“Now that’s a fine and Irish way to look at things.”

“Destiny,” Jude said with a half laugh. “You know, sometimes I wake up at night, in the dark, in the quiet with Aidan sleeping beside me, and I think, here I am. Jude Frances Murray. Jude Frances Gallagher,” she corrected with a smile that brought out the dimples in her cheeks. “Living in Ireland by the sea, a married woman with a life growing inside me. A writer, with a book about to be published and another being written. And I barely recognize the woman I was in Chicago. I’m so glad she’s not me anymore.”

“She’s still part of you, or you wouldn’t appreciate who you are now, and what you have.”

Jude lifted her brows. “You’re absolutely right. Maybe you should have been the psychologist.”

“No, thanks all the same. I’d much sooner hammer at wood than at someone’s head.” Brenna set her teeth and whacked a nail. “With a few minor exceptions.”

Ah, Jude thought, just the opening she’d been hoping for. “And would my brother-in-law be at the top of that list of exceptions?”

At the question Brenna’s hand jerked, missing the mark and bashing her thumb with the hammer. “Bloody, buggering hell!”

“Oh, let me see. Is it bad?”

Brenna hissed air through her teeth as pain radiated and Jude fluttered around her. “No, it’s nothing. Clumsy, flaming idiot. My own fault.”

“You come down to the kitchen, put some ice on it.”

“It’s not much of a thing,” Brenna insisted, shaking her hand.

“Down.” Jude took her arm and pulled her toward the door. “It’s my fault. I distracted you. The least I can do is nurse it a little.”

“It’s just a bump.” But Brenna let herself be towed down the stairs and back to the kitchen.

“Sit down. I’ll get some ice.”

“Well, it won’t hurt to sit a minute.” She’d always been easy in the Gallagher kitchen. Little had changed in it since she’d been a girl, though Jude was adding her mark here and there.

The walls were cream-colored, and looked almost delicate against the dark wood that trimmed them. The windowsills were thick and wide, and Jude had set little pots of herbs along them to catch the sun. The old cabinet with its glass front and many drawers that ran along the side wall had always been white and comfortably shabby. Now Jude had painted it a pale, pale green so it looked fresh and pretty and somehow female.

The good dishes were displayed behind the glass— dishes the Gallaghers had used for holidays and special occasions. They were white with little violets edging the plates and cups.

The small hearth was of cobbled stone, and the carved fairy that Brenna had given Jude for her thirtieth birthday guarded the fire that simmered there.

It had always been a home, Brenna thought, and a fine, warm one. Now it was Jude’s.

“This room suits you,” Brenna said as Jude carefully wrapped an ice-filled cloth around Brenna’s injured thumb.