Page 52 of Against Ebony Irish Seas

“I like it,” Greta said, tapping her hands on her knees. “It’s funny. What do you think, Mr. Fitzgerald?”

“So long as it makes your mother and the other women happy, that’s all that matters,” Jamie replied. “But I can’t imagine doing it myself.”

Carrick kicked his chair leg gently. “Oh, give it a go, Jamie, me boy.”

The brothers exchanged a pointed look as Declan hooted. Linc bit the inside of his cheek. “Wonder what Jon Bon Jovi would say if he saw this spectacle.”

“We should have taken a video and posted it on that TikTok thing.” Declan chortled. “They’d never live it down.”

“The songiscalled ‘It’s My Life,’ after all, and they’re just expressing it.” Jamie was all smiles again as he made his own version of robot hands, earning a laugh from Greta.

Linc was willing to do a lot to make kids laugh, but he was drawing the line on this one. His phone vibrated in his pocket, and because Donal had been in touch constantly, he pulled it out to check.

The text was from an unfamiliar number, but the first lines had Linc opening it straightaway.Nice article in The New York Times. Malcolm.

Linc’s mouth twisted. His cell phone number wasn’t listed, so someone must have given it to Malcolm. He held out his phone to Carrick and then Jamie before tucking it away.

“What do you think it means?” Jamie asked.

“I have a feeling we’re about to find out.”

CHAPTERTHIRTEEN

Sometimes her mother surprised her.

Sophie was shocked to find tears on her face as she finished the article inLe Monde’sThursday edition about her mother’s upcoming gallery showing in Paris. Taylor had texted her this morning with a simpleWTFand the link, saying she would have titled the piece, “Controversial Painter Has Heart After All.”

Intrigued, she’d opened the article on her tablet and almost dropped it in several fits and starts. Her mother had actually praised her work! True, it had started with the usual vague sound-bite praise:My daughter and her art have captivated the art world for good reason, and her new installation in Ireland at the Sorcha Fitzgerald Arts Center promises to be yet another expression of the senses and her unique creativity with glass.

Then the article’s writer had described a funny byplay between him and her mother. He’d asked:Has your daughter ever worked with nude compositions before in glass?

Her mother had reportedly smiled mysteriously before responding:She once gifted me a beautiful glass flower of the famous naked monkey orchid for my birthday. The workmanship was exquisite and the composition so alive—it was like the naked monkeys that give the flower its name were dancing in the glass. I keep it on my bedside table to remind myself of my daughter’s affection. It wasn’t easy for her to grow up with a mother who painted nudes, you know.

Then she’d proceeded to show it to the reporter, who had taken a photograph and included it in the article.

Sophie hadn’t known her mother had even kept the piece, let alone somewhere so accessible. Many of her mother’s things were scattered around her various houses, so to think she’d kept this gift so close, on her bedside table…

Picking up the phone, she rang her mother. God, she was trembling.

“Sophie! It’s good to finally talk to you. How are you and Greta faring?”

“We’re wonderful, Mother,” she replied a little formally, not wanting to go into too much detail—like the fact that they were staying at Jamie’s cottage still because of the problems. Or the bond she had with Jamie, which had led to the offer in the first place.

“That’s reassuring, darling,” her mother answered in the same formal tone.

They’d expected to return to the mobile home by now, but the electricity company still hadn’t shown up to reconnect their services. That was supposed to happen tomorrow, but she wasn’t in a rush. She looked around the quiet little cottage. Itdidsatisfy her to have this connection to Jamie. They’d seen each other every day, of course, at school, and he’d dropped by a couple of times to give them some time together. Then there was the spontaneous trip to Kade Donovan’s pony farm, where Greta had ended up having a pony ride with Ollie as a host of cute little Jack Russell terriers followed in their wake.

He’d stayed for dinner at her invitation afterward, and it hadn’t felt odd for him to be there, part of their weekday routine. If anything, it had felt odd when he’d left. Not that she was telling her mother any of that.

She glanced at her tablet. “I was just readingLe Monde’s article on your show.”

“It’s going to be a long evening tomorrow, but you know how it is,cherie.Endless questions about what was in your mind as you were creating. But the worst ones are the ones who actuallytellyou what was in your mind. Even after all these years, I can’t abide the conceit.”

Now this was the mother she knew. She was suddenly afraid to ask if there was more to the woman who had given birth to her and raised her. “Mom. Do you really have the naked monkey sculpture on your bedside table? Why haven’t I seen it before?”

“Because I tuck it away when you visit. That sculpture was for me and me alone. You may have had your reasons for doing it. Some of them might even have been a little droll. But it was the only piece of your art you ever gave me, and it truly is flawless, you know.”

Her throat thickened. “I never knew.”

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