“One warms the soul, two warms the brain. Da always said that.”

“So he had his practical side as well.”

“A narrow one. You have his eyes.” She watched Shannon lower them and struggled against her own sense of loss and impatience. “I’m sorry you mind hearing it.”

And so, Shannon discovered, was she. “Both my mother and father had blue eyes. I remember asking her once where she thought I’d gotten my green ones. She looked so sad, for just an instant, then she smiled and said an angel gave them to me.”

“He’d have liked that. And he’d have been glad and grateful that she found a man like your father must have been, to love both of you.” She looked over as the tea was brought in. “There’s two cups,” she said when Shannon rose to go. “If you’d like to have one with me.”

“All right.”

“Would it bother you to tell me how they met—your parents?”

“No.” Shannon took her seat again and discovered it far from bothered her to tell the story. It warmed her. When Maggie burst into laughter at the idea of Colin knocking Amanda into the mud, Shannon joined her.

“I’d like to have met them,” Maggie said at length.

“I think they would have liked meeting you.” A little embarrassed by the sentiment, Shannon rose. “Listen, if you’d like to just kick back and rest, I can take a cab to the photographer.”

“I’m fine now. I’d like to go with you—and see Jack torture you the way he did me when Rogan put me through this last.”

“Thanks.”

“My pleasure. And . . .” She set the tray aside and rose. “I think I’d enjoy spending some time with you.”

“I think I’d enjoy that, too.” Shannon smiled. “I’ll wait for you downstairs.”

She loved Dublin. She loved the waterways, the bridges, the buildings, the crowds. And oh, she loved the shops. Though she was impatient to do more, see more, Shannon held herself back and indulged Maggie in an enormous midday meal.

Unlike her volatile sister, Shannon hadn’t found the photography shoot anything but a pleasant, interesting experience. When she’d pointed that out, Maggie had simply shuddered.

When they left the restaurant, Shannon calculated that they’d broken a record of being in each other’s company without harsh words or snide remarks.

She was soon to discover that she shared at least one trait with Maggie. The woman was a champion shopper—zipping from store to store, measuring, considering, and buying without all the wavering and wobbling that annoyed Shannon in many of her friends.

“No.” Maggie shook her head as Shannon held up a biscuit-colored sweater. “You need color, not neutrals.”

“I like it.” Pouting a little, Shannon turned toward a mirror, spreading the sweater up to her neck. “The material’s gorgeous.”

“It is, and the color makes you look like a week-old corpse.”

“Damn it.” With a half laugh Shannon folded the sweater again. “It does.”

“You want this one.” Maggie handed her one in mossy green. She stepped behind Shannon, narrowing her eyes at their reflections. “Definitely.”