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She stepped across the maroon, geometric-patterned carpet, eying the photos scattered across nearly every inch of the wall beside her.
Maisie had never felt so comfortable in a new space before. The room was simply home.
“Maisie!” Finn’s friends greeted her.
Cedric, Matthew, and Winnie were squished together on a single, pink and green floral couch, while Graham was seated on the floor beside them.
She smiled in response, then looked to the other side of the room as Finn introduced her to his grandparents, who were seated on the loveseat. Both of them had thick, gray hair, though his grandma’s was curled, just covering gold drop earrings. They greeted her politely with nods, and Maisie smiled in response.
Finn’s father was next as he stood from his hard-backed chair beside the grandparents and moved toward Maisie with an outstretched hand. “Pleasure to meet you, Maisie,” he said, his accent thicker than Finn’s.
“You, too,” she said in response.
“Do you mind answerin’, Maisie, were you born in a barn?”
Maisie paused. Had she heard him correctly? “What was that?”
“Da,” Finn said, his voice sounding almost like a warning. He looked at Maisie. “You’ll get used to him.”
Maisie still hadn’t caught on, but when she found Mr. O’Meara’s eyes focused on the door still open behind them, finally, she understood.
She’d accidentally left the door open, but only by an inch.
Her cheeks threatened to warm, but she reminded herself that this was Finn’s dad, and if they were alike, he was merely joking.
“Sorry about that,” she said lightly, moving to close the door. “I wasn’t born in a barn, but I was raised on a ranch. You should count yourself lucky that I didn’t bring in muddy boots and pigs with me like I used to at home.”
Mr. O’Meara chuckled, and the look in his eye told her she’d responded in exactly the manner he’d hoped.
Finn was certainly his father’s son.
“Ma, where are you?” Finn called out.
“I’m comin’, I’m comin’,” called a voice from the room next to theirs.
Sure enough, in the next moment, a round woman came into the room with a happy smile and warm eyes. A frilly apron covered her front as she stuck out her arms toward Maisie.
“Move over, son,” she said, then she pulled Maisie in for a warm embrace. “Ah, you’ve finally arrived!”
Maisie returned the hug in an instant, though she had to admit, she was slightly taken aback. The British weren’t exactly known for their hugs.
“My Finny’s told me all ’bout you,” the woman said, pulling back with another smile. “I’m chuffed you came. Call me Niamh.”
Maisie had to read the woman’s lips to understand her. Neev. That’s what she’d said. How had Maisie ever thought Finn’s accent was thick?
“Well, I couldn’t say no to the chance of cooking with you,” Maisie responded. “Finn has gone on and on about your cooking. I’m dying to try it out myself.”
“Ach, the wee dear. He’s not completely useless, then,” she said with a twinkle in her eye. “He only moans ’bout me cookin’ to me face.”
“I’ve got to keep you humble somehow, Ma,” Finn returned.
Niamh brushed her son’s comment away, then whisked Maisie across the living room carpet. “You stay in here, now, Finny Boy. I’ll have none of your cheek in me kitchen.” She looked at Maisie. “He’s always sneakin’ me food and givin’ suggestions where suggestions aren’t welcome.” She gave a roll of her eyes. “Maisie and I’ll get straight to work.”
Maisie looked over her shoulder at Finn, who gave her a shrug and a look that said, “You chose this,” before she was pulled around the corner.
The kitchen was just as homey as the front room, yellow-white cabinets, floral patterned wallpaper, spice racks across limited countertops, and striped rugs on the simple tile floor. Dusky light shone in from a window above the kitchen sink, sending an overall cozy atmosphere across the entire kitchen.
Maisie didn’t have time to look at much else as Niamh put her straight to work. She launched into an explanation of how to make her stew, and Maisie did her best to listen, though she was slightly distracted by Finn’s voice as it drifted toward her from the other room.
