauce to give it a kick. Once they’d left the island to live in Dublin, Colin had filled the guinea pig role.

And then came Deirdre. She had been the one to breathe real life into his dream. His own gastropub, a place in Dublin where he could serve his unique recipes. Peeking out from beneath his father’s oppressive shadow of what an Irish pub should be like.

She’d believed in him so hard that he’d finally believed in himself. And right when he was on the cusp of actually having it, she’d punctured that dream with a massive needle, leaking all the color and joy out of his life. She and Patrick had strong-armed him out of his own damn restaurant – not that he would have wanted to work there with the two of them. But it was his menu they were going to be serving. He was meant to be preparing for the soft open right now, not back on fucking Inishmore pouring pints for imbecilic tourists. It had been a month since he’d cooked anything. He lived on takeaway and sadness now.

But as he sat down at the table and his mother pushed a bowl of stew and a slice of fresh bread in front of him, Niall realized he was famished. The lamb was tender, the gravy rich and well-seasoned, the carrots holding the perfect amount of firmness. He shoveled the food into his mouth like a dying man eating his last meal; his mother’s voice washed over him as she chatted about what Cian Byrne was doing now that he had taken over the Seaview restaurant and how Aoife O’Shea had been since her husband died last October. And then suddenly, Niall’s spoon clattered into the bowl and he dropped his head in his hands and began to cry.

His stomach was full for the first time in ages and his chest loosened as the iron spring unwound a fraction. He felt his mother’s arms wrap around him, her murmured shhhs in his ear, and he didn’t even care that Colin was here to see this. He felt drained, broken.

“There you go now,” his mother murmured, rubbing his back. “Let it out. There’s a good lad. Let it all out. You’re home now. It’s going to be all right. You’ll see.”

Niall wished he could believe her. But from where he was sitting, it didn’t feel like anything would be all right. Something inside him had been shattered and he didn’t see how he would ever be able to put the pieces back together again.

Chapter Three

Cordelia was in a state of complete and utter shock.

She barely heard Alison talking to her as they drove up into the hills. It had taken all her willpower to introduce herself in a somewhat normal manner at the dock. Now she felt her lungs compress, squeezing themselves up into her throat and choking her. Her camera was broken, and she was miles away from any store that could possibly repair it.

“Are you all right?”

Cordelia started and realized the car had stopped. They were sitting in front of the tiniest cottage she’d ever seen, grey stone with a thatched roof, rain pattering down the windshield and blurring her vision.

“I’m sorry,” she said thickly.

Alison’s cheerful face creased with worry. “Don’t be sorry,” she said. “You’ve had a long day. Is it . . . are you tired from the travel?”

Cordelia held up her camera. “It’s broken,” she said, and her voice cracked. “Some jerk coming off the ferry bumped into me and I dropped it and now . . .” She swallowed hard. “My dad gave me this camera before he died.”

And that did it – something broke in her chest, the long trip, the exhaustion, the distance from home, the loss of her most precious possession, all of it came crashing down on her. She sobbed into her hands and Alison sat beside her quietly, patting her shoulder. At last, Cordelia took a deep shuddering breath.

“I’m really sorry,” she said with a hiccup. She wiped her nose on the back of her sleeve. “This isn’t how I wanted to meet you.”

“Don’t you apologize. That’s an awful thing to happen after such a long day.” Alison’s eyes were full of pity, “We could all use a good cry from time to time, and this seems like a fair reason for one. But as my gran always says, the sun shines brightest after a storm. Let’s get you inside. A hot shower is what you’ll be needing. I’ll make some tea and we’ll sort out what to do about your camera.” She gave her a small smile, “We aren’t completely cut off from the outside world, y’know.”

“Thank you,” Cordelia said with a sniff. “Sorry, was I meant to meet your grandma now or . . .”

“Oh no, it’s fine,” Alison said quickly. She glanced up the hill where a large stone house loomed, bleak against the clouds. “There’s no rush.”