Alice looked at Shannon with some amusement. “I should apologize for my own daughter for embarrassing you in the kitchen. She’s always been one for speaking first and thinking last.”

“No, it’s all right. She was . . . misinformed.”

Alice pursed her lips at the term. “Well, if there’s no harm done. There’s my daughter Eileen, and her husband Jack. Will you come meet them?”

“Sure.”

She met them, and Murphy’s other sisters, his brother, his nieces and nephews and cousins. Her head reeled with names, and her heart staggered from the unquestioning welcome she received each time her hand was clasped.

She was given a full plate, a fresh beer, and a seat near the music, where Kate chattered in her ear.

Time simply drifted, unimportant against the music and the warmth. Children toddled or raced, or fell to dreaming in someone’s willing arms. She watched men and women flirt while they danced, and those too old to dance enjoy the ritual.

How would she paint it? Shannon wondered. In vivid and flashing colors, or in soft, misty pastels? Either would suit. There was excitement here, and energy, and there was quiet contentment and unbroken tradition.

You could hear it in the music, she thought. Murphy had been right about that. Every note, every lovely voice lifted in song, spoke of roots too deep to be broken.

It charmed her to hear old Mrs. Conroy sing a ballad of love unrequited in a reedy voice that nonetheless held true. She laughed along with others at the rollicking drinking song shouted out. In awe and amazement she saw Brianna and Kate execute a complex and lyrical step-toe that had more people crowding into the parlor.

She clapped her palms pink when the music stopped, then glanced over as Murphy passed off his fiddle.

“You’re enjoying yourself?” he asked her.

“I’m loving every minute.” She handed him her plate to share. “You haven’t had a chance to eat anything. So do it quick.” She grinned at him. “I don’t want you to stop playing.”

“There’s always someone to fill in.” But he picked up half her ham sandwich.

“What else can you play—besides the violin and concertina?”

“Oh, a little of this and that. I saw you met my family.”

“There are so many of them. And they all think the sun rises in Murphy’s eyes.” She chuckled when he winced.

“I think we should dance.”

She shook her head when he took her hand. “As I’ve explained to several lovely gentlemen, I’m very happy to watch. No, Murphy.” She laughed again when he pulled her to her feet. “I can’t do that stuff—jigs or reels or whatever.”

“Sure you can.” He was steadily drawing her out. “But they’re going to play a waltz, like I asked them. The first time we dance should be a waltz.”

It was his voice that had her hand going limp, the way it had softened over the words. “I’ve never waltzed in my life.”