Maura finally had to shoo Seamus and his cronies out of Sullivan’s just past eleven, but they went without grumbling. She tidied up the main room and decided to wait until morning to do any real cleaning. It would be easier to see the dirt by daylight. It would also be more depressing. Maybe some kind leprechaun would show up in the night and make it all disappear.

She drove home carefully, keeping her eyes on the road. Spring brought out a lot of small animals, she’d noticed, and she didn’t want to squish a lusty rabbit, or worse, a fox. She arrived home without mishap and let herself in. She’d left a dim light burning, but it did no favors to the old cottage. Was she going to let her mother see where she lived? It probably didn’t resemble what a doting mother would wish for her darling daughter.

She climbed the narrow stairs and fell into bed.

The morning sun woke her, and she lay in bed listening to the birds, plus some baaing of lambs and mooing of cows. Yup, this sure was Ireland. Nothing like Boston, with its constant traffic, round-the-clock lights and sirens, and airplanes flying overhead all the time.

She bounced out of bed and headed for the shower. She’d drop by and see Bridget to make sure she was all right after her excursion to Leap the day before and to tell her about Gillian and the baby. And if Bridget wanted to bring up the maybe relationship between her and Mick, so be it. She wouldn’t lie, but she wouldn’t start that conversation.

Chicken!

She followed through with her plan, but she found she was nervous when she walked down to Bridget’s cottage. Bridget wasn’t outside gardening, so Maura knocked. “Bridget? It’s Maura.” Was Bridget all right? Would she answer? Would she be angry?

It took half a minute, but finally Maura could hear Bridget’s shuffling walk, and then the door opened. Maura was holding her breath until she saw Bridget’s smile. “Come in, come in. I’ve just made a fresh pot of tea if yer thirsty.” The old woman stepped back to let Maura enter.

“Sure, that sounds good. I just wanted to be sure you were all right this morning—yesterday must have been a busy day for you.”

“Ah, I can’t spend all my time cooped up here, now can I? It was nice to be out and to see old friends. Would yeh pour, dear? The pot’s full, and it’s heavy fer me to lift.”

“Sure.” It was by now a familiar ritual for Maura after a year. Something she didn’t want to lose, if Bridget was upset about her and Mick.

Bridget had settled herself in her favorite chair when Maura brought the two steaming cups of tea and set them carefully on the table where the sugar bowl and milk pitcher were already waiting. When Maura sat, she wasn’t sure where to start, but luckily Bridget made that decision for her.

“Mick’s told me about yer mother arrivin’.”

Maura nodded. Of course he had. “It was really a big surprise. Since she arrived, I’ve been thinking about everything Gran ever said about her, and it wasn’t much. Did Gran ever write anything to you about her?”

“We both had busy lives and not much time fer the writin’ of letters. She let me know when yer father died, God rest his soul, and then when yer ma went off. I’d ask now and then if there’d been any word of her, but after a while I stopped askin’. Yeh never heard from her?”

Maura shook her head. “Never. And I guess I’m kind of mad that she just showed up here after all this time without trying to get in touch since she left.”

“Mebbe she was afraid you wouldn’t want to see her. Would that be true?”

“I’m not sure. And I’m also still not sure she would have told me who she was if the gardaí hadn’t wanted to talk to her. She might just have gone home again. To her new family.” Maura realized she was sounding bitter and stopped.

“Ah, Maura, let it go. Yeh won’t be close, but try to keep her somewhere in yer life.”

“I’m trying. The death of her boss has really messed things up. I hope the gardaí find out what happened fast so things get back to normal.” With or without Helen. “The guys at the pub have started a betting pool about who killed the guy. They’re convinced it’s murder, but nobody’s pointed to a killer yet.”

“And I’m sure they’ve plenty of ideas.”

“You want to get in on the pool?”

Bridget waved a dismissive hand. “I don’t know many people around Skibbereen now. So many are gone. But now that I think on it, my son Timothy’s widow works at the hotel now—or did, last I’d heard. She started in the kitchens years back.”

“She’s still there?” Maura asked.

“She is. She’s long since moved up from the kitchens, though. Some kind of manager, I’m told. I never knew her well—me son married late, and he’s dead these ten years.”

“I’m sorry. Not Mick’s father?” She stopped: she’d been the one to bring up Mick’s name. Should she backtrack now?

“No. Her husband, he’d be my second son.”

Maura realized she’d never heard Mick talk about his family, apart from the one sister and of course his grandmother. What was it with all these closemouthed people? Irish folk either spent hours laying out their family tree for you, going back generations, or pretended they had sprung up like a mushroom with no family at all. Not that she was any better, but at least she had good reason to be clueless about her past.

“Does this woman go by Nolan now?”

“She never did, and she might have married again. Yeh’d have no trouble findin’ out.”

“Bridget . . .” Maura began but couldn’t find the right words to continue. She sneaked a glance at Bridget, who was watching her with bright eyes, a small smile on her face.

“If it’s to do with Mick, it’s not my place to tell you what you should do. Nor him. But . . .” Now Bridget was fumbling for words.

“I don’t know that this is going anywhere,” Maura rushed to say. “I mean, it kind of happened, but maybe for the wrong reasons. I’m not very good at these things. With men, I mean.”

Now Bridget was shaking her head. “It’s not you I worry about; it’s my foolish grandson. He’s a good man, but he’s shut himself off since . . . Well, I’ve said it before, he’s the one to tell yeh. Or not, if that’s his choice. Just don’t get in too deep, love.”

More secrets. This was getting ridiculous. “But you’re not upset with me?”

“And why would I be? I’ve known yeh all yer life, if only by mail. Yer grannie raised yeh, and yeh’ve turned out well, and Mick could do worse. Just take things slow, will yeh?”

Maura found herself smiling, if reluctantly. “I can do that. After all, that’s how things are done around here, right? Slowly?”

“That they are. Now pour me another cup and tell me all about Gillian and the baby.”

“Well, I have to say it was interesting . . .” Maura began. Half an hour later, she looked at her watch and realized that she’d better head for the pub—she wasn’t sure who was there to open today. It had been a rather jumbled week, and the scheduling had suffered.

“Bridget, I’d better get going. Do you want to see Gillian and the baby?”

“If she’s up fer it. It’s been some years since I saw one so young. When will she be home?”

“Today, I think. I don’t know how long hospitals expect new mothers to stay these days. But the creamery is far from ready for the three of them.”

“Ah, no matter. When babies’re so little, they can sleep in a basket or a drawer, as long as they’re safe and warm. They’ve a bit of time to get ready. Pity that Eveline never had a chance to see the child. She would have been happy.”

“Even if Harry isn’t married to Gillian?” Maura felt awkward asking, but she wanted to know.

Bridget brushed away the question. “Ah, Eveline wouldn’t have minded. And times have changed. There’s no shame in it now. Did Gillian put Harry’s name on the certificate?”

Did that make a difference? Maura didn’t even know what the laws were in the States about who went on a birth certificate. “I have no idea, but I can find out. I’ll ask Gillian when she’s ready to come by.”

“I’ll see yeh out. If I sit fer too long, me joints get stiff.”

Maura waited while Bridget pulled herself from her chair, then took Bridget’s arm to steady her as they walked toward the door, tucking her hand under her elbow. When Bridget opened the door, she gave Maura’s arm a squeeze. “Mick’d be lucky to have yeh, but only if it suits the both of yeh.”

“Thank you, Bridget.” Impulsively, Maura gave Bridget a quick hug, then turned and left quickly, relieved. Bridget was okay with her and Mick, whatever they had between them. If anything. But they were the ones who had to figure it out.

She felt much more cheerful as she drove toward Leap and realized that Bridget’s approval must have mattered to her more than she had wanted to admit. Living in rural Ireland had pluses and minuses, and they were kind of one and the same: everybody knew your business—financial, romantic, and other. Mostly everyone didn’t judge too harshly, and they were there for you if you needed help, but it was kind of claustrophobic. She was still getting used to it.

Of course, when she arrived at Sullivan’s, Mick was the only other person there, but Maura felt ready to deal with their . . . whatever.

“Hey,” she said. “I couldn’t remember who was supposed to clean up today, so I came on in. Did we ever make up a schedule for this week?”

“Do we ever? Mostly it’s not a problem until the weekend.”

“True. I stopped by to see Bridget. She seemed to be in good form, so I guess she didn’t overdo it yesterday.”

“I’m glad to hear that. Thanks.”

An awkward silence fell until Maura started giggling.

“What?” Mick asked, looking confused.

“We are ridiculous—the two of us. If this were a crappy movie, this would be the moment when we rip each other’s clothes off and do it on the floor despite a crowd pounding on the door for their pints. Or maybe they’d be enjoying the show.”

“That floor’s pretty hard,” Mick commented, smiling.

“What? You’ve tried it out?”

“That I have not. Are we good?”

“I think we are.” For now, at least.