Page 11 of Whiskey & Witches

The tears came, but she smiled anyway. From their first day of primary school, he’d been writing her these little notes, and she’d kept every single one.

Goddess, she loved him.

With his dark hair and laughing eyes, he could’ve had anyone, but for some reason, he wanted dull Roisin with her stubby braids and hand-me-down clothing. Too shy to speak to him, she’d smile her greeting and allow him to do all the talking. Oh, the stories he’d tell. His mind had been ripe with imagination, and he’d thrilled her with his tales of the fae. When they were grown, she encouraged him to write children’s stories. And when he signed a contract for a three-book deal, he’d swept her off her feet and said he couldn’t have done it without her. It was the same day he’d proposed marriage.

Roisin wiped away the moisture from her cheeks and gently folded the paper in two. No good could come of recalling the past with such frequency and longing. Dwelling would get her nowhere fast. With a wave of her hand, she sent the paper fluttering upward to the cardboard box, decorated to hold her memories. A flick of her finger lifted the lid for the air current to deposit the note inside. She snapped to put the box back to its original state then dusted her hands together.

That was that.

A sharp rap on her door caught her attention, and she frowned at the urgency behind the sound. With a grimace and curse for the visitor on the other side, she ambled her way over to answer.

“Who’s there?”

“I’ll give you one feckin’ guess, Roisin Byrne-O’Malley!”

She’d recognize that strident tone anywhere. Bridget O’Malley.Her sister-in-law.

“You’ll open the bleeding door, or I’ll kick it down, Roisin!”

After admitting her, Roisin winced when Bridget connected with her injured shoulder as she passed by.

“How did you know it was me, Bridg?”

“So it’s true then? You’ve been lying to everyone—me included—while pretending to beher?”

Meg and Roisin had always looked similar enough for her to pull off the ruse. The only difference was their hairstyle and the scowl Meg had preferred to grace everyone with. Their height, build, eye color, and facial features were nearly identical. The scarring helped. No one was comfortable looking at her face for long.

Refusing to answer Bridget’s fury-packed question, Roisin lifted her chin. They stared at each other, both unable or unwilling to cross the divide of their differences and Bridget’s anger.

“What are you doing here?” Roisin demanded.

“Carrick wanted me to stop by and bring you dinner. He said you had nothing worth eating in that temperamental refrigerator of yours.” She tossed back her gleaming auburn locks and nodded toward the antiquated appliance with a grimace.

Her husband’s sister was as prickly as she was beautiful, and Roisin deeply regretted the loss of their friendship. But she’d had a part to play and couldn’t risk anyone finding out she was alive. Bridget knew her almost as well as Carrick had, so the lie was necessary to keep her away. Everyone in their town knew Bridget had hated Meg with every cell in her petite body and wouldn’t seek her out if her life depended on it. Roisin had been banking on it when she convinced Carrick to tell everyone besides Aeden she was dead.

“You didn’t need to do this,” Roisin said, accepting the dish. Saliva pooled in her mouth as the drool-worthy smell hit her olfactory glands. People could say what they wanted about Bridget being a salty bitch, but the woman could cook.

“I know I didn’t, but I promised my no-good brother. When I refused to lift a finger to help ‘Meg’, he broke down and confessed to me, not an hour past, that you’re still alive and living in this hovel. Apparently, he’s worried about you, although why he gives a shite after what you pulled is beyond me.”

“WhatIpulled?” Roisin ground out. As quickly as her ire rose, it receded. Weariness settled in her heart, and she sighed her emotional exhaustion. “You want to do this now, Bridg?”

The other woman’s gaze, so like Carrick’s, shrewdly scanned her face before taking on a look of sympathy. “No. Not really. You’ll tell me soon enough. That’s your way.” Bridget wrapped her in a tight hug. “Fecking hell, I missed you.Ten months, Ro. Bollocks!” Winding down from her second rant, she asked, “Want company for your meal?”

Roisin bit her lip against the emotional tide rising up.

Once, they’d been besties. Now? Who knew? It seemed like Bridget was offering an olive branch, and Roisin wasn’t inclined to reject it. “Yeah,” she said gruffly. “I’d like that—if we can shelve the animosity for a few hours.”

“We canifyou have some of that blackberry mead I’m so fond of.”

“So it wasn’t me you were missing but my mead.”

“Well, sure, you were the only one who made it proper like.”

Roisin’s lips twitched. “I’ll get the wine; you get the glasses. Right over the sink there.”

They drank in companionable silence for a few minutes, but she knew it wouldn’t last. She was used to the quiet, however Bridget was not.

“Does it still hurt?” her sister-in-law asked.

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