Mr. Williams nodded, setting his chin wattle into motion. “Yes. Surely you’ve heard him? It’s only a few lines and he doesn’t say them very often. I think I heard him three times in all the years I’ve known him. And always when he’s had the extra whiskey. And always when something sad has up and happened.”

“No, sir, I’ve never heard him speak in Gaelic. Are you sure?”

“It’s quite beautiful, I’d say.” He sat back in his chair, wiped the sweat from his forehead with a stained, once-white handkerchief he pulled from his back pocket.

“Do you have any idea what he was saying here?” Colleen took the picture back, feeling her own sweat start to trickle down her back and legs.

“Don’t recall; sorry, my dear.” He leaned forward. “Have you heard any news from the historical society?”

“Not yet, although I don’t know why anyone would want to deny the Lark landmark status. I’ll let you know. And thanks so much for telling me all about this party. I love hearing about the experiences Dad had when I wasn’t here.”

“And”—the older man leaned forward, removing his glasses to show only kind eyes—“why haven’t you been here?”

“I’m here now.” Colleen took a long sip of tea and stood. “But you know I live in New York, Mr. Williams.”

“Well, well.” He stood also and shook her hand. “It’s so lovely to have you home. I know how terribly and deeply your dad misses you.”

Even as that sharp knife cut to Colleen’s solar plexus, she smiled and bid Mr. Williams good-bye. She tucked one more story into the palm of her heart—Dad speaking Gaelic when he was sad—and waved good-bye. She walked across the soft grass, the border between their houses unmarked as she stopped by the tree house to lift her hand and place it on the bottom rung, glancing up and wondering if Hallie had ever heard their dad speak in Gaelic. Surely not. If Colleen hadn’t heard it, then her siblings hadn’t either. He was a different man with different people and as her image of him began to shift, Colleen felt off balance. What else didn’t she know?

Nothing was simple, her dad had once told her. As the Irish say, what’s the use of being Irish if the world doesn’t break your heart?

Chapter Twenty-two

Starting here, what do you want to remember?

William Stafford, “You Reading This, Be Ready”

Colleen climbed into the passenger seat of Beckett’s old Audi. “This day went by so fast I barely went outside. Let’s find a place to eat with a patio.”

“Paperwork?” Beckett asked, looking down at her with his hand on the top of the passenger door.