Page 11 of Accidental Irish Daddy

We park, and I turn to Bridget. “Okay, kiddo. I’ll be right back, all right?”

“Right,” she says, pulling out her notebook.

I give her a loving pat on the head and get out of the car.

Martha’s already walking up to me.

“Who’s your little friend?” she asks, pointing at the car.

“Oh, uh, that’s my little sister, Bridget. I didn’t have anyone to watch her. I hope that’s okay—”

“Well, she’s just not going to sit in there, is she? It’s devilishly warm today. I’ll not have her roasting in the car while we’re sitting pretty in the air conditioning.”

She walks past me and leans in the driver’s side window. “Hello there, Ms. Bridget. My name is Martha.” She puts her hand out.

Bridget shakes it. “Hello, ma’am.”

“I was wondering, do you happen to like Jaffa cakes?”

I can almost see Bridget’s face light up from here. She loves the damn things.

One time, we had a neighbor bring some over and my sister must have shoveled half of them within seconds.

Her head enthusiastically.

“Well, it just so happens that the gentleman that lives here likes them as well. And because he likes them so much, I sometimes bake them and bring them over. It’s just your luck I have a fresh batch inside, and I just know he’s not going to eat them all. You think it would be okay with your sister if you have some?”

“I’ll go ask.” She’s not even done talking when the door opens, and she nearly tumbles out of the car to get to me.

“Aisling! Can I—?”

“Go on.” I nod, smiling.

“Thank you!”

She bounds off to Martha’s side. The nice lady takes her by the hand and the three of us walk up to the house.

The front foyer is like nothing I’ve ever seen. Impossibly high ceilings and a chandelier with a million crystal shards hanging from it. They catch the sunlight and cast a beautiful reflection of the sun all over the room, bouncing off the iridescent wallpaper. There are framed paintings on the walls of people sitting in period clothing.

Relatives, perhaps? Or maybe just fine art.

Martha pats me on the hand. “He’ll be down in a moment. I’ll just take Bridget to the kitchen for the sweets.” She turns to Bridget. “Ready, mo cheann beag?”

My little one.

We’ve just met, but I wish we could’ve had a grandmother like Martha growing up. Lord knows we needed one.

Bridget nods happily, her smile is as wide as a canyon. It makes me smile as well.

Martha seems like a lovely person.

As they walk off, I stand and wait in the foyer, looking down at the beautiful marble floors that lead to a spiral staircase that looks to be made from the same material. This place is so beautiful and clean…

I walk over to a large vase sitting near the door. It looks ancient, yet, like everything else, it’s immaculate.

I touch the lip of the opening, running my finger over it. Not a spec of dirt on it.

“That vase is two hundred years old,” a deep voice says from behind me.

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