Made With Love

Chapter 12

The Chavez Bros. are shaking my hands, both pumping away with mad Cheshire grins, creasing the arms of their suit jackets.

‘Fine work, Ms. Quinn.’

‘The best!’

‘Oh yes, yes.’

‘Can’t thank you enough!’

‘Sales are up thirty per cent.’

‘Thirty!’

Omar presses a glimmering golden card into my hand. ‘A token of our appreciation,’ he says.

‘A lifetime supply of coffee?!’ I swoon.

Omar fans at me with his stubby little hands.

‘Julie. Julie.’

My eyes flutter open and, staring down at me from the foot of the bed, is Clare.

‘Jesus, Clare!’

‘Did I startle you? Very sorry,’ she says.

She doesn’t sound sorry.

‘No,’ I grumble, hefting myself upright. Like, I always wake up to leering creepster aunts!

She shifts her weight from her right foot to her left and then back again. ‘I made scones. If you wanted any.’ There’s a small grunting noise behind her. Was that Dermot? Clare blinks and refocuses on a spot just shy of my head. ‘And I wanted to say sorry about the way I reacted. So. Sorry.’

Wow. Don’t put yourself out there.

‘Okay,’ I say flatly. I’ll accept your apology when you mean it.

There’s a clatter from the kitchen—plates being shifted, tea cups divvied out.

‘Scones are smashing, love,’ Dermot calls.

Clare makes a vaguely affirmative noise and then glances at the bedside clock. ‘You’ll want to be getting up if you plan on making Mass,’ she says.

Mass? I haven’t been to Mass in over ten years.

‘You do go to Mass, don’t you?’ she asks and folds her arms over her chest.

‘Oh, every week.’

She narrows her eyes at me. ‘You won’t mind, then. I put you down for one of the readings.’

Book of Revelations, is it?

‘Can’t wait.’ I force a smile, and Clare slips down the stairs to her bedroom.

I drag myself to the kitchen, head heavy, eyes sticky at the corners. Dermot was right—the scones are gorgeous.

‘See if you can’t wind her up again, and we might get a cake,’ he winks across the table.

Cormac smashes in from the sitting room and palms three scones. He’s replaced his usual canvas jacket with a poofy tracksuit top, collar way up.

‘Will you sit down and eat that properly?!’ Dermot nags at him.

‘Can’t. Meeting the ferry,’ he says and hoofs it to the front door.

‘You better be going to the eleven o’clock Mass!’ Clare yells from her bedroom.

‘Balls,’ Cormas huffs, one foot already out the door.

‘I heard that,’ Clare gripes as she bangs the bathroom door shut.

I help myself to tea and scooch beside Dermot.

‘Listen, I’m sorry about last night,’ I say, cupping my hands around the mug. ‘I was in shock. I can’t remember what I said exactly, but I didn’t mean...’