“Sure,” she said and went to the kettle. She filled it at the sink, returned it to its base, and flicked it on.

“How are you settling in?” the electrician asked.

It occurred to Sara that she didn’t know his name, so she asked him.

“Tony,” he said, ducking his head as if embarrassed. “Tony Rossi.”

“Italian?” she asked, her surprise genuine.

“Aye,” he said. “Tony, as in Antonio, but no one calls me that except my mother when she’s annoyed at me.”

“Are there many Italians in Ireland? I’m Sara, by the way.”

“I know who you are,” he said, taking a seat at the island. “Aye, there’s a few of us. A lot came over in the eighteen hundreds, working on the churches and the big houses, stucco work, stained glass, that sort of thing. My grandparents on my father’s side came over after the Second World War, rebuilding after the Belfast Blitz. My people were all tradesmen. But, here, you don’t need the history of the Rossi clan.”

She set a mug of steaming tea in front of him, offered him milk and sugar. He took both. She noted the small scars on his hands as he spooned sugar into the tea, the definition of his forearms.

“I’m sorry,” she said, “I’d give you something to eat, but we don’t have much in.”

“Never worry, this’ll do me all right,” he said. He dipped his head, thumbing the lip of the mug. “I heard you earlier, asking Damien for the car. If you need anything in the village, I could give you a lift in. I’d have to finish my work first or Francie will kick my arse up and down the driveway, but this afternoon, I could run you in. If you want.”

For no reason she could grasp, Sara felt heat on her throat and face. Without thinking, she put a hand to her cheek, as if to cool it. She caught herself and dropped her hand to slap against the granite top of the island, almost knocking over the mug of tea she’d made for herself.

“Maybe,” she said.

A question had been lingering on her tongue since she’d found him in the kitchen. She summoned the nerve to ask it.

“Earlier, you said you just wanted to get out of this house. Why?”

His face darkened. He shook his head. “I don’t know. I was in bad form after Francie had a go at me, that’s all.”

Sara remembered her time as a social worker, sessions with youngsters, coaxing their most fiercely guarded secrets from them. They always left crumbs to follow, whether they intended to or not.

“That’s all?” she echoed.

He shifted his balance on the stool, kept his gaze on the mug in front of him. “I mean, it’s your house, so I can’t say anything against it.”