And Brigit’s house! Three walls were constructed from the local blue-grey stone but the rear was almost entirely glass. Befitting a busy family, the common areas were all airy, Scandi-style flow but the bedrooms, with their high wooden beds and simple quilts, were solid, cosy affairs. Whenever I visited, I slept like the dead.

The drive, though, was the issue.

‘It’s barely four hours,’ she said now.

But it felt a lot longer.

‘It’s the shite roads,’ she admitted.

‘They’re grand as far as Galway.’ That’s what we always said.

But after Galway they got narrower and rougher, until they became bumpy single-tracks, where if you had the misfortune to meet another vehicle, you had to reverse for about five miles, trying very hard to prevent your back wheels from swerving into the ditch.

(And—although I was mortified to admit to this—driving down there in the twilight scared me; I was afraid of meeting the pooka. Even though there was no such thing.)

‘Would you come for Queenie’s birthday? March the twenty-ninth? Come for the weekend with Quin.’

‘Hold on till I check…Sorry, Bridge! I’ll be in Barcelona. My anniversary with Quin.’

‘Ooooh. Barcelona for your anniversary! That sounds…serious.’

‘Hahaha, stop!’

‘But it does, Rachel.’

‘I love you, goodbye, talk soon!’

10

Friday morning, the day was dry, the sky blue. At the church, the giant parking lot was nearly full and Kate and I had to park right at the far end. It was almost ten o’clock by the time we got to the front entrance. The undertaker and a few other official-seeming people loitered on the forecourt, but there was no sign of any of the Costellos.

‘God, it’s freezing.’ I shivered in my black coat. But what else had I expected for early March?

‘It’s not, though.’ Kate looked concerned. ‘Rachel, are you okay?’

‘Yeah. I—Is it really not freezing?’

‘It’s really not.’

‘It must be just me then.’ I was trying for a laugh but it didn’t work.

‘Come on, let’s go in.’ She took my hand.

Suddenly, there came a shift, a murmur, among the waiting officials. Here they are.

Stuck to the spot, I watched the hearse draw up, followed by two other black cars. Everything lapsed into slow motion as a cluster of Costellos, all dressed in black, got out. There were Luke’s two brothers, their wives and kids, his sister, her husband, their children—there had been a time when I’d belonged in that family.

One of the nephews looked so like a young Luke that, briefly, time collapsed and I was twenty-seven all over again.

‘Rachel…’ Kate whispered—and I realized I was digging my nails into the palm of her hand.

‘Sorry!’ I let her go.