Maura woke up the next morning and lay in bed trying to figure out how she felt. Physically? Fine. Mentally? Confused. Too much going on, pulling her in all directions. What was she supposed to worry about first? Her mother? Gillian and her shabby and unfurnished new home—with a new baby, no less? Finding staff for the pub? Solving this flipping maybe-murder? The gods were not playing fair. Why did she have to deal with all these things at the same time?

Stewing under the covers was not going to help. She should get up, shower, eat something, and then maybe go see Bridget, who was always up early. Bridget filled a lot of the empty spaces in Maura’s life—she was a friend but so much more. A grandmother, filling in for Gran. Someone who had known Gran a long time ago and held pieces of Maura’s past that she hadn’t even begun to explore. A treasure trove of local history, particularly the people in the area. Someone who had welcomed her with open arms.

Energized, she jumped out of bed, grabbed a towel, and went down the narrow stairs. She showered, then made herself a cup of coffee and toasted some slightly stale soda bread while trying to figure out what to wear. Her wardrobe was pitiful. Most of it was okay for the pub if she didn’t want anyone to notice she was alive. She’d had to ask Rose for advice about what to wear on a casual date with Sean. She’d gone through a few of the Skibbereen thrift shops to replace things that were falling apart—she hadn’t brought much with her from Boston. And that was about it. Helen showing up, looking professional and put together, had made her feel shabby, and she didn’t like it.

No way was she going to ask Helen to go shopping with her. No matter what, she had no plans to be a girly girl. But as a pub owner and the face of the place, she really should step up her game.

With a sigh, she pulled on a pair of clean jeans and a shirt—checking to be sure there were no stains on the front—grabbed her jacket, and opened the door. Spring had definitely arrived. Even city-raised Maura could smell it in the air. She pulled the door shut behind her and strolled down the lane toward Bridget’s cottage.

Mick’s car was parked in front of the door, but he was up on the slate roof, doing something around the chimney.

“You’re here early,” Maura called out.

“The flashing’s shot, and there’s rain in the forecast. Won’t take long to repair. Go on in.”

Maura rapped on the front door, and Bridget opened it quickly. “Welcome, mo chara. Tea fer yeh?”

“Sounds great. How are you?”

“I’m grand, thank yeh very much. Mick’s been pounding over my head for an hour or more, and yesterday as well.”

“You’re lucky he’s looking after your place. If something goes wrong at mine, I’m clueless.”

“Mick’ll help yeh out if you ask, yeh know.”

“I know, and he has before, but I hate asking people for help.”

“Ah, Maura, surely yeh’ve noticed that around here people help each other?”

“Yeah, I’ve seen that. Not like living in the city.”

“Pour yerself a cup of tea, why don’t yeh?” While Maura poured, Bridget commented, “Yer gran was always one fer helping others.”

“That I remember,” Maura said, locating a cup and pouring tea from a pot kept warm on the stove. “I never knew who I’d find at the table at supper. Mostly guys from Cork, I guess, looking back at it. Gran always gave them a good meal and told them who they should be talking to for a place to stay and a job. I guess it worked because I can’t remember many of them coming back looking for help again, although sometimes they brought her a gift or some flowers.”

Bridget smiled. “And is it only the Irish who do that in Boston?”

Maura shrugged. “I really can’t say. I guess everybody looked out for their own.”

Maura heard Mick clomping down the ladder leaning against the house, and then he walked in. “That should hold yeh at least fer a bit. I fixed the flashing, but there’s a couple of roof shingles gone missing that should be replaced. I’ll have to find some.”

“Will yeh stay fer a cup of tea?” Bridget asked, beaming at him.

“That I will, if my boss here will let me.” He glanced at Maura, smiling.

“Mick, it’s not even nine o’clock,” Maura reminded him. “We don’t open for over an hour. Go right ahead.”

He’d barely poured a cup for himself when they all heard the sound of a car approaching, its grinding gears hard to miss coming up the hill. “Who could that be?” Bridget asked no one in particular. “All the neighbors with jobs are long gone off to work.”

The car stopped outside Bridget’s gates, and then Maura heard voices—one male, one female—and the slamming of a door. “I’m going to guess it’s Gillian. She said she’d bring the baby by.”

Bridget got up from her chair more quickly than Maura had thought possible. “And her only just home! I’d best top off the pot.” She hurried over to the stove to shift the kettle over the heat.

Maura glanced at Mick, who looked distinctly uncomfortable. “I should go so you can talk about woman things,” he said.

“At least say hi to Gillian, Mick,” Maura protested. “You haven’t even seen young Henry.”

“I’ve seen babies before,” he said curtly, but Gillian was already rapping on the door and he couldn’t escape.

Since Bridget was fussing with the teapot, Maura went to open the door. “Hey, Gillian! Are you driving now?”

“No, but Harry gave me a lift, and he’ll be back in a bit to collect me. Hello, Mick—I almost didn’t see you there. Anyway, I couldn’t stay inside that gloomy old pile on such a nice spring day. And of course I had to show off young master Henry here. Bridget?” Gillian called out.

Bridget came quickly to the door. “Gillian, yeh’re looking grand. And this is the little one?”

“It is, Henry Townsend Callanan. Would you like to hold him?”

“Sure, and I’d be glad to, if yeh’re willin’,” Bridget said, her eagerness unmistakable.

“Of course I am,” Gillian told her. “You’ve far more experience than I have with infants. Why don’t you sit down first, and I’ll hand him over?”

Bridget complied, settling herself in her upholstered chair, and Gillian laid the baby in her arms. He barely stirred, but Bridget was handling him like the mother she had long been, and there were tears in her eyes. “Oh, he’s a handsome one, isn’t he?”

In the moment of warm silence that followed, Maura happened to look up at Mick, who had been standing as if frozen since the door opened, and the expression on his face shocked her: his eyes were on the baby in his grandmother’s arms, and there was so much pain in them that Maura wanted to reach out and touch him. And then it was gone, and his expression was carefully neutral.

“I’ll be headin’ out now. Good to see yeh, Gillian. Maura, see yeh in a bit,” he said in a tight voice.

Bridget tore her adoring gaze away from the baby long enough to say, “Mick, remember what I told yeh.”

He didn’t answer but ducked his head and hurried out the door. Maura waited to hear his car start up, but she heard nothing. Where had he gone? And why in such a hurry?

“I’ll take care of the tea,” she volunteered. “Gillian, why don’t you sit by Bridget? How’s Harry holding up?”

“He’s over the moon for now, but he’s having issues with nappies. I tell him I’m doing the feeding, so he should deal with the end product, but so far he hasn’t bought into the program.”

“How’s the creamery coming along?”

“Very slowly, I’m afraid. Between the packing and drumming up business for himself, Harry doesn’t have a lot of time to work on it.”

“I’ve still got that spare bedroom,” Maura said, bringing the teapot over to the table between the chairs.

Gillian laughed. “And it’s kind of you to offer, but can you see us jammed into that space with a baby? We’ll work things out. And we have that nice beach overlooking the lough if Henry here decides to scream his head off. No neighbors to bother.”

Henry was beginning to make cranky sounds. “I think he needs his feed,” Bridget said.

“No doubt. Do you mind?” Gillian took the baby from Bridget, who seemed a bit reluctant to let go, then settled herself back in the chair. She pulled a shawl from her bag and draped it over one shoulder, guiding Henry discreetly beneath it for breakfast or lunch or whatever his nine o’clock meal was. Maura didn’t know where to look.

But Gillian and Bridget seemed unfazed by a nursing baby in their midst. “So, Maura, what’s new with the investigation?” Gillian asked.

“Not much. Helen provided a list of past staff, and I gave Billy a copy, and one to Sean last night. Bridget, didn’t you say you used to know somebody at the hotel?”

“Ah, right, so I did. Me son Timothy’s wife, Siobhan, used to work there, but I’ve no idea if she’s there now. He passed away some ten years ago—pneumonia, it was, after a hard winter—and I’ve lost touch with her. She never had the time of day fer me, though to be fair she was always workin’, and I had no call to stop in to see her.”

“And there’s a daughter?”

“Yes, Ellen. Siobhan had the girl before she met Tim. They never had children of their own, sad to say. He loved that girl like his own, though, but the wife kept her from callin’ me grannie. I can’t say why. A spirited girl, as I remember. I haven’t seen her since Tim’s funeral.”

Maura sensed there was more to the story, but it felt wrong to pry right then. Maybe Mick could shed some light—he would have grown up knowing this Ellen. Had he been close to his uncle Tim? Another family member he’d never talked about. Maura wondered how many more Nolans there were in the neighborhood that Mick hadn’t bothered to tell her about.

Gillian shifted the baby to the other side. “How’re things with your mother, Maura?”

“Well, warmer than they were. We’re talking.”

“That’s more than I can say for my mother,” Gillian said with a trace of bitterness. “At least my sister has stopped by, but she said she couldn’t tell Ma she’d seen me. Mick’s got a sister, doesn’t he?” Gillian turned to Bridget.

“He does, but I see little of her. She has the two small children and a job in Clonakilty, so she has no time to stop by and visit with an old woman. But Mick looks after me well.”

The struggling engine was making its way up the hill again, so Gillian disengaged baby Henry and burped him. He didn’t complain, his eyelids drooping already. While Gillian reassembled herself, Harry rapped on the door. When Maura opened it, he said, “Ladies? Have you had your fill of this fine young lad? Because Gillian and I have a lot of work to do.”

“You know you can call on us if you need help, Harry,” Maura said quickly.

“It’s kind of you to offer, and we may need to take you up on that. But for now, we three are enjoying ourselves and packing a box now and then when he’s asleep. Bridget, lovely to see you again. Gillian, are you ready?”

“I am. Bye, Maura—I’ll see you again soon. And when we get settled down below, Bridget, I can pop up easily for a visit.”

“Whenever you find the time. Take care, the three of yeh,” Bridget said, her eyes damp again.

Maura walked them to the door, and as they were leaving, she noticed that Mick’s car was still parked where it had been when she came in. “I should probably go too,” she told Bridget. “Do you need anything? There’s still tea in the pot.”

“I’m well fixed, Maura. You’ve got a pub to run. But stop by again when you can.”

“Of course I will. I’ll shut the door behind me.”

She left quickly, pulling the heavy old door to make sure it latched, and started up the hill toward her cottage. And stopped when she reached where the lane branched off: there was someone leaning against her door. When she came a bit closer, she realized it was Mick. What was he doing here?

“Hey,” she said when she was in earshot. “Did you want something?”

“Yes,” he said, avoiding her eyes. “We need to talk.”

Why did that seldom mean good news? “Come on in, then.”