Unless he is so grieved over the loss of his first wife that he can’t imagine ever loving another. Unless he wants companionship and hot meals and a clean house but not romance. Not love.

Perhaps Martin Hocking wants—more than anything else—a Cinderella of a girl precisely like me, with no family, no background, and the simplest of desires. After all, what do I bring to this arrangement except my willingness? My emptiness? My gorta mór—my great hunger for everything Martin already has and which for me has been so elusive—a secure home, a child to love, food and clothes and a bed that doesn’t smell of poverty.

If this is true, I am practically perfect for him.

And then he turns his head in my direction. Our eyes meet. Martin’s closed mouth curves into a relieved, welcoming smile, and it’s almost as if he’d indeed read my thoughts.

Yes, that half smile seems to say. You are exactly what I wanted.

I step forward.

3

Martin Hocking is alone.

I hadn’t realized how much I wanted his daughter to be waiting there with him until it is clear she isn’t. Perhaps Martin had asked Kat if she wanted to accompany him and she’d said no. Or maybe he’d asked and she’d said nothing. Martin had written me that his daughter had withdrawn into near silence following the death of her mother, speaking only an occasional word here and there. Maybe he’d invited her to come along and gotten no response at all.

“Welcome to San Francisco, Sophie,” Martin says as soon as he is close to me. His voice is a little deeper than I’d imagined, a little softer. He doesn’t seem nervous, not even a little. And he called me Sophie, not Miss Whelan. My first name fell off his lips as though we’ve known each other for years. He takes my hand and clasps it like we are old school chums.

“Thank you,” I say, and then, in an attempt to match his relaxed tone, I add, “Martin.”

He lets go of my hand. “I’m glad you’re here,” he says, without visible emotion, and yet he doesn’t sound insincere. He sounds satisfied, relieved perhaps that I didn’t change my mind.

“Yes, I’m happy to be here as well.”

He reaches for my travel bag. “Do you have a trunk that needs to be sent along to the house?”

I own nothing else and my cheeks warm a degree. “I don’t.”

But Martin doesn’t seem concerned or amazed that the entirety of my worldly possessions fits into a single travel bag and the handbag I am clutching. “We’ve only a few minutes before the courthouse closes, and they are expecting us.” He speaks the words as though we might merely miss the opening lines of a play if we don’t hurry. We leave the dock and enter the expansive and busy ferry building. We walk through quickly to the street entrance on the other side.

Delicate wisps of fog are just starting to swirl down upon the city, gauzy as gray silk and so very much like the approach of evening on the northern coast of Ireland. The street bustles with end-of-workday activity. A few automobiles sputter and cough as dozens of horse-drawn carriages and delivery wagons skirt them without much notice or fear. A streetcar full of riders rattles past.