had ordered three new beds from Lyons department store, hauling the frames and mattresses up the stairs to the freshly scrubbed rooms where Maggie and Maeve covered them with new linens and plump pillows. Thomas claimed Michael wouldn’t know what to do with a big bed in a room of his own, having slept so often wherever his head landed and never staying in one place for too long. The O’Tooles were beside themselves with excitement, preparing the rooms as though ancient King Conor himself were coming to visit.
Eoin was frantic as he waited for them, running from one window to the next, watching for them to arrive. He had a secret he was bursting to share. We had created a new adventure in the Eoin sagas, a story where Eoin and Michael Collins rowed the little red boat across the lough and into an Ireland of the future. The Ireland in our story slept under the tricolor flag, no longer ruled by the Crown, the troubles and tribulations of past centuries long behind her. I told the story in rhyme, plotting each page, and Thomas sketched little Eoin and the “Big Fella” sitting atop the Cliffs of Moher, kissing the Blarney stone, and driving along the Giant’s Causeway in Antrim. On one page, the mismatched pair saw the wildflowers and braced themselves against the winds on Clare Island. On another, they witnessed the winter solstice at Newgrange in County Meath. The story hadn’t begun as a gift for Michael, but by the time we were finished, it was agreed that it needed to be.
It was a beautiful little book, full of Irish whimsy and hopeful pining, with two Irish lads, one big and one small, traipsing across the Emerald Isle. I knew that Ireland wouldn’t know the peace found in the pages of our book for a long, long time. But peace would come. It would come in layers, in pieces, in chapters, just like in a story. And Ireland—the Ireland of the green hills and abundant stone, of the rocky history and the turbulent emotions—would endure.
We wrapped the story in paper and twine and placed it beneath the tree with Michael’s name on it, adding it to the parcels that were already there—gifts for each of the O’Tooles and new hats and socks for all the men. Father Christmas would be visiting after Eoin went to sleep. I’d purchased the replica of the Model T Eoin had obsessed over at Kelly’s pawnshop, and Thomas had built him a toy sailboat and painted it red, just like the one in our stories.
The photographer from the wedding at the Gresham Hotel had mailed us copies of the pictures he’d taken. I’d managed to intercept the package without anyone else seeing it. I’d put the picture of Thomas and me—the one Eoin would keep all his life—inside a heavy gold frame. It wasn’t an exciting gift for a small boy, but it was a precious one. I’d placed the other picture from the wedding, the one with Michael grinning in the center, in another frame to give to Thomas. That was the night when I’d first admitted my feelings, the night when I’d confessed everything, and the memory of those moments and the significance of the history took my breath away every time I looked at the photo.
Garvagh Glebe had been turned into a glittering, glowing wonderland of warm smells and gleaming surfaces, of spice and shine and fragrant trees tied with ribbon and decorated with berries and candles. I wasn’t surprised to learn that Thomas opened his doors every year to his neighbors, hiring musicians and supplying enough food to fill a thousand bellies. The festivities always began in the late afternoon and would continue until the party moved to St. Mary’s for midnight Mass or home to sleep off the day’s excesses.
Just after five o’clock, wagons and rattling farm trucks, cars, and carts began making their way down the lane toward the manor, which was aflame with light and sound. The ballroom that was empty year-round had been dusted and decorated, mopped and waxed, and long tables were laden with pies and cakes, turkey and spiced meat, and potatoes and bread prepared a dozen ways. It wouldn’t stay hot, but no one complained, feasting as they milled about, laughing and visiting, their cares set aside for a few hours. Some swarmed Michael Collins while others steered clear; the lines were already being drawn between those who thought he’d brought