Walking towards the tall man was her father. ‘Joe, come here, would ye,’ Michael said. ‘Come and meet my daughter, Mary Kate.’

Meanwhile, Peggy fussed about him, placing a plate of food in his free hand before she’d even served Father Jerry. It occurred to Mary Kate that Father Jerry didn’t look in the least put out that this man the villagers appeared to be enthralled by was taking precedence over himself.

Keeva had returned to her side. ‘Would you look at him,’ she said. ‘Rich as Croesus, he is, and yet he lives here. Would you imagine it? Turned this village and every woman in it on its head, he has. Even Father Jerry doesn’t complain and thinks he’s a saint. I’m sure it has nothing to do with the money he’s spent on the church or indeed on increasing Father Jerry’s stipend.’

Mary Kate stared at her and couldn’t quite believe what she was hearing. ‘What, he is giving Father Jerry money? For what?’ She looked back at Joe. She had seen the occasional man in Liverpool that looked like him, and certainly on the television. But no one had a television in Tarabeg.

‘He’s just gorgeous, isn’t he?’ Keeva sipped on her drink and giggled. ‘There’s no man for me other than my Tig, God love him, but even I can see why he turns heads. Is he turning yours, Mary Kate?’

Mary Kate opened and closed her mouth, but nothing came out. She wanted to tell Keeva, as close to her as any sister, about her Nicholas and her broken heart and that if he were to walk into the room right now, it wouldn’t be Joe they were all looking at and fawning over. She felt a sharp pain in her heart. Grief had returned with a vengeance, having been stilled for much of the day. Keeva was comparing Joe to the villagers, but Mary Kate had known better. She had known a man people adored for his kindness to others, his healing skills, his compassion, the way he spoke to the poorest of his poor patients with such respect that an eavesdropper would have thought they were royalty.

‘But where does he live?’ she asked.

Keeva’s head swivelled around as she laughed. ‘Where does he live? What do you mean – has no one told ye anything yet? Up on the farm, with Nola, Seamus and Pete.’

Mary Kate’s mouth fell open. ‘Is he the visitor?’

‘Oh, aye. The visitor who’s been here for as long as you’ve been away. He’s not a visitor any more, he isn’t. He came and never left and nor will he, by the looks of it, and I’m sure nobody minds that one little bit. Least of all Peggy. She’s been waiting for a rich American to turn up all her life. Mind you, she needs to buy herself a bottle of perfume or something because he doesn’t seem to have noticed her, lying there across his feet every time he steps into the village.’