“Darrell MacCarthy. Used to give your da lifts to school.” He glanced my way. “And this young lady is...?”

“Natalie Sullivan.” I extended my hand to grip his firmly.

“Ah, you also have family here?”

“Oh, no, I’m Irish in name only.” That didn’t sound as eloquent out loud as it had in my head, so I grimaced and then wished I had some capability to keep my emotions off my face, and that the older man didn’t think I was grimacing at him.

But Mr. MacCarthy had already returned his attention to Mike, whose smile looked a little fixed to me. He wasn’t asking, as I would have, for every last hopefully rapscallion recollection Mr. MacCarthy could whip up about his father. I remembered Mike saying I don’t talk about Kilkarten when we first met, and I wondered if he didn’t talk about his father, either.

Except that he just had, with me.

In any case, the silence kept stretching, so I hurried to fill it, because who liked silences? Silences were for black holes. “I do specialize in Irish history, though. I’m an archaeologist.”

At my overly bright tone, MacCarthy focused on me. “The one Patrick hired? I thought you’d be a bit older.”

Well. Patrick hadn’t hired me. The brightness corroded. “Well, I’m not.”

Beside me, Mike’s smile eased into a slightly more natural version, and he nodded to Mr. MacCarthy. “We should get going but—it was nice to meet you.”

Mr. MacCarthy wasn’t done, even though Mike had already turned away. “Where are you off to?”

I hesitated, unwilling to walk off on this old man. “Um...”

Mike’s hand reached back and wrapped around my mine, tugging me gently after him. “To pay a call,” he said over his shoulder as I stumbled to catch up, “on my dear Aunt Maggie.”

A pair of main streets cut through the village, lined with two story buildings painted pale yellows and blues and greens. Ivy climbed up the level walls and low peaked slate roofs. All the signs were written in Gaelic as well as English, a language of curlicues and accents.

Maggie O’Connor lived at the far side of the village, so we walked past O’Malley’s Restaurant, the village pub and a café with outside seating. Several patrons looked up with curiosity as we passed, and Mike’s hand tightened on mine.

And then we were before a lavender house nestled between two off-white ones. Window boxes filled with white flowers hung beneath long, thin panes of glass, and the door itself was painted blue. I sighed happily before knocking.

The door opened immediately.

Maggie O’Connor stood five-feet tall, with thick black hair gathered at the nape and streaked through with silver. I put her somewhere in her fifties, and she gave me the same puzzled look most women her age gave me, like some dusty corner of their mind recognized my face from when they’d been seventeen and poured over fashion magazines.

“Mrs. O’Connor.” I let loose my brightest smile. “I’m Natalie Sullivan. Thank you so much for seeing me today.”

Her expression cleared of confusion and settled into polite curiosity. “Ah, the archaeologist. Would you like a cup of tea?”

“Yes, thanks.” I entered, and then hesitated. Mike stood stiffly on the doorstep, arms crossed against his chest. “And, um, this is...”

Maggie turned back and paled. She ran her blue stare unblinkingly over Mike. Her lips moved for a moment before any sound made it out. “Brian’s son.”

I saw him do it. Just like flicking on a switch. One moment, his posture indicated discomfort, and the next warmth suffused his face. He aimed such a charming grin at Maggie that I almost smiled, too, and his voice dropped to low, confidential registers, like he was speaking to his best friend or his beloved grandmother. “My family and I just arrived—I think my mother sent a note. But I thought I’d come around with Natalie.”

She flicked her eyes up and down. “Ah, yes.” She turned sharply and vanished into the house.

The entry hall was low and dark, the striped green wallpaper hung with old portraits, but the sitting room had plenty of light from the street and a brass chandelier. Mike and I settled on an old, striped sofa. The single bookcase held mostly trinkets and only one shelf of books, but white cracks lined their spines and made me think well of Maggie O’Connor.

Maggie obviously did not feel the same way toward Mike, because when she returned after placing a kettle on, she said, “Eileen O’Rourke said your family arrived yesterday, yet they haven’t called.”

Mike’s smile didn’t waver. “It’s my teenage sister, Anna. Didn’t bring a thing she could wear, so she dragged the rest off shopping.”

Maggie’s gaze didn’t waver. “You’re twenty-six?” At Mike’s nod, she continued. “You have two sisters, is that right?”

“Lauren’s twenty-three. Anna’s seventeen.”

Maggie raised her brows. “An accident, the last one?”

Mike didn’t look thrilled under his smile. I jumped in, trying to smooth the tension. “I’m so sorry for your loss, Mrs. O’Connor. While I never met you husband, he was always very kind to me when we spoke on the phone.”

Maggie regarded us scornfully. “Patrick hasn’t been kind to anyone for the last ten years. And I certainly don’t expect Brian’s son to miss him.” Her lips tightened and she seemed to drift off into her thoughts for a moment, and then she shook herself and rose to fetch the tea.

I leaned in close to Mike so there’d be no chance of her overhearing from the kitchen. “I’m sorry, but did your father try to poison your uncle? What is going on?”

His head almost touched mine as he answered. “Did I mention my dad and uncle had been estranged for twenty years? And that Maggie and Patrick didn’t come to my dad’s funeral or anything?”

Gee, I was so glad I’d been dragged into a family feud. Because there weren’t enough feuds in my life. “Why, no. No, you did not.”

Maggie returned with a tray of mugs and, to my endless joy, shortbread. She placed everything on the coffee table. “And how did the two of you come together?”

Mike took a sip of the boiling tea. Despite the likely loss of taste buds, he didn’t flinch. He just set the mug down and smiled at his aunt. “Natalie tells me Patrick had signed on for an excavation at Kilkarten.”

“That’s right.” Maggie stirred her tea. “Your excavation’s stirred up a lot of excitement.”

I tossed a look at Mike, wondering if he’d told this estranged aunt the excavation was no longer happening. “Do the people here care a lot about it?”

Maggie looked amused. “It’s all anyone’s talked about for the last six months.”

That was unexpected. “But Patrick only signed the final paper work three months ago.”

“It took the village three months to convince him.”

“Um...” I looked again at Mike. I didn’t want to be the one who broke the news that all that work went out the window.

Mike frowned. “Why did the village want the dig?”

Maggie took a slow tip of tea. “A site would boost the local economy. There would be more tourists spending money at the shops and restaurants, more jobs—Ms. Sullivan said she would probably hire a good dozen people to help her excavate this summer.”

Mike turned his frown to me.

I shrugged. “It’s easier to hire and train locals than bring workers over, especially for Phase 1 excavations where not a lot of detailed digging happens.”

“Mrs. O’Connor.” Mike leaned forward, hands clasped between his knees. I wondered if it tasted strange, his mother’s name applied to a woman he’d never met before. “Why was Patrick was okay with the excavation? I wouldn’t have thought he’d want strangers all over his property.”

“Wouldn’t you?” Her sharp eyes peered over the brim of her cup. Beside me, Mike tensed. I couldn’t pick out the thickest tension between them—accusation, unease, challenge.

“Patrick was a big proponent of rediscovering Ireland’s early history,” I said quickly and a little too loudly, trying to dispel whatever strange sentiment the O’Connors had stirred up.