Page 79 of Priestly Sins
“I don’t want to get pinched,” she all but screams.
“Well, I guess you need a big green hat or something, then, don’t you?”
She nods vigorously, content with my solution. As am I. She’s still neck to ankles in pink and easily on my radar.
Our waitress, Peggy, drops off our drinks, takes our orders and only leaves after giving Clara a four-leaf clover sticker “for good luck.” Clara is over the moon about it and me? I’ll take all we can get.
We chat about the day and the history of Patrick and what he means for Ireland. Killian teaches Clara Gaelic until our food comes. I better learn this too since she’s a sponge and will pick it up in a heartbeat. I’ll need to be able to keep up.
Peggy comes back with a corned beef sandwich for Killian, coddle for me, and fish and chips for Clara. Sirona goes with the Forfar bridie and her moan when she breaks open the puff pastry has me jealous and makes me stiffen in my jeans.
“Good?” I ask, trying to keep my voice even. Her eyes say that is a stupid question, but she reaches out a spoonful to me, and I quickly know why she is enjoying this so much.
“Damn! Think you can make that at home?”
“I’m working on figuring out the herbs, but I think the wine is the key. It’s doable.”
“Yeah, it is.” My double entendre is evident to her, but Clara misses it and just asks to taste my soup. I share some with her and she returns the gesture with a fry.
Killian’s quiet smile and happy demeanor say what his words never do—he’s happy and content.
We’ve given him family as he’s given us a home.
After payingour bill and saying goodbye to Peggy, we make our way out into the sunny Galway day to celebrate Ireland and its beauty. More Slaintes make it to my ears than I’ve ever heard in my life. Ireland has become a safe landing spot for us.
Irish life fits me. It fits us. It has taken Sirona longer to adjust than Clara or me. Clara still misses her friends and her teacher but was never so immersed that it was culture shock to her. Her Irish accent is getting better—she works on it daily—and Hagrid has been wonderful for her. She didn’t enroll in school since that comes later here, and Sirona finally gets to be a nonworking mom for the first time ever. We both agree that working would be easier than Clara or multiple Claras a day, but she’s getting back valuable time and I’m thrilled for them both.
I’ve always known moving was my out and that I was only in New Orleans for a time to handle business. The escape was as important as the mission.
Sirona, though, left home and changed everything: clothes, weather, people, food, music, climate, language…everything. She has smiled and made the best of it, choosing to look at it as an adventure instead of a punishment, but I’d bet she’d love to walk down the street, have a great po’ boy, and enjoy a daiquiri along the way.
Today affords her that. New Orleans has a great Irish tradition and St. Patrick’s Day is second only to Mardi Gras in the Big Easy. So this is a little taste of home, even if it requires a coat and listening closely to get past drunk Irish brogues.
We watch the parades. New Orleans knows parades. But Galway has this thing down and the bands and dancers are spot on.
We enjoy the festivities. We buy Clara her green hat. We drink the beer and, much later, eat street food as we wander. After the sun has set and the real party begins, Clara’s dead weight on my shoulder tells me she’s sound asleep, Sirona and I make our way to the car, leaving Killian to enjoy the baser things.
As we’re turning off the main drag onto our long driveway that takes us to the house, my phone vibrates and dings in my pocket. When it begins ringing, I silence it, but it immediately rings yet again.
“Sorry. Let me check this,” I say to Sirona and reach for my phone.
Sliding it open and putting it to my ear I offer a greeting.
“Sean? It’s Kay Scott with Merrick, O’Shea, and Croydon.”
“Okay,” I say warily. No one has ever contacted me from Bobby’s office. Not even with trivial matters. Bobby has always handled things directly.
“Mr. O’Shea—” her voice breaks. She pauses and tries again, “Mr. O’Shea committed…. He took his own life today. He left a note—”
I throw the car in park, the world around me going gray.
“What? No! Bobby wouldn’t do that.”
“He did, sir, and his note had a message he wanted relayed to you.”
“I’m sorry. Back up. Your name again, please?”
“Kay”