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He moved toward the stove and took a long sniff at the pot. “Ach, that smells grand, so it does. I might even say it smells better than when you cook it alone, Ma.”

Maisie shook her head in amusement, but Niamh pulled out a spoon and swatted Finn just below his shoulder. “You do me head in, boyo,” she grumbled, though her eyes twinkled.

She turned her back for a moment, moving to the fridge, and Finn held up a finger to his lips, signaling for Maisie to be silent before he took a sip of the stew from the spoon.

“I saw that,” came a voice from the kitchen door, Finn’s grandma joining them.

Finn pulled on a look of innocence as his mom shot a condemning stare at him.

“I did nothin’,” he said, raising his hands and walking backwards.

“You get out o’ here, or I’ll get you again,” Niamh warned, waving the spoon at him.

“It’s nothin’ I haven’t felt before,” Finn said.

Finn’s grandma slipped past them both and headed directly for the stew. “How’re you cuttin’ the spuds, Niamh?”

“Same as I always cut ’em, Mammy,” Niamh said with an impatient blink. “In nice, hearty chunks. Now why don’t you go back in with Da?”

Her mom clearly ignored her. “Naw, those are too small, girl. Ya have to cut ’em bigger. They breathe better in the water and have a nice crunch to them.”

“Spuds aren’t supposed to have a crunch to ’em, Mammy. ’Specially in stew,” Niamh continued.

Finn came to stand right beside Maisie, his sleeve brushing against her arm as he leaned in, whispering, “They’re gonna start kickin’ off. They always do when they cook together. Da’s gonna be in the doghouse now because his job is to keep Granny out of the kitchen.”

Maisie smiled, finding the whole argument funny, though she was struggling to focus now due to his proximity.

“Are you sayin’ you know better than your own mammy, child?” his granny continued, her accent so thick, Maisie was still trying to keep up with their conversation.

When the grandma looked at Maisie next, she focused on reading her lips to better understand her. “What do you say? Are spuds nicer with a crunch or not in a stew?”

“Mammy, don’t bring the poor girl into this,” Niamh said, still cutting the potatoes how she wished.

“Go on, child,” his grandma pressed.

Maisie stared between the women as they looked at her expectantly, then looked at Finn for aid.

He shook his head. “Keep me out of it.”

“Well,” she began carefully, “I can’t say because I’ve honestly never had authentic Northern Irish stew before.”

That had fortunately been the correct answer.

The women nodded, then took to arguing again as Grandma O’Meara tried to take over the cutting.

“Fine answer,” Finn said with a look of approval.

“No thanks to you,” she countered.

“Finny,” Niamh said. “Why don’t you take your granny back to your friends and have her show ’em your old photo albums.”

“Ach, no, Ma,” Finn protested. “No one wants to see those. ’Sides, I think Granny needs to stay in here and help. I like a bit o’ crunch in me spuds.”

“’Course you do,” Granny said with a kiss on his cheek. “That’s ’cause you take after me own side o’ the family. Your ma’s too much like your granda.” She looked at Maisie then. “Our Finny is the cleverest. You know, he went to Eton, he did.”

Maisie smiled. “Yes, I’ve heard.”

“Aye, such a clever lad,” his granny continued wistfully. Then she went back to cutting—or attempting to take over cutting—the potatoes.