“I have my head to think about, too.”

Brianna reached into a cupboard for cups and saucers. “That’s true. It’s all of you that has to decide what’s right. And it’s hard when one part of you tugs away from the other.”

“You do understand.” Grateful, Shannon laid a hand on her shoulder. “You really do.”

“Of course. For Murphy it’s easy. He has no questions about his thoughts or feelings or needs. They’re all you. For you it’s not so simple. So you have to take your happiness as it comes, and not question every step of it.”

“That’s what I’m trying to do. Not just with Murphy. I’m happy, Brianna,” she said softly, “with you.”

“It means more than I can say to hear you say that.” With the love easing gently through her, Brianna turned and smiled. “To know you could say it. It’s a fine morning.”

“It’s a great morning.” Shannon caught Brianna’s hands and squeezed. “The best morning. I’m going to go change.”

“Take your coffee with you.” Blinking at tears, Brianna poured a cup. “I’ll fix you breakfast before church.”

“No. I’ll take the coffee,” Shannon said and did so. “And I’ll go change. Then I’ll come back and help you fix breakfast.”

“But—”

“I’m not a guest here anymore.”

This time Brianna’s eyes filled before she could stop them. “No, you’re not. Well, be smart about it then,” she ordered and turned briskly to pour herself tea. “Those that are will be rising soon.”

Gray waited until Shannon had left the kitchen before he stepped in himself. He crossed over and gathered his quietly weeping wife into his arms.

“Go ahead, honey,” he murmured and patted her back. “Have a good one. The two of you nearly had me bawling myself.”

“Grayson.” Rocked against him she sobbed happily into his shoulder. “She’s my sister.”

“That’s right.” He kissed the top of her head. “She’s your sister.”

Chapter
Seventeen

Shannon hadn’t attended Sunday Mass often in New York. Her parents had been quietly devout Catholics, and she’d attended Catholic schools, gone through all the rites and rituals. She considered herself a Catholic, a modern, female Catholic who was dissatisfied with many of the doctrines and laws that came through the Vatican.

Sunday Mass was simply a habit she’d slipped out of once she’d established her life and pattern in New York.

But to the people in her small spot in County Clare, Sunday Mass wasn’t a habit. It was fundamental.

She had to admit, she enjoyed the small church, the smell of flickering votive candles and polished pews that brought back sensory memories from her youth. The statues of Mary and Joseph, the plaques that illustrated the Stations of the Cross, the embroidered altar cloth were all symbols that were found across the world.

The little village church boasted small stained-glass windows through which softly colored light streamed. The pews were scarred with age, the kneelers worn, and the old floor creaked at each genuflection.