Page 47 of Inheriting an Irish Groom
Professor Patrick Wright – Modern American Literature, Columbia University
Should you require anything further, please don’t hesitate to contact the admissions office.
Sincerely,
Dr. Fiona L. Hanratty
Aisling stared at the final name. Her pulse fluttered. She knew. She knew.
Patrick Wright.
She remembered the way he’d looked at her in New York—curious, distant, yet oddly familiar. She hadn’t placed it then, but now it settled into her bones like it had always been there.
Four letters. Easy enough. She quickly scrawled identical notes to the other professors, polite inquiries wrapped in layers of hope and trepidation.
But when she reached Patrick’s envelope, her hand froze.
What could she even say?
Hello, I think you might be my father. You saw me meltdown at work. Surprise! Let’s unpack the last three decades of missed birthdays and generational trauma over tea.
Yeah. That’d go over well.
She stared at the blank page until her frustration cracked through her chest.
Marching inside, she stuck her head into the construction zone.
“Hey,” she shouted over drills. “Can I borrow a hammer?”
The youngest guy grinned like he’d been waiting for the invitation. “Only if we get to watch.”
“Suit yourselves,” she said, accepting the tool with both hands.
She walked straight to the wall they planned to demolish and swung with all her might. Plaster cracked, dust erupted, and someone let out a low whistle.
“That’s it,” she muttered, driving the hammer again. “Take that, secrets. And you—guilt. And you—Patrick freaking Wright. Who hides from their daughter?”
Smash. Crack. Crumble.
“Damn, that felt good,” she said.
“It’s very good for frustration,” the man said, grinning at her.
“No shit,” she said and swung again. She continued swinging until the wall between the family room and the kitchen was destroyed. Her muscles were aching, and she was out of breath.
The young worker grinned at her. “Bad day?”
“No, just needed to release some frustration,” she said, still contemplating what she would say to the man she was certain was her father.
Knowing she’d had enough, she handed the hammer back to the young man. “Thank you.”
Her sweatshirt clung to her back and her arms burned, but, damn—it felt amazing. People could rid themselves of a lot of tension by taking down walls. She should sell tickets.
Outside, she tried brushing plaster from her jeans. Her brain still buzzed when she spotted Ronan strolling up the path, his usual brooding replaced by a smirk.
“Did you lose a battle with a dust cloud?” he asked.
“Istartedthe battle,” she retorted, breathless but triumphant. “And I won.”
