“Now I know where Iseult gets her wit.”

She folded her arms and watched Minogue’s eyelids flutter. A tight and pleasant ache cradled itself in her stomach and rose up in her chest. At my age, she thought. Last week he had reached for her in bed, stifling her giggles. She remembered him keen and gentle, whispering to her, saying her name as he coiled about her. Not heavy at all but arching easily, waiting. She flushed and tightened the belt on her dressing gown.

“Raining again,” he said.

“Go up to bed, can’t you.”

“I will not,” he declared. He sat up and rubbed his eyes. “And what’s more, I have news for you. You can tell that boss of yours, that go-by-the-wall auctioneer, that after-shave gurrier, that you need a holiday. Are you listening to me?”

“A holiday,” she echoed. “In this? Where were you, in dreamland? It’s nearly winter, mister.”

“Santorini. I saw a picture of it in a window the other day. Blue and white and nothing else.”

Kathleen Minogue headed back to the kitchen. He followed her.

“I heard that all they do there is get twisted drunk and dance on the tables,” she said.

“What’s wrong with that?”

She made a face at him and scalded the teapot.

“God. Have a sup of tea with me and you’ll wake up and talk sense.”

“There are more tears shed over answered prayers,” he muttered.

“Smart remarks department is closed today,” she said. Minogue stared out the window.

“Have you forgotten we’re going down to Clare tomorrow?” Minogue groaned inside. He had forgotten. Maura Minogue, a sister-in-law whose cheerfulness and vivacity seemed invincible to Minogue- the more a miracle, he considered, because she had been married to his brother Mick for over thirty years-had been on the phone to Kathleen. Maura hadn’t asked for anything, but she had cried on the phone once.