sixty

Once again, Merrit surveyed the world from her bedroom window. Watching the weather had become part of her morning routine, similar to reading her horoscope when she was a kid. Today a hulking grey mass of cloud floated north, taking the rain with it. In its wake, sunshine streaked through lighter fluffy clouds and a rainbow grew out of the ground in an iridescent arc. A flock of starlings swirled like an airborne school of fish and settled on a telephone line while lambs bleated for their mamas in the neighbor’s field. Spring had truly arrived. She decided to consider this a sign of a good day to come.

This was Merrit’s second spring in Ireland, and even in her disenchanted state of mind, spring still came as a revelation after the gloomy winter. No wonder the ancients had celebrated with spring rituals. Beltane. Passover. The festival of Isis. Fertility cults the world over.

And, of course, Easter. This Sunday. Five days from now.

Merrit huffed hard enough that condensation formed on the window. Later the marquee company would arrive to set up the Cool Chill party space, or whatever it was called, and she had a task list the length of her arm. She tightened the belt on her robe, straightened her shoulders, and opened her bedroom door to the wondrous smell of a full Irish breakfast. She wandered toward the kitchen, telling herself she shouldn’t mind Zoe’s presence. Merrit was grateful for help in keeping Liam’s weight up. Now if only Zoe would do the same for Nathan.

The previous day, she’d left the hospital with an unsettled feeling high in her chest, but she hadn’t understood what worried her until six o’clock this morning when the dawn chorus of songbirds woke her up. During their conversation, Nathan had become animated when he turned the conversation toward Sid Gibson. For a moment there he’d closed his eyes and smiled with pleasure, savoring a thought, which would have been fine if his expression hadn’t looked like that of a—dare she think it?—madman. One madman recognizing the kindred spirit of another?

She shook off the thought and followed her nose toward the kitchen. “Zoe—” She stopped at the sight before her. “Liam?”

“In the flesh.” He set a basket of brown bread on the kitchen island alongside a platter of rashers and white pudding. “What do you say now, oh, ye of little faith?”

Merrit perched on a stool and sprinkled salt on the roasted tomato, fried egg, and fried mushrooms already loading her plate. “I’m glad you’re feeling better.”

Liam’s limp was still in play as he walked around the island and sat down next to her. He labored to pull air into his lungs, and she couldn’t tell whether his rosy cheeks were the result of cooking over a hot stove or something else. But he did seem to have more energy. This could be remission, even though she doubted the possibility of spontaneous remission. Or, this could be the calm before the cancer storm.

She spooned up mushrooms. “Zoe’s not a healer. There’s got to be another explanation.”

“Your loss. There’s all manner of oddities in this funny world of ours.”

“I wasn’t raised with superstition and lore as my normal. It’s not in me to accept these things the way the Irish seem to—at least as they do around here.”

Liam heaped rashers onto her plate and then onto his. He’d made enough food to supply a small army. “That doesn’t mean ‘these things’ aren’t there, fleeting and rare in this modern age but still lurking about the sidelines, waiting for a chance to appear.”

“Miracles.” Merrit heard her scoffing tone. “Sorry, I don’t mean to belittle it.”

“Oh yes, you do. You want a rational explanation.”

“That would be nice. How about a doctor’s appointment? We’ll hit up a new doctor for a new battery of tests.”

“I don’t need a bloody doctor to tell me I’m better.” He pointed his fork at her. “And let me remind you that you believe in my ability to bring people together, but isn’t matchmaking a lowly superstition, too?”

“That’s different,” Merrit said. “I’ve seen you in action. You’re intuitive. You comprehend people. That’s rational.”

“Oh yeah?” he said. “You saw Zoe heal Bijou’s paw.”

Merrit waved her fork in front of Liam’s fork. “That was crap and you know it. She cooked up some cockamamie incident to attract your attention. Believe me, she’s all about you for some reason. What does she want from you?”

Liam lowered his fork and leaned back with a smile. “Ah. How do you know she wants something from me?”

Now Merrit was confused. “Are you giving me the piss?”

“Taking the piss, and no, I’m not taking the piss. It’s a serious question. What makes you think Zoe wants something from me?”

Merrit bit into a sausage. “How the hell do I know? I just do. It’s obvious.”

“Really? It’s obvious?”

“I see what you’re doing, and I’m not buying that, either.”

“Why not?” Liam said. “Your insight just now is no different than the insight I use when I’m matchmaking. If you can’t say how or why you know what you know, then aren’t we talking about something beyond rationality?”

“You are taking the piss.” Merrit shoved her breakfast plate aside. “Goddammit, Liam, and you’re pissing me off, too.”

“Good. The question remains, if I can have this skill, why do you doubt that you have it, too?”

“We were talking about Zoe, not me,” Merrit said. “I’m not part of this conversation.”

“I’d say you are. I’d say your skepticism about Zoe is about you, not her. One thing you can say about Zoe, she doesn’t doubt herself.”

“Your expectations for my performance at the Easter Festival are too high,” she said.

Liam picked up his laden plate. “Performance? Is that what you think of me?”

With that he excused himself to eat in the living room. Merrit lowered her head into her hands, feeling like a right shit. First Mrs. O’Brien, then Liam. She’d offended him, and in the midst of their argument she’d forgotten the point, which was to persuade Liam to seek a second medical opinion. Everyone had gone nutty—Nathan, Liam, Zoe, even Danny, who had given her permission to meddle. If she were superstitious, she’d blame it on spring fever, but she wasn’t, so she wouldn’t.