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“Like I needed him to tell me,” Róisín said. She turned on Cordelia. “I don’t need anybody’s help, you hear me? I don’t need anybody coming around my house and prying into my business.”

Róisín was poking a finger in Cordelia’s face and she felt her last nerve snap. She was tired, and overdressed, and jerk-face Niall was smirking, and she could hear the goddamn rain starting up again outside.

“You know what?” she snapped. “You’re right. I am a spy. Alison asked me to come all the way from New York to spy on your very fascinating and interesting life, which I assume it must be since you are never home, and guess what, it turns out I suck at spying, so if you could just answer your fucking door from time to time that would make things a lot easier for me, okay?”

There was a split second of startled silence in which her words hung in the air—then Cordelia began to feel the mortification wash over her. What had she just said? Alison was going to send her packing for sure.

But suddenly, Róisín threw her head back and cackled.

“Oh, I like this one,” she said to Alison. “Go fetch me a whiskey, girl,” she said to Cordelia, who stood almost on instinct until Alison said, “Gran, there’s a glass of wine in your hand.”

Róisín looked at it, surprised. “Ah, so there is.” She took a long drink, draining half the glass. “This is damn fine wine, Fiona. Damn fine.”

“Cordelia brought it,” Fiona said.

“Who the feck is Cordelia?”

Cordelia gave a little wave as Colin said, “The American, Róisín.”

Róisín raised an eyebrow. “She’s got cheek and she knows wine. Colin, you should marry this girl. Or are you still a pouf?”

“Half pouf,” Colin corrected her. “But I’ll take the instruction under advisement.” He grinned and gave Cordelia a nod as if to say well done. But Cordelia’s head was still spinning. She’d shouted at this tiny old woman and everyone seemed … totally cool with it.

“Did you bring Brigid this evening?” Owen asked. “Niall can put her up in the back field.”

“Course I didn’t,” Róisín grumbled. “Alison picked me up in the damn car.” She pointed another finger at Cordelia. “You aren’t going to be harping on at me about cars, are you, girl?”

Alison barely repressed a sigh.

Cordelia frowned. “I’m a New Yorker,” she said again.

“Is that your fecking answer to everything? Fiona, is that her fecking answer to everything?”

“Róisín, why don’t you help me in the kitchen,” Fiona said, giving her husband a significant look.

Owen got the hint. “Come, Róisín.” As they passed by Niall, Róisín stopped and reached up to pat his cheek.

“It’s good that you’re home, boyo,” she said tenderly. “I saw the papers this morning. That fecking trollop.”

Some strong emotion spasmed across Niall’s face, and for a moment Cordelia saw bleak pain in his eyes. Then it was gone and they were hard as gemstones again.

Once the trio had gone into the kitchen, Alison collapsed on the couch and Niall poured her a drink.

“Cheers,” she said, taking the wine. “I love her,” she added to Cordelia. “I love her more than anyone else in the world. But she’s a lot.”

“She’s like a tornado,” Cordelia observed. “Or … a Tasmanian devil.”

Colin and Alison had a good laugh at that.

“I’m glad she likes you,” Alison said.

“Are you sure about that?” Cordelia asked doubtfully.

“Oh yes,” Alison said. “You spoke her language. No beatin’ around the bush. She won’t be hiding from you anymore, I promise.”

Now that she’d met Róisín, Cordelia wasn’t sure if she wanted this ornery old woman to stop hiding from her.

“So,” Colin said. Niall had taken a seat on the far side of the room, as far as he could be from Cordelia, thank god. “How’s your first week on the island been?”