Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 83384 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 334(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83384 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 334(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
“McCarthy.”
Awareness dawns. I know the oily voice behind me. It’s one memory I wish I didn’t have. I turn. Another memory triggers.
My brother. I have a brother. Blaine. His name is Blaine, and I hate him.
“Martin.” Cormac nods. The tension in the little shop visibly heightens. He doesn’t even look at me, but I know him. Visceral hatred boils in my stomach, making me nauseous like I was before. He’s cruel and vicious. He’s hurt me before, I know he has. He doesn’t even look my way, but I stare at him. He looks bloody awful, his eyes sunken, his nose damp and reddened.
Cormac turns back to me as if my brother’s of no consequence. “You ready to go to the shops?”
“Running, then,” my brother says in a near whisper. That gets Cormac’s attention.
“Cormac, no,” I whisper, when he gets to his feet and draws himself to his full height. He’s massively huge, much larger than my brother, and I have to admit it pleases me to see the wide-eyed fear that suddenly takes hold with my brother, the way he cowers and takes a step back. He’s a weasel that’s poked a lion.
Cormac stares my brother down, then walks to the counter in front of my brother. “Bag to go, will you?”
“Certainly,” Isobel says. She looks nervously to Cormac. “Please, keep it civil, son,” she whispers.
He nods. She hands him a paper sack and shoots daggers at Blaine. Cormac walks past my brother, ignoring him. I decide I’ll do the same.
“We can take the rest with us.”
“I’ll take the shortbread in my hand,” I say, rescuing it from the tray before he piles them in the bag. He grins.
We leave the shop without saying another word to my brother. I happily munch the shortbread. It’s rich, mildly sweet, and delicious. Blaine won’t hurt me anymore, not when the McCarthys are at my back.
“He’s afraid of you,” I say in a singsong voice, not even bothering to hide how this pleases me.
“Aye. He ought to be. Busted his arse a week or so ago.”
“Would’ve paid to see that.”
He laughs out loud. “I think you might’ve said the same when it happened. You remember, then.”
“That my brother’s a prick?” I sigh. “Aye.”
He nods and smiles ruefully. “We’ll have to make sure some of the memories you have are better.”
I think for a moment before I reply. We’re walking down the street toward a shimmering assortment of brightly-lit shops down the road. It feels so good to be out, in the sun, a light breeze stirring my hair and making me draw nearer to my husband.
“It would be nice if you could do that,” I tell him. “Though I’m beginning to wonder how many I have?”
“Nice memories?”
“Aye.”
He doesn’t respond at first, but gives my hand a little squeeze. “We can remedy that.”
We shop the rest of the afternoon, even though it looks as if it’s almost physically painful for Cormac to endure. The third hour in, he’s holding bags of things. Shoes and new knickers, a pretty little jumper, and a few wee things for baby Seamus.
“Alright,” he says. “I’ve had quite enough of this now.”
“Just one more place, the little—”
“No.”
I sigh, but I’m not really disappointed. I was only teasing him.
“Dinner,” he says stoutly.
“Dinner,” I repeat. A fair compromise.
“Italian?”
“Mmmm.”
We get a table at D’Agostino’s, and I feel a little underdressed. No, I feel a lot underdressed. The people around us wear cocktail dresses and suits, and I’m still just wearing my jeans and a top.
“Okay, this isn’t good,” I tell him with a frown. “I’ll be right back.”
I take one of my bags, go into the restroom, and emerge a few minutes later wearing a new dress and shoes. He blinks, and the corners of his lips quirk up.
“Did you just get changed in the jacks?”
“Aye,” I say, picking up the menu.
He doesn’t say anything at first, then just smiles and shakes his head.
“You’re something else, Aileen McCarthy.”
“Thank you?”
He snorts. “You’re welcome.”
We eat the calamari he raves about, though I happily give him the tentacles and stick to the little rings, thank you very much. I dig into a large platter of ravioli we share with delicious, fragrant pasta sauce swimming with garlic and herbs. We dip bread in fine olive oil and sip glasses of wine.
“This is so decadent and delicious,” I tell him. “Thank you.”
He’s pleased, I can tell by the way he smiles at me.
“As I said…”
“I can thank you at home,” I say, warming up to the idea on my second glass of wine.
He winks. “Aye, lass.”
He tells me of his childhood, regaling all sorts of humorous stories until I’m snorting with laughter. Seems he and his brothers got into all sorts of mischief. I wish I could tell him stories of my own, but I have so few.