tie-dyed chiffon and velvet, with heavy bangles around her wrists. Her stance may have been regal, but there was something mistrustful about the way she was eyeing the pair.
‘We could do with some help here!’ she called. ‘There are glasses to be filled, and plates to be passed round.’
‘Coming, Ma.’ Finn turned back to Izzy. ‘Gotta go,’ he said.
‘Thanks again for coming to my rescue,’ said Izzy. ‘My name’s Isabella Bolger, by the way.’
‘I know. We’ve met before. But I nearly didn’t recognise you now you’re all grown up.’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t have thought you’d have remembered.’
‘I could hardly forget a girl who tried to order me off “her” land.’
Izzy registered the emphasis and felt herself blushing again. ‘What a horrible brat of a child I was.’
‘You got your comeuppance when you fell off Dorcas.’
‘Yeah. You laughed like a drain at that.’
Finn smiled. ‘I was actually quite looking forward to teaching you to ride.’
‘Why didn’t you?’
‘Word got out that your mummy didn’t want you associating with the local kids.’
Izzy bit her lip. Why did he call her mother ‘Mummy’ when he’d called his own mother ‘Ma’ earlier? Was he jeering at her? ‘I can make my own decisions now,’ she said with hauteur, ‘as to whom I associate with.’ And then she cursed herself for using the word ‘whom’ because she knew it made her sound prissier than ever, so she tried to change the subject again.
‘Are the donkeys still there?’ she asked.
‘Pinkie is. But she’s all grown up now too.’
‘Finn!’
came his mother’s–his
mas
–voice.
‘Coming!’
He got to his feet and stretched, and Izzy was horrified to find herself studying the musculature of his chest under the cotton of his T-shirt and wondering how it would feel to run her hands over it.
‘Goodbye, Isabella,’ he said, saluting her with a relaxed hand before moving off. She watched his progress, aware that his mother was doing likewise, with a cross expression on her face. Halfway across the road, Finn paused, turned and gave her an appraising look. Then he smiled, and something elastic in Izzy’s tummy tautened. ‘I’d still like to do it,’ he said.
‘Do what?’
‘Teach you to ride, of course, princess.’ Finn’s wicked smile broadened, his green eyes narrowed, and then he was gone.
Chapter Seven
Río had just said goodbye to the last mourner, a maudlin Mrs Murphy–who had been utterly mortified to find out that she, and not Río, had inherited her neighbour’s garden–and now she and Dervla and Mr Morrissey, Frank’s solicitor, ‘needed to talk’, and Río just felt like getting drunk and going down to the beach to huddle in the dunes and watch the waves.
‘Glass of wine, Ma? Dervla?’ Finn emerged from the kitchen with a bottle and fresh glasses, on loan from O’Toole’s pub. ‘Mr Morrissey, you’ll have a glass of wine, won’t you?’
‘No thank you, young Finn. I’m driving.’
‘I’ll have one,’ said Río, thanking God
she
wasn’t driving.
‘We’ll take it into the study, shall we?’ suggested Dervla.
Turning on her heel, Dervla walked briskly into the study, where she perched herself on top of the old partner’s desk, which had belonged to Frank, and where their mother had used to sit crying over the household accounts. The way she crossed her legs and folded her hands in her lap reminded Río of one of her old teachers, and she felt as if she were back at school again. How had her sister become such a grown-up?
Finn poured wine and handed round glasses, and then he and Río and Mr Morrissey sat down on the kitchen chairs that had been borrowed from Mrs Murphy for the occasion. She’d alsolent plates for the sandwiches she’d made, and teapots for the tea she’d brewed, and a cake stand for the cakes she’d baked. Mrs Doyle from
Father Ted
would have been lost in admiration for her.
‘I hope you don’t mind if I don’t
‘We could do with some help here!’ she called. ‘There are glasses to be filled, and plates to be passed round.’
‘Coming, Ma.’ Finn turned back to Izzy. ‘Gotta go,’ he said.
‘Thanks again for coming to my rescue,’ said Izzy. ‘My name’s Isabella Bolger, by the way.’
‘I know. We’ve met before. But I nearly didn’t recognise you now you’re all grown up.’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t have thought you’d have remembered.’
‘I could hardly forget a girl who tried to order me off “her” land.’
Izzy registered the emphasis and felt herself blushing again. ‘What a horrible brat of a child I was.’
‘You got your comeuppance when you fell off Dorcas.’
‘Yeah. You laughed like a drain at that.’
Finn smiled. ‘I was actually quite looking forward to teaching you to ride.’
‘Why didn’t you?’
‘Word got out that your mummy didn’t want you associating with the local kids.’
Izzy bit her lip. Why did he call her mother ‘Mummy’ when he’d called his own mother ‘Ma’ earlier? Was he jeering at her? ‘I can make my own decisions now,’ she said with hauteur, ‘as to whom I associate with.’ And then she cursed herself for using the word ‘whom’ because she knew it made her sound prissier than ever, so she tried to change the subject again.
‘Are the donkeys still there?’ she asked.
‘Pinkie is. But she’s all grown up now too.’
‘Finn!’
came his mother’s–his
mas
–voice.
‘Coming!’
He got to his feet and stretched, and Izzy was horrified to find herself studying the musculature of his chest under the cotton of his T-shirt and wondering how it would feel to run her hands over it.
‘Goodbye, Isabella,’ he said, saluting her with a relaxed hand before moving off. She watched his progress, aware that his mother was doing likewise, with a cross expression on her face. Halfway across the road, Finn paused, turned and gave her an appraising look. Then he smiled, and something elastic in Izzy’s tummy tautened. ‘I’d still like to do it,’ he said.
‘Do what?’
‘Teach you to ride, of course, princess.’ Finn’s wicked smile broadened, his green eyes narrowed, and then he was gone.
Chapter Seven
Río had just said goodbye to the last mourner, a maudlin Mrs Murphy–who had been utterly mortified to find out that she, and not Río, had inherited her neighbour’s garden–and now she and Dervla and Mr Morrissey, Frank’s solicitor, ‘needed to talk’, and Río just felt like getting drunk and going down to the beach to huddle in the dunes and watch the waves.
‘Glass of wine, Ma? Dervla?’ Finn emerged from the kitchen with a bottle and fresh glasses, on loan from O’Toole’s pub. ‘Mr Morrissey, you’ll have a glass of wine, won’t you?’
‘No thank you, young Finn. I’m driving.’
‘I’ll have one,’ said Río, thanking God
she
wasn’t driving.
‘We’ll take it into the study, shall we?’ suggested Dervla.
Turning on her heel, Dervla walked briskly into the study, where she perched herself on top of the old partner’s desk, which had belonged to Frank, and where their mother had used to sit crying over the household accounts. The way she crossed her legs and folded her hands in her lap reminded Río of one of her old teachers, and she felt as if she were back at school again. How had her sister become such a grown-up?
Finn poured wine and handed round glasses, and then he and Río and Mr Morrissey sat down on the kitchen chairs that had been borrowed from Mrs Murphy for the occasion. She’d alsolent plates for the sandwiches she’d made, and teapots for the tea she’d brewed, and a cake stand for the cakes she’d baked. Mrs Doyle from
Father Ted
would have been lost in admiration for her.
‘I hope you don’t mind if I don’t
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