Page 125 of Forever Flames: Padraig & Stevie
Maureen takes the knife, carving with swift, precise strokes while ordering everyone to sit, which we do in short order. We fall into the rhythm only a family this big can pull off. Passing, piling, swapping, without a word. Dad drops a slice of ham on each of my kids’ plates, I follow with carrots, potatoes, and soda bread.
Rafferty sits in a high chair between Mara and Padraig, who spoons mashed potatoes and tiny bits of ham onto the tray. His small fingers prod, smear, then taste. His whole face lights up and Mara smiles proudly.
Talk swirls as we eat. Ziggy and Cillian joke around about a couple of women they met. Seamus, who’s studying to be a neurosurgeon, describes a twelve-hour surgical day as if it’s nothing. Liam floats at the edge of every exchange infusing a sharp dose of humor, his gaze catching mine from time to time.
Rafferty starts to fuss, emitting a small warning peep. Padraig lifts him from the highchair and in one smooth arc he settles his son into the cradle of his forearm, rocking without thought.
Mara watches in awe. “He has a knack.”
“You’re both doing a beautiful job, you know,” I assure her, and mean it without a single reservation in my bones.
Maureen jumps up and brings a small cupcake slathered in blue frosting over. “Padraig, let’s sing Happy Birthday to wee Rafferty before he poops out.” She sticks one fat candle in the center and waves her spoon. “Voices, let’s hear them.”
We sing. Loud. Off-key. Perfect. Rafferty stares at the flame with holy focus.
Padraig gestures to Isla. “Help him?”
She meets my eyes. I nod. She leans in, cheeks puffed and blows it out. Applause crashes. Blue frosting meets small fists.
It doesn’t take long before Raff’s eyes slide heavy and his head tips into the space under Padraig’s jaw, his frosting-coated hands flexing into little fists. It’s adorable and makes me miss the days when my own kids were so small.
With his birthday celebration complete, the men clear the plates and Mara glances at her watch. “I’ve got an early call tomorrow. Why don’t I take him to my place and get him settled so you can spend more time with your family.”
“You sure?” Padraig studies her for a beat, then nods when he’s satisfied she means it. “Alright. Let’s get him in the carrier.”
Together they ease him into car seat, Padraig guiding his feet through the openings while Mara steadies his head. Buckles click; straps tighten. Rafferty makes a soft noise, then settles.
Padraig grabs the diaper bag, slinging it over his shoulder as they move toward the door. He walks her out, his hand on the small of her back as they step into the cool night. Car doors open and close with the muffled finality of routines they know by heart.
I watch from the doorway, catching the way he bends to check the buckles one more time, then steps back so Mara can pull away. Headlights sweep the yard and vanish, leaving him in the quiet glow of the porch light. He shoves his hands into his pockets, then bounds up the steps, the door clicking shut behind him.
By the time he crosses the room, I’m seated on the couch between Isla and Lila, with Jude curled against my hip. My mom and dad anchor the other side, where he joins them.
I catch Isla eyeing him like she’s not sure if it’s okay to talk, so I give her a nudge. “Did you know Padraig’s an artist too?”
“No, he’s a rock star.” Lila’s head pops up.
Padraig grins. “Both can be true at the same time.”
“What kind of art do you do?” Isla’s curiosity wins over her shyness.
He leans forward on his knees. “Tell me about your project first.”
She tucks her hair behind her ear. “We’re doing paintings to look like they’re moving. Mine’s a soccer game. I’m trying to make it look like the ball’s going fast without actually drawing it with speed lines.”
“How?” Padraig encourages.
Isla blushes. “I’m putting all these blurry colors around it. Green for the field, white for the lines, a little bit of yellow so it looks sunny. Ms. G says it works better if I don’t make the edges perfect.”
His grin catches the light. “You’ll have to come in my house sometime. I’ve converted my garage into a studio. Maybe we could draw together.”
“Seriously?” Her eyes widen.
“Promise,” he says, tipping his head toward me. “Your mom can vouch, I’m a pretty fun guy.”
I nod. “He means it. And tell her about your gallery opening.”
“I was scared.” He gives a half shrug, half smile. “But I let a gallery display my paintings and sold every canvas.”
