Page 13 of Beside Golden Irish Fields
“Ah… The glass melts in the kiln and makes compelling patterns.”
“I loved those pieces you did!” Angie exclaimed. “Whatever happened to them?”
“They weren’t food safe or practical, and we didn’t have the room,” Megan said, “so Tyson had me give them to Goodwill when we moved into our place.”
Angie had to bite her lip. He’d made her give herartto Goodwill!
“I didn’t know about that technique, Megan,” Bets said, making an interested sound in her throat.
“Sounds like you should start dabbling in pottery again, Megan,” Siobhan said with a wink. “Nothing better to my mind. I’m a certified dabbler, and Bets is the doer. Then again, she’s got the bucks to back up her plans.”
“Did I hear you talking about your dabbling all the way in the entry?” a giant gangly man said, coming into the parlor unannounced.
Angie studied him. He had to be six foot seven at least. Tall as a bean pole.
“I had a feeling you were going to show,” Bets said.
The man came over and kissed his wife’s cheek. “I needed to greet Bets’ American relation. Now it seems I must beg them for help. Please, girls, don’t be encouraging Siobhan to pick up any more hobbies. I can probably withstand an interest in painting, but that’s it.”
“Like you have any say, Gavin,” Siobhan told him with a swat. “You won’t be eating in my house if you keep this up.”
“I can eat in me own pub, can’t I?” Gavin shook his silver head. “Bets’ relation are going to think I’m a proper beast with all your clucking. Let me explain. Girls, this woman—the love of my very own life—can’t pass up an opportunity to keep herself occupied. She dabbles ineverything! The low points were the snail rescuing—”
“Okay, that wasn’t my finest moment,” Siobhan agreed.
“And what about the mushroom picking?” he continued.
“I told you not to eat those black ones until I’d heard back from my mushroom hookup on whether they were edible,” Siobhan said, crossing her arms.
Angie found she was smiling again. Oh, how she liked these people.
“And, girls, don’t be asking me about her obsession with making macrame owls and hanging those beasties with giant beady eyes all around the house,” the man continued, slapping his forehead. “What a phase! When I got up to take a piss one night, I thought an owl had gotten inside when I wasn’t looking, and I ran straight into the door to escape—”
“Knocked himself right out,” Siobhan finished with a laugh their group shared.
Angie joined in, aware her laughter muscles were out of practice.
“Look at us telling these tales and without me properly introduced,” the man said.
“You were the one who interrupted,” Bets said with an eye roll.
“I was only adding my two cents. I’m Gavin McGrath, owner of the Brazen Donkey—the best pub in Caisleán—herself’s husband—”
“’Bout time you got to me,” Siobhan said with a huff.
He shot them all a playful wink. “Blessed with thirty-five years of wedded bliss.”
“It’s forty years, ye eejit!” Siobhan said.
Angie laughed again, and she was delighted to hear Ollie join in. Yes, these people were going to be good for them.
“Saints preserve us!” Her husband threw his head back and laughed. “So I forgot a few years. When you’re married this long, girls, it’s easy to forget a few. Don’t you agree?”
Angie remembered every single year she’d wasted on her ex-husband: five stinking whoppers. “I wish I could forget, but then again, I’m divorced.” And thirty-five. Sometimes she thought she’d wasted her best years.
He uttered another boisterous laugh. She imagined he was a great pub owner—quick to laugh and encourage others to join him.
“So neither one of you are married currently,” he said, his gaze curious. “I seem to recall Bets mentioning that.”
