Total pages in book: 134
Estimated words: 126485 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 632(@200wpm)___ 506(@250wpm)___ 422(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 126485 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 632(@200wpm)___ 506(@250wpm)___ 422(@300wpm)
I placed the basket on the wooden table and unpacked the bread and soup container. Mrs. Byrne didn’t ask me to sit down on the sofa, so I stood awkwardly beside the table while she took out a spoon and knife. She opened the lid and took a sniff. She pursed her lips, then dipped the spoon inside the stew. She tasted only the soup, her eyes narrowing. Still not saying a word, she cut off a slice of the bread and took a bite. Her blue eyes settled on me. I forced a smile as I awaited her judgment. I knew it was tasty, but Mrs. Byrne was determined not to like me, so I was up against more than her taste buds.
“You can cook,” she said. “Why are you still standing around as if you’re on the run. Sit down. Don’t be rude.”
I blinked then quickly sat on the sofa, feeling a spring dig into my left ass cheek. Mrs. Byrne put the rest of the stew into a pot and warmed it while she cut the bread into slices. “Have you had breakfast?”
“No.”
“Then, we’ll eat.” She pointed a finger at me. “A good stew can be eaten at any time.”
I nodded, not wanting to argue.
“Sit down at the table, child. You can’t eat on the sofa! Haven’t they taught you manners?”
I got up with a tight smile and slinked over to the table where I sat in an uncomfortable chair. Mrs. Byrne set down a bowl of stew in front of me before taking a seat across from me with a generous portion for herself. A board with sliced bread and a ceramic butter dish created a border between us. We ate in silence, and I was glad that I was busy slathering the bread with butter.
When I took a bite, I moaned. “What is this?”
“Homemade butter. When I have time, I take a bus to a farm just outside the city where they have good cows, not Irish cows, but good cows, and I make my own butter as my mother taught me.”
“It’s unbelievable. If I ever get a chance to open my own restaurant, I want to serve butter like that as a starter with warm homemade sodabread.”
I flushed at the curious look on Mrs. Byrne’s face. “A restaurant?”
I nodded and took another bite. “It’s a silly dream.”
She narrowed her eyes in thought. “Silly is who silly does.”
I wasn’t sure what that was supposed to mean, so I focused on the stew.
“Lorcan is a resourceful man. He could open a restaurant for you.”
“I don’t want to rely on his money and power.”
She shook her head and clucked her tongue. “Marriage is about unity. What’s his is yours. What’s yours is his. Together you can do what can’t be done alone.”
Maybe in an honest marriage, but not in ours. If I took something from Lorcan, he’d expect something in turn. I’d be indebted. “We haven’t been married for long.”
“It’s not a matter of time but willingness. I can tell you don’t trust Lorcan.”
I swallowed. “I don’t know him very well yet. I need to get to know him. Maybe you can help me? You know him better than I do. You’ve known him since he was a little boy, after all.”
“Indeed, but I don’t know if it’s my story to share.”
“You know how men are. They want to impress but talking about their childhood makes them feel silly.”
She nodded. I knew those words would hit the mark. “Lorcan was a boisterous boy. He could make the vein on his father’s forehead swell like no other. But he was also a mum’s boy. He loved his mother. His parents had a very good marriage, just like Jack and I did. I think he strives for the same unity in marriage as he experienced at home.”
I frowned. Starting a marriage with blackmail was the wrong way to go about it. “Family is important,” I said softly. “It’s why I’m so heartbroken over my sister’s disappearance. I can hardly focus on anything else. Maybe I could really start giving my all in this marriage if I just found her.”
“I’m old, but I’m not senile.”
I smiled as if I didn’t know what she was talking about.
“Are you trying to get me to help find your sister?”
My smile became sheepish. “I’m sorry. I’m desperate, and I know how well connected you are in this community. Imogen was a striking Irish woman. She would have drawn attention to herself if she walked these streets.”
“Show me her picture.”
I quickly pulled my purse from my handbag and extracted the last photo I’d taken of Imogen in front of Ha’penny bridge with the sun setting behind her.
Mrs. Byrne looked down at it for a long time, but I had a feeling it wasn’t only because of Imogen. “I never liked Dublin,” she said. “I preferred Killarney and the countryside, but now I miss even Dublin.”