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“You look so pretty, Mary!” Fiona exclaimed, kissing her friend on the cheek. “Have you dressed up just for us?”
“No, I—” Mary started to say, but Nick cut her off.
“You did make roast chicken!” he exclaimed, kissing Mary’s other cheek. “I can smell it from here! Tell us you’ve made a Victoria sponge, too, and all my wishes will have come true.”
“Well, I made a trifle,” Mary replied, in her soft Scottish burr. “With the leftovers from yesterday’s sponge.”
“Close enough!” Nick said, then he bounded down the hallway, champagne bottle in hand.
Fiona shook her head in disbelief. “ Close enough ?” she called after him. “I think you what you meant to say was thank you!”
But Nick didn’t hear her; he was already in the kitchen.
Fiona and Nick had just arrived at her Uncle Michael’s flat, in the west side neighborhood known as Hell’s Kitchen. The Finnegans and the Munros gathered to have supper there every Saturday .
“Is that a new dress?” Fiona asked Mary, as they walked toward the kitchen together. “I haven’t seen it before.”
“It is new, yes,” Mary said, smiling at Fiona’s compliment. “I’m glad you like it.”
The dress was a deep pink and it set off Mary’s warm brown eyes and her chestnut hair.
Fiona wondered if she had worn it for Michael.
She hoped her uncle noticed the dress and complimented her on it.
Mary and Michael had started spending more time together over the last few months, and Fiona was certain that a quiet, but deep, affection was blossoming between them.
As they entered the kitchen, Fiona draped her shawl over the back of a chair.
She greeted Alec, Mary’s father-in-law, whose gray head was just visible behind an evening newspaper; Nell, sitting in her chair, a thick book under her as a booster, going on three now and the spitting image of Michael with her blue eyes and black hair; and Ian, Mary’s son, almost a man at sixteen, and handsome with his mother’s coloring.
Seamus, Fiona’s seven-year-old brother, was standing on a stepstool at the counter mashing potatoes, his sleeves rolled up, one of Mary’s aprons tied around him.
Alec had picked him up after school, as he often did when Fiona and Nick could not break free from work.
Fiona crossed the kitchen and kissed the top of Seamie’s head.
“ Feeeeee ,” he whined, ducking her.
“Don’t bother the man,” Nick scolded, tucking his champagne into the icebox. “Can’t you see he has a job to do? ”
Fiona frowned ruefully. This was a recent development.
Over the past few weeks, Seamie had turned into a boy who no longer wanted anything to do with kisses and cuddles.
He preferred to be out digging in the garden with Alec, hammering shelves together with Michael, or hanging paintings with Nick.
He was growing up, she supposed, and she was grateful he had such good, kind-hearted men in his life to show him the way—but still, she couldn’t pretend it didn’t hurt.
She ruffled his hair, her way of telling him that he wasn’t so grown up… not yet.
“Seamie, put a bit more butter in those potatoes. Fiona, put these on the table, would you?” Mary asked, handing her a basket of warm rolls.
It was close and crowded in the kitchen, and Fiona had to edge around Seamie, Nick, and Ian to get to the table, but nobody minded. They were happy to be eating together in the cheerful, cozy kitchen, even on a warm evening.
As she put the rolls down, Fiona noticed there were only seven place settings, not eight. She glanced around and saw that her uncle was missing. “Where’s Michael?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” Mary replied. “But it’s not like him to miss roast chicken.”
As if on cue, they all heard the flat door open and close, and a moment later Michael joined them.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said, giving Nell a kiss. “Door on the blasted meat cooler got stuck again. Took me longer than I thought it would to fix it.”
“We’ll need one more place setting,” Fiona said. “I’ll fetch it. ”
“There’s no need, Fiona. I won’t be eating with you this evening,” Mary said, setting a platter of cut-up chicken on the table.
Fiona turned to her, puzzled. Mary always ate with them. “Why not?”
“I’m attending a concert at the Union League Club.”
Alec lowered his newspaper. “A concert? At a club?” he echoed, in a tone that suggested Mary might as well have said she was heading over to the Bowery to catch a burlesque show.
Michael, washing his hands in the sink, turned to look at her, his forehead creased with concern. “You’re going out at night all by yourself?”
Mary met his gaze. “No, I’m going with a friend.”
“Well, that sounds like fun,” Nick said.
“Who is she?” Michael asked, drying his hands on a dish towel.
Mary hesitated, then she leveled her chin and said, “He.”
The room fell into a shocked silence. Even Nell, happily sticking her finger in the butter, went quiet.
Fiona, Alec, and Michael all found their voices at the same time. “ He ?” they said in unison.
“You never told us about a he,” said Nick.
“I didn’t realize I was required to,” Mary replied tartly.
“Who is this man? What does he do?” asked Alec.
“He’s in combinations,” Mary said.
Michael snorted laughter. Mary glared at him.
“What’s combinations?” Seamie asked.
“Drawers,” Michael said.
“Fine undergarments, not drawers ,” Mary countered, an edge creeping into her voice. “He has a factory. Down on Broome Street.”
“Oh, does he now?” An edge had crept into Michael’s voice, too.
“What’s his name?” Alec asked.
“Milton Duffery.”
“How old is he?”
“What does he look like?”
“Where does he live?”
Mary, bristling under the barrage of questions, said, “Nell needs a bath tonight. Alec, Ian, don’t wait up for me.”
Everyone’s eyes followed Mary as she walked out of the kitchen.
Nell listened, an anxious expression on her face, as Mary’s footsteps receded down the hallway.
“Where’s Auntie Mary going?” she asked plaintively, looking at her father, then at Fiona, then at everyone else, waiting for an explanation as to why the woman she loved most in the whole world had just left.
When she didn’t get one, she burst into tears.
“Hush, Nell,” Fiona said, picking the wailing child up out of her chair. This was Michael’s fault. It had to be. She turned to her uncle, her eyes narrowed. “What did you do?”
“ Me ?” Michael said, affronted. “I didn’t do anything!”
“Too right,” Alec said, a bite to his tone. He folded his newspaper and laid it on the table, then crossed his arms over his chest. “How long must a woman wait?”
“I was only two minutes late!” Michael exclaimed. “And I said I was sorry! What was I supposed to do? Let a hundred pounds of meat go off?”
“I’m not talking about the bloody meat case,” said Alec .
“Then what are you talking about?” Michael asked, perplexed.
“Mary looks after Nell as if the bairn were her own. She cleans. Cooks. She spends most every evening with you.”
“I pay her for what she does. Is it not enough? I can pay her more.”
“Lord God, but you’re thick, lad. It’s not money she wants. It’s you. ”
Michael sat down heavily, looking as if he’d been knocked sideways. “She…she told you this?”
Alec shook his head. “She didn’t. She wouldn’t. She’s too proud. But she doesn’t need to. Anyone with eyes can see how she feels. Well, almost anyone.”
Michael put the heels of his hands against the edge of the table, as if he wanted to push it away, and everything else with it—the delicious meal, the people sitting around it, their expectations.
“I-I’m sorry if I gave her the wrong impression, but I’m not…I’m a widower. I’m in mourning. I can’t…” he stammered.
“Can’t what? Get your head out of your arse? It’s been nearly three years. Your mourning’s over.”
“That’s not for you to say,” Michael retorted.
“You lost one woman,” said Alec. “If you’re not careful, you’ll lose two.” Then he rose from his chair, picked up his plate, and shoveled food onto it.
“Where are you going?” Fiona asked, talking loudly to make herself heard above Nell’s howling.
“A man can’t eat with all this caterwauling. I’ll have my supper in my room tonight. ”
A moment later, he was walking out of the flat, slamming the door behind him. Ian quickly heaped food onto his own place and trailed after him, not wanting his grandfather to eat alone.
Michael was right behind him.
“Where are you going?” Fiona demanded, upset by the exodus.
“For a walk!” he angrily replied.
“But your dinner will get cold!”
“I’ve lost me appetite!”
A moment later, the door slammed. Fiona bit back a few choice words, not wanting to upset Nell again, whose howls had dulled down to hiccupping sniffles.
Fiona put the little girl back in her chair, scooped some mashed potatoes onto a plate, and set it before her.
Nell promptly threw it on the floor. Fiona stared at the mess but made no move to clean it up.
An unhappy silence had settled over the four people left in the kitchen.
Nick was the first to break it. “ Milton Duffery …” he mused. “Sounds like a pudding.” He picked up his napkin ring and made a monocle of it. “Why, Lady Creakybones, you simply must try the Milton Duffery!”
Seamie and Nell giggled. Fiona did not. “It’s not funny,” she said glumly. “Alec is right; my foolish uncle is going to lose Mary. What are we going to do about it?”
“We shall deal with the Duffery as we would any pudding!” Nick declared. “We shall drown him in custard sauce!”
“ Nicholas. ”
Nick let the napkin ring fall into his hand. He tried to look contrite .
“What if this turns into something?” Fiona fretted. “What if Milton Duffery actually courts Mary? What if he becomes her suitor?”
“Aren’t you getting a bit ahead of yourself?”
“Is Mary getting a new suit?” Seamie asked. “I thought she was getting new underwear.”
“No, Seamie,” Fiona said, putting a drumstick on her brother’s plate. “Milton Pudding…I mean Duffery …has nothing to do with suits. Eat your supper.”
“But you said Milton Duffery is a suiter, Fee.”
“How could Michael have let this happen?” Fiona asked, as she scooped mashed potato onto Seamie’s plate. “He cares for her. I know he does. It couldn’t be more obvious. So why isn’t he courting her?”
Nick was quiet for a long moment, then he said, “He can’t. He’s still married.”
Fiona stopped scooping. “What do you mean?”
“He’s still married to Molly. He still wears his wedding ring.
He still has her photograph in the sitting room.
Look around, Fiona…” He gestured to the framed pictures of flowers on the walls, the lace curtains, the pretty vase and teapot and well-worn cookbook standing neatly on a shelf. “He won’t let her go.”
Fiona followed his gaze, nodding. “You’re right. But it’s not good. It’s not healthy. He has to move on.”
“But that’s just it—he doesn’t have to. Mary is like a wife to him…” He glanced at Seamie, who was gnawing on his drumstick. “…in many ways. Except for one. And he’s not ready for that. Not ready to let a woman into his heart again. Not ready to love again.”
“But Mary is. ”
“Apparently. And it seems he’s taken her for granted.”
Fiona looked at the heaping platter of perfectly roasted chicken, the bowl of fluffy mashed potatoes, the basket of pillowy rolls, then raised her eyes to Nick’s and said, “Perhaps we all have.”