Page 80 of Road Trip
“And your sister, what about her?”
“Also single.”
“Spinsters then,” Esme said approvingly. “Life is simpler that way. I had a husband once, a long time ago, and he was nothing but a bother.”
“You’re a widow?”
“In a manner of speaking,” Esme said.
“Don’t you ever get lonely?” Maeve asked.
“Never. I have Sinead. She’s all the company I need. You and your sister—how do you two get along?” the old woman asked.
“Therese and I? We’ve had our ups and downs over the years. We’re very different, but we love each other. This trip to Ireland, it was our mother’s idea. She thought it would bring us closer together. She was a widow, like you, but for years she saved back a little money from her paycheck because she wanted us to come to Ireland together and visit the place her people came from. After she died, our uncle gave us the money and told us about her plan.”
“When did she die?”
Maeve had to stop and think. So much had happened since Mary Helen’s funeral.
“Only two weeks ago. But she’d had dementia for the last year or so.”
“Sorry for your loss,” Esme said, sucking on her hard candy. “Don’t miss the turn now.”
Maeve followed her directions and saw in the rearview mirror that Therese was right behind.
She pulled the car as close to the front of the house as possible.
“Tell your sister to park the truck just there,” Esme said, pointing to a crumbling parking pad in front of the porte cochere.
As soon asthe truck rolled to a stop, Therese’s passenger tumbled out. Reggie steadied himself with one hand on the hood of the truck, straightened up, and without a backward glance at the women, made a beeline toward the rear of the cottage.
Therese helped Esme out of the rental car.
“Thank you,” Esme said, giving her a curt nod. “You two can go along now.”
“You’re welcome,” Maeve replied, and then the two sisters watched as she clumped, wet boots and all, into her cottage.
“That was interesting,” Therese commented as they drove away. “Did the old bat talk to you at all?”
“Some. She told me she’d been married once and that husbands are a bother. She called us spinsters.”
“Ouch. I thought spinsters had to be in their fifties or sixties?”
“It’s Ireland,” Maeve reminded her. “Esme also said her friend Reggie has been living in her shed for years, but she’s thinking of running him off, because of all the drinking.”
“The milk of human kindness just flows through her veins, doesn’t it?” Therese said. “Still, she did give us each a piece of candy. I think she’s warming up to us.”
“Keep dreaming,” Maeve said. “You still hungry?”
“Starved.”
CHAPTER 35
The Rosebud Tea Shoppe was no bigger than Mary Helen Dunagin’s kitchen back in Savannah. Six small café tables were arranged on well-scrubbed brown-and-white tile floors. The place was empty except for a young woman with spiky dyed-black hair who sat alone at a table, knitting something with sparkly green yarn.
The sisters ordered full tea, which consisted of tiny butter-and-jam sandwiches, slivers of fruitcake, shortbread cookies, and bowls of berries topped with clotted cream.
Maeve stirred sugar and milk into a delicate bone china cup painted with pink and yellow roses. She took a sip and sighed. “This feels so civilized, doesn’t it?”
