Kate laughed. “And doesn’t Natalie look lovely too?”

I jerked up as they all turned my way, Kate smiling a little too smugly. Mike turned his head, ever so slowly, and tilted it up and down as he took me in. I tried to fight the rising color in my cheeks. God, why didn’t he ever blush? He was the redhead.

“Yeah,” he said. “She does.”

I was almost positive both Anna and Lauren kicked their brother when he said that.

I kept stealing glances at him all through breakfast. I couldn’t seem to help myself. I was used to seeing him in jeans or in running gear, not in a formal suit. A red tie hung loosely around his neck, and I barely heard anything as he laughed, his eyes glinting, lips parting...

I placed my silverware down and practically leaped into the air. “Excuse me. I have to get my...something...from the car.”

Outside, I leaned against the warm stone of the inn, my breath rushing in and out. This was crazy. I couldn’t get involved with Mike when Kilkarten lay between us. Maybe once we were back in New York, or after his sisters decided definitively that there would never be an excavation, but when everything still hung in the air—it felt too much like emotional manipulation.

Lauren’s voice floated out, and I jerked upright and tried to look like I totally hadn’t been fantasizing about her brother. But she was nowhere. Instead, I noticed the closest window propped slightly open. Ever so stealthily, I sidled over until I stood next to it. A rose trellis got in my face and made the world smell all pink and orange and candy-like.

Lauren kept speaking. “She’s really pretty. I mean, she always looked pretty, but normal pretty. Today...”

I preened.

Kate ruined that. “You know who she reminds me of?” She paused, and I pictured her taking a long sip of coffee. “Tamara Bocharov.”

Oh, shit.

But what had I expected, putting on a dress and make-up?

I guess I hadn’t expected anything. I’d just wanted Mike to think I was pretty, due to my certifiable insanity.

Still, no one said anything. Kate sighed. “You’re all too young to remember her. That’s depressing.”

“I remember when Pluto was a planet,” Anna said.

Lauren snorted. “Barely.”

“So who was Tamara?” Mike said.

“Oh, a model back in the day. She—”

“Ahh,” Anna said. “That explains why you like Natalie. I was wondering why you were hooking up with a girl who actually has a brain.”

“I told you, we’re not a couple—”

“Whatever. You should just admit it. The keys to a happy family are open communication.”

“For Christ’s sake—”

“Mike,” Kate said.

He groaned. I snickered, then clapped my hand over my mouth and pinched my nose shut to stifle the sound.

He groaned. “Don’t we have a memorial to go to?”

Four hundred years ago, local O’Connors and O’Malleys and Murphys painstakingly built the local church by hand, making it older than America, as Eileen’s son and grandchildren cheerfully informed us as soon as the building came into view.

Inside, light spilled across the pale wooden support beams and pews, making the whole room brighter than I’d expected. Whitewashed walls surrounded a handful of stained glass windows. I would never say it, because that would be wrong, but it looked pretty damn quaint.

People packed the pews, dressed in black and curiosity. They watched as we walked down the red carpet and sat beside Maggie and Paul.

The Irish O’Connors didn’t look so thrilled at the Americans’ presence.

“Thank you for having us,” Kate said formally. “I’m sure it’s still very difficult for you.”

Maggie looked her up and down. “Well, you can’t get over someone in a month, can you?”

Kate stiffened. “Not someone you have a strong bond with, no.”

Maggie’s lips curved. “This is where we all grew up.” She gestured around the church. “Brian and Patrick and I used to skip sometimes and go smoke by the Celtic cross.”

“I know.”

Both women narrowed their eyes and looked away.

The parish priest—Father MacCarthy, whose nephew was one of the crew I’d hired—called for all our attention. I’d never heard of parishes outside of Austen novels—didn’t Edward get a parish? Or Edmund? The Mansfield Park boy, whoever he was. And the dad in North and South had one, with Richard Armitage.

By Elizabeth Gaskell, I meant. Because I definitely thought about 19th century literature based on authors, not actors.

Father MacCarthy started in on the dearly departed. I studied Kate and Maggie and the space between, maintained with stiff shoulders and pointed glares.

After the mass finished, everyone filed out and headed over to Maggie’s. Some of the locals stopped to pick up food and flowers from home on the way over, while others enveloped the O’Connors completely. People crowded the house on Blue Street to overflowing. Outside, tables had been set up, and I sat down at one, nursing a glass of lemonade.

To my surprise, Paul dropped down beside me. “Don’t want anything stronger?”

“Isn’t it too early?”

He gave a dry half smile. “It’s never too early to drink in Dundoran.”

I almost agreed with him. “What’s the story between Maggie and Kate? And the brothers, for that matter.”

He tilted his head. “You don’t know?”

I watched him carefully. Paul was interesting. If he shared stories with me, I wouldn’t attribute it to a love of gossip, but a desire to stir up trouble. “No.”

“Your boyfriend’s not very open.”

“He’s not really my boyfriend.”

He scanned me in an overtly insulting manner. “That so?”

I rolled my eyes. “Mike’s not even here to see that.”

His lips split in a sudden, genuine grin. “True.” He shrugged. “Patrick was orphaned young and had to take care of his younger brother. Too much responsibility, too little money. Then he married a woman who didn’t love him. The family farmhouse—there was a house out on Kilkarten, right?—was razed, and then he took a job as solicitor, which wasn’t bound to make him any friends, you know, and he was bitter and angry by the time he died.”

“That’s sad.”

Paul cocked his head. “Aren’t most people’s lives sad?”

Hadn’t I said the same to Mike not so long ago? I didn’t want to be as angry as Paul. “I hope not.”

We finished our drinks, and then I ducked inside for the bathroom. I passed Mike and Lauren on the way. The middle O’Connor scowled at the elder. “Anna’s eyeing the liquor cabinet with the help of her merry band of local rebels. Your turn to deal with it.”

Mike groaned. “Dammit. Where’s Mom?”

“Being interrogated by some great-uncle I’d never heard of, about Dad’s entire life. I don’t think she needs this too.”

I shot Mike a sympathetic glance and headed up the stairs.

Coming out of the bathroom, Maggie’s framed wedding picture at the end of the hall caught my attention.

They were remarkably young—well, I thought so, since they looked around my age. Maybe even younger. Did they look happy? Patrick looked—grimly triumphant. Maggie looked beautiful, if distant.

More photos, small and dark, covered the wall, and I followed them into the next room, an office with much larger prints. I remembered Anna’s request for pictures of her father, and looked for a second redheaded man. I recognized him instantly. He’d been younger than Mike when he immigrated, so he had to be younger still in these pictures. But they had the same cowlick, the same grin and jaw.

One picture, in pride of place above the mantel, featured Maggie between the boys. They were teenagers. Her long black hair swept over her shoulders as she laughed on the cab of a beat up Ford. Patrick had his arm around her shoulder. Brian curved his arm around her waist.

Oh...

“Can I help you?”

I spun around, almost slipping on the floor. Maggie O’Connor stood there, solemn and austere in her black dress. “I’m sorry. I just...” I had absolutely no excuse.