Page 116 of If Not for My Baby
“He’s the most perfect baby I’ve ever seen in my life.” It’s a little extreme as far as greetings go, but it’s also true, and I’m functioning on no sleep and no food so I cut myself some slack. It also seems to have been the right thing to say, because Mia’s eyes light up.
“You know”—she leans in—“I think so, too, but surely everyone thinks the same thing about their own newborns.”
“Nah,” Tom says. “He’s perfect. And godfathers are notoriously unbiased.”
The kitchen is alive with the bubbling of pots and the sharp sizzle of fish in a pan. Tom moves through the fraydeftly, as he does everything. His hands once again the instrument of his creativity, only this time he’s traded the guitar strings for a cast-iron skillet and a spatula. Condensation thickens the windows, where outside the afternoon light is fading sleepily behind the mountains. My mouth waters from a multifaceted hunger.
“Clementine,” Francis says brightly. He’s a stout man with typical Irish coloring: copper hair, ruddy cheeks. “We’ve heard a lot about you. What’s the craic?”
“The crack?”
I can hear the smile in Tom’s voice when he says into the oven, “It means how’re ya.”
“Oh. I’m good. Long flight.” Everything smells like salt and butter and heat. My stomach reminds me how vacant it is with a howl. “What’s he making?”
Mia peers over at Tom, who’s stirring something lemony with razor focus. “Haddock, by the looks of it. Some hen o’the woods and kalettes I think.”
I don’t know what any of those things are but I nod gratefully.
“Cod, mushrooms, and kale salad,” Tom says, sliding around me to grab a pair of tongs.
My fingers touch his wrist. “Can I help?”
His eyes gleam. “I’m grand.”
“Tom’s a bit controlling in the kitchen,” Mia says with nothing but love. She rocks Liam until he stops fussing. “We just leave him to it, mostly.”
I lean closer. “Is he any good?”
“I heard that,” Tom says into a steaming pot.
“I wish I could tell you he’s god-awful, but everything he makes is marvelous.”
“Too talented for his own good, that one,” Francis agrees, taking his beer to the dining table.
“You’re telling me,” I say without meaning to. “Have you seen him hop a fence?”
Francis looks like he wants to dig into that further, but Tom interrupts, grin tugging at his cheeks. “Enough, all of you. Seat yourselves, will ye?”
The minute dinner is served I become a one-woman eating contest, and I’ve got my eyes on that shiny first-place ribbon. I’m shoveling fish into my mouth faster than I can swallow. Mia and Francis ask me plenty of questions about Texas—neither of them have ever been to America—and I respond as politely as I can amid mouthfuls. Tom answers some for me while I chew, as if we’ve been doing this routine for years.
We talk about how far Tom’s estate is from the nearest grocery, and how happy Conry is to have his dad home. Turns out Mia’s seen quite a few of my favorite musicals in London in the West End. The firewood crackles as we rank our favorites and grin when our lists aren’t too dissimilar. Tom watches me the entire meal with a quiet intensity. Like he doesn’t quite know if I’m staying or going. Like he might need to keep his wits about him in case I try to make a run for it.
“What did you think of your first tour?” Mia asks, rocking Liam in the bassinet to her side as he gazes at his mobile.
“It was life-changing,” I say.
“Tommy came home and slept for two weeks. Were you exhausted, too?”
It’s a real battle to keep my eyes on Mia. Tom is directly to my right, so I can’t see his reaction. How much has he told them about us? Anything?
“I hardly left my own bed. I was miserable.”
Tom’s chair creaks when he shifts in his seat. Francis cocks his head in confusion. “You miss life on the road all that much?”
“I missed performing. There’s nothing like the energy from Tom’s crowds. And those songs…I never grew tired of them.”
“You’re kind,” Tom says faintly.
