In the Unlikely Event
It also doesn’t matter that we are in the midst of refurbishing the cottage completely, gutting it from within, and are currently staying with Elaine, Lara, and Father Doherty while we’re waiting for our home to be ready.
It took a while, but Elaine and Lara warmed up to me. Father Doherty did his best to bridge the gap, but I think what did it was my relationship with Tam. They could hate me all they wanted, but the truth of the matter was—is—I am the one who fixes her hair every morning, does 2,000-piece puzzles with her, helps her with her homework, and binge-watch vintage Sabrina the Teenage Witch. It was also helpful that I turned out to be just as frugal and unaffected by money as Mal is, so they can see I’m not here for an inheritance or some other sort of free ride.
“May I have chocolate milk? And apple candy? And this dress? And these boots? Rory, can I? Oh, and can you do my hair tomorrow for school? Brantley McCay likes me. Mia thinks so, anyway.” Tamsin stops by a little boutique shop for kids, pointing at a mannequin of a girl her age.
“Tomorrow is Sunday.” Laughter rolls out of my mouth, bouncing on the ground ahead of us. “But yes, I’ll French braid your hair on Monday. And you can have one thing out of the three, preferably the boots, because they are super cute, and also because your grandmothers will maim me if I feed you junk before dinner.” I answer all of her questions at once, and we make a stop at the little store and get her glittery, leopard boots I’m sure she will flaunt for my mother during their next weekly Skype session.
When we get to the crowd, I work my way past onlookers to the only available spot from which I can see Mal and place Tamsin before me, putting my hands on her shoulders. She bobs her head and smiles, and it’s only when I know she is secure and not going to be pushed around by the dozens of people standing around Mal that I allow myself to drown in his voice, his music, his words.
They said that love was beautiful,
I asked them if they were high,
Because when you barged into my life, you made me taste the sky,
But then you left me here, and the ashes on my tongue turned blue,
Darlin’, what more can I say? It ain’t easy loving you.
I know we said forever, a promise born a lie,
Though I really want to do it the right way before I die.
Marry me right, and true, and in all the colors you injected into my life.
My Disney princess, my shiny savior, my sharp, bleeding knife.
Mesmerized by his lyrics, it takes me a moment to realize he’s put down his guitar and is now approaching me with his unnerving swagger and foolhardy smirk that burns panties in its wake, leaving a trail of tattered hopes and dreams of something more.
I cover my mouth with both hands, not knowing what to make of it.
We are married. In the last year, we’ve acted it more than most married couples I know. And yet, here he is…
On one knee.
Squinting up at me like I’m the sun, Tamsin between us as I hug his daughter from behind.
“I got you something a little more impressive than the ring from Larnaca this time, Princess Aurora of New Jersey.”
He fishes in his back pocket for a black, velvety box and pops it open in front of me. I feel Tamsin squealing and giggling under my palms, her shoulders shaking in delight.
Everyone around us sucks in a breath as I stare back at a huge diamond sparkling in front of me in different shades of pale gold. I’ve never seen anything like it.
“Yes.” I choke on my own laughter.
Mal’s face changes from delighted to confused as he grabs my left hand from Tamsin’s shoulder—kissing his daughter’s cheek first—and slides the ring onto my finger, securing my original wedding band.
“Oh, darlin’, that wasn’t a question.”
Everyone around us laughs, Tamsin included.
“Then why are you on your knees?” I wipe tears of joy from the corners of my eyes.
“Great angle to check out your t-i-t-s,” he retorts.
“Daddy!” Tamsin hoots, holding her little belly. “I know how to spell! I got second place in the spelling bee at school, remember?”
“Why, how could I forget, little TimTam? It was a test, and you passed with flying colors.”
He pulls her into a hug, and she drowns between his muscular arms, a ball of giggly happiness.
This past year, I’ve had the pleasure of watching Mal be a father to Tamsin. It was enough to confirm I want to have approximately five hundred babies with him. And an indefinite number of pets. We started out with two dogs named Jim and Morrison. Both rescued. It wasn’t even a discussion. We knew where we’d get them: the shelter.
Mal and I came a long way with the people we hurt and who’ve hurt us. Mom and I are working things out. She comes over every Christmas. I send her elaborate gifts from Sephora on Thanksgiving. And yes, that includes hairspray.
Mal apologized to Sean and Maeve. He actually went as far as helping them open their new business—The Tolka Inn. No matter how much they despised him, in time, and with a lot of groveling, they’ve tentatively allowed him back into their lives.
As for Tamsin? She has been the missing link I didn’t know I needed in my life. The reason why my snow globe was beautiful from the inside, tranquil, but also so incredibly still and boring. She shook it up and makes it snow like every day is Christmas.
Mal gets up, grabs me by my waist, and pulls me close, Tamsin slipping to the side coolly. She’s made it an art to escape our make-out sessions by now.
“Hello, stranger.” He grins at me.
“King Malachy of Tolka,” I answer, producing the fifty-euro note Father Doherty gave me almost a decade ago and sliding it to his waistband, as if he’s a stripper.
“You’re the four seasons, Rory. And I promise to be your shelter in the winter. To bask in you in the summer. To crash into love with you in spring like it’s the first time we’ve met. And when you fall? I promise to always pick you up.”
Everyone erupts in claps and whistles, and goosebumps dance all over my skin. I feel loved. Cherished. Invincible.
“Play me a song?” I ask.
“What would you like to hear, Ms. Rothschild?”
“Surprise me.” I bite down on my lip, not surprised in the least that he remembers our entire conversation from when we were practically kids.
He jogs back to his place, just like he did almost a decade ago.
Lowers his head and gives me a sideways I’m-going-to-fuck-you-tonight smile, which I believe now, exactly as I did nine years ago.
He opens his mouth and starts singing my father’s song, “Belle’s Bells.”
And for the first time since I heard it and knew Glen wrote it, I feel nothing but contentment and peace.
No pain. No shame. No need for closure.
Because no matter who Glen O’Connell was, he led me to the love of my life. To my new home. To the place where I matter. Where I take pictures of babies for a living and don’t chase coked-up, glitzy starlets and dodgy, sexually harassing bosses. Where I go up to Northern Ireland from time to time to hang out with my half-brother, Taron, putting fresh flowers on his grave and telling him all the stories I couldn’t have when I still lived in the US.
I visit Kath, too.
I even visit Dad—and yes, it helps that they were buried in the same graveyard.