because I’m fretting about our completely fake relationship.
“I know it’s soon,” I tell her sweetly, my stock answer from before. “But when it feels right, it feels right.”
“It’s like ye don’t even know,” she says, as if to herself.
“Know what?”
“That he’s Padraig McCarthy. He’s been one of the most unattainable bachelors in the whole country, maybe even the entire rugby world. You’re not even Irish.”
“I don’t see what that has to do with anything,” I say stiffly. I raise my chin defiantly but then realize I have a bit of baked bean sauce on my face.
Shit.
I wipe it off deftly and keep my composure. I guess I was right in how she felt about me. I’m not wanted. Not worthy. I have baked beans on my face.
But I keep her gaze with mine as she says, “I’m just saying, he’s had a whole big life before ye showed up.”
“So?” I ask pointedly, refusing to let her bait me.
“You didn’t even know about his sister. Maybe ye should learn a wee bit more about him before you take this step. I mean, taking his mam’s engagement ring. That’s serious.”
She’s right about that and I hate it.
She glances at the grandfather clock in the corner. “Well, I better get the kitchen cleaned up. Nice talking to ye. I don’t suppose I’ll be invited to the wedding since I’m an ex-girlfriend and all.”
And after that bomb explodes all over me, she gets up and goes back into the kitchen.
Whoa. We have a live one here.
The conversation makes me lose my appetite. I abandon my plate, not wanting to bring it into the kitchen lest she try to bite me, and get on my boots and my coat and head outside.
The cold, fresh air hits me in the face, and I close my eyes and breathe in until it hurts. Already it feels so much better being out here, with the endless lawn in front of me, sparkling with thick frost.
I make my way around to the back of the house, to the walled garden where I see Agnes with her back to me, bundled up like she’s in the Arctic, hanging her laundry out to dry.
Don’t say top of the mornin’ to ya, don’t say top of the mornin’ to ya.
“Top of the mornin’ to ya,” I say.
She jumps, surprised to see me. “Ooof. You made me heart go crossways.” Then she narrows her eyes at me. “You know we don’t say that here. Better to say, good mornin’ or nothing at all.” She turns her back to me, reaching for another peg.
Well, I definitely won’t be saying that again. Sheesh.
“Do you need any help?”
She cranes her neck to look at me. “With me washing? No, dear. I like doing the washing. The weather has been fierce the last few days, better to take the opportunity to be outside.” She gestures to the falconry mews. “Padraig’s over there with McGavin.”
Who the hell is McGavin?
I tell her thanks and head on over to find out for myself. With the white frost covering the garden walls, shrubs, and bare branches, and lumped in shimmering piles on top of dead flowers, it’s magically beautiful but I can imagine how stunning it would be in the summer.
There’s a pinch in my heart at that thought, knowing I won’t be here in the summer. But who knows, I might not even be here next week.
The birds are kept in the mews, and I only saw them in passing yesterday. Up close, it’s a row of four giant wood cages with metal bars to see out of, each about two hundred square feet. Beside them is a shed, and in front of each cage is a post.
Padraig is wearing a wool coat and standing among the empty posts with a big leather glove on his hand, and on top of his hand is a damn horned owl.
My fake fiancé looks like he’s just wandered off the moors, about to give Heathcliff a run for his money.
“Wow,” I say quietly, stopping where I am so I don’t get too close.
Padraig grins at me, that rare dimple appearing. “Valerie meet Hooter McGavin.”
The owl swivels its head to look at me and I’m met with intelligent yellow eyes.
“Hooter McGavin?” I repeat.
Padraig shrugs lightly and admires the bird. “His real name is McGavin. But when I was growing up, I loved that bloody Adam Sandler movie so much.”
“Happy Gilmore?”
“That’s the one. It reminded me of when my dad briefly made me try golf