Page 4 of An Angel’s Share (The Greystone Family: Greystone Brothers #1)

Christy is a lovely woman, one of the nicest people I have ever met. Always has been. Not a mean bone in her body. A great cousin-in-law, and an asset to the whole family. But she was always, in my view-of late anyway, playing second fiddle to Patrick.

I’ve seen the hurt look on her face when people dismiss her.

They see her as a convenience, and they treat her as one.

The wife of Patrick, the mother of Ryan and Lara.

Not Christy, the vivacious girl I knew. The caring human who was so empathetic, she cried at other people’s stories of hurt and woe.

She’s no longer a person in her own right.

Well that’s not going to happen to me. I want to be a person. I’m going to demand it. They’re not sidelining or dismissing me.

Oh, but they tried. I’ve only been back two months, but as soon as my mammy leaked my news, the looks started. The patronising stares. The whispered, “It’s her hormones, pregnancy brain, over emotional.”

No, you fools. It's the business that my family have been involved with for hundreds of years going under. Making a loss for the first time in over seventy years.

I have to do something. It’s made my dad ill, and he’s controlling shareholder of the family firm. He holds the reins. He’s the decision maker. But I feel he’s being worn down.

Dad’s age is mellowing him, and Patrick has been on the rise for a few years, supported and encouraged by his own father. But my cousin is taking us under. Does no one see what I do? There will be nothing left if this continues.

I think perhaps my dad has seen it, and it’s that which is making him ill. Perhaps he understands how bad it is, but is powerless to change it. To fix things.

Dermot, my uncle and father of the two spawns from hell—Patrick and Conor—has made it so difficult. It’s been hard enough holding off Dermot at times, but when he backed Patrick, they created a force to be reckoned with.

With no one to keep him in check, Patrick continued to bully his way through, bringing in school and university friends as heads of departments, even if they were not qualified.

Our diversity and inclusion programme, something once a hallmark of the business, was in tatters, totally disregarded.

How can we make whiskey for the world to enjoy if everyone in a senior position is male, white, wealthy to a certain extent, and, oh yeah, stupid?

Only Conor, according to the meeting minutes, voiced any issues with the hiring policy. He was ignored, of course, as Patrick, always the loudest, bluffed and bulldozed his way forward. Always got his own way. I was away studying, too far away and preoccupied to get fully involved.

But that was then. This is now.

I arrived back just in time. My doctorate is complete, my outward views known. I should have maybe come back sooner, but Daddy never told me how bad he was. It wasn’t until I collared him on FaceTime that I saw the extent of the issue.

The Power of Attorney signed by Daddy for me to act totally in his stead was hot off the press.

He needed the time away. And I think I actually saw relief in his eyes the day I alighted from that plane.

Dad had even gone so far as to start the transfer of his share of the family owned business to me.

That’s when I knew he really wasn’t well. The completion of transfer of shares going through. Nothing could stop it. (Not that Patrick or Conor were aware of that.) To say I was about as welcome as a fart in a lift is the understatement of the year.

“You look beautiful,” Christy says in awe as she reaches to touch the silk of my green, full length (if not a bit tight) dress. “There was no way I could have worn a dress like that at five months pregnant.”

Her mother laughs out, “You were huge to start with Christy. Pregnancy improved things, gave you a reason.”

My mouth drops open at the insult, and I see the pain in Christy’s eyes before she shuts it down. If she’s not going to retaliate, I will on her behalf. Hit them where it hurts. I know all their weak spots.

In a bored voice, I declare, “Ignore them Christy. They're too old to remember being pregnant. Distant memories. What are you both now, seventy or something?”

I wink at Christy, who tries to smile. Her expression widens to a genuine grin when both our mothers start to wail about how they spend hours on their skin care regimen. How good they look, and how dare I.

Oh, I dare.

“Your uncle Marshall rang to say he’s coming over.

Everyone’s making a fuss. He’s bringing one of those Greystones with him.

” Christy exaggerates the man’s name for comic effect.

“The one who came last summer. Patrick said he’s the biggest pain in the arse.

” I know she’s trying to distract the two mothers from more insults—flowing her way, anyway—lest they start on about her non-existent skin care regime .

“Yes he was, they all are,” Mammy declares, Chrisy’s tactic clearly working.

“I’m not sure who they think they are. Last year, he caused so much trouble.

I mean, at the end of the day, they’re farmers.

He told me they lived on a farm.” She’s rolling her eyes like anyone who lives on a farm is stupid.

“I know they own a lot of land nearer the coast, but please. They have no money, so they started to sell off the land. Marshall tried to buy it, but someone bid higher.” She looks at Maggie knowingly. “Marshall has lots of money.”

Just when I think she might divert off into Uncle Marshall's financial affairs, she decides a rant about the Greystones is more entertaining. “But this English lot are related somehow. Probably the poorer relations.” Her voice is full of condescension.

My mammy is as ill-informed as ever, can’t even get her facts straight. Even being away in America, I knew that Uncle Marshall had a daughter. Evie, I think her name is. English, and somehow weirdly related to the Greystone family.

A large landowning family local to us here in Ireland, the Greystones even have a village some three miles away near the coast named after them.

They’d fallen on hard times over the last decade, but still very substantial.

The English branch hadn’t followed suit on going downhill.

According to Daddy, they were drowning in money.

“Marshall looked well, though, last summer. He hasn’t got married has he?” Maggie is a widow and looking to kickstart her life. The dating sites I know she frequents have as yet not yielded any fruit. Maybe she’s trying for what she considers an easy target. Low hanging fruit.

I try to hide my laugh with a cough, and Mammy gives me a dirty look.

“No, he's still free.” Mammy gives Maggie a knowing look. “Think he’s a confirmed bachelor. And to be honest, Maggie, I don’t think he’d move back.” Mammy's voice is kind and soft. It’s the first nice words she’s spoken to anyone in months.

Then, as if that was all too much for her, her quota of nice used up, she starts again. This time with the index finger in full action.

“That girl has him hooked around her little finger. Wherever she goes, he does. Did you hear about her with two men? I’m sure she’s just had a little girl. God knows whose it is. I bet she doesn’t even know.” Her eyes are sparking at the perceived crime. The gossip has her lighting up.

“Mammy, stop,” I snap at her before she can ramp up the full gossip.

“If Uncle Marshall hears you, that will be it. From what I hear, albeit from the gossip sites, they’re all together.

In love and loving life. I, for one, say good luck.

” I glare at her as she opens her mouth to speak, then cut her off.

“Have you seen those men? Marcus Russell and Xander Barclay. Rock stars, Mammy. Gorgeous rock stars.”

“Marcus Russell is mega gorgeous. I looked them up last time Marshall was here. I couldn’t stop looking at his abs. Have you seen them, Aoife?” I shake my head, grinning as Christy gets her phone out to show me a screen shot. I smirk as it’s at the top of her camera roll. She’s pinned it.

A torso cut from the gods comes onto her screen, and my blood runs cold. An image of a different very cut torso flitters into my mind. Hot, sweaty, the feel of muscles moving under my hands. Jesus Christ. Is any hot man going to push me into delirium? My hormones really must be kicking in.

“Wow,” I declare. “He’s absolutely gorgeous. She’s one lucky woman. I need to meet her and them. Maybe I’ll get Marshall to arrange a visit to see us.”

I’m licking my lips at the men in front of me as Christy shows me Xander Barclay.

Just as ripped, dark hair flopping onto his smirking face.

Blue eyes that make me drift off to a pleasure dome.

It seems if you're that gorgeous, knowing it and flaunting it goes hand in hand. Stomping all over women’s common sense and boundaries.

Christy has a dreamy look in her eyes. Patrick has competition.

But never fear, Mammy is here to keep us grounded.

“Well I think it’s disgusting. She ought to be ashamed of herself. The whole world looking at her. She ought to be embarrassed.” Mammy is trying to play the shame game, and she better stop it right now. My blood pressure is simmering like a bubbling kettle, and I can’t hold it in.

“Why? Why should she? What about the men? Should they not be as well, then? You’re just perpetuating the narrative of the patriarchy,” I spew at her.

She’s shocked at my venom, and I’m not even entirely sure she understood what I said. Unfortunately she’s not confused or quiet for long.

“For god’s sake Aoife, will you get off your soapbox. No one wants to listen to you preach about those sorts of things. We got a break from it when you were in America.” My mammy, the fighter of women’s rights across the world, strikes again.

“Well clearly I’m back just in time. If this baby is a girl, I am going to tell her, ‘Go get ‘em, baby girl. You are more brilliant than anyone.’” I pat at my stomach, sticking it out front and centre. Proud.

I point at Christy. “And I’m fighting for your Lara.”

She nods enthusiastically. I see Maggie and Mammy exchanging horrified looks at each other. They know there’s a dissenter in their ranks. An agent provocateur.

“Right, let's get this shit show on the road.”

Mammy makes a squeaking noise, closing her eyes as if she’s praying for divine intervention.

As I step forwards towards the door, Christy touches my hand. “I’m glad you're back, Aoife. Knock ‘em dead sister.”

I smile at the woman who sat next to me in class for years, pouring her warmth and positive outlook onto me daily in school. Squeezing her hand back, I tell her, “I intend to. Hop on board, Christy. Let’s go have some fun.”