“It’s wise to be friends when you’re courting,” Kate agreed. “Do you think sometime you could draw my children? Maggie won’t.”

“I’m a glass artist,” Maggie reminded her and kept filling her plate. “And you’ll have to go through Rogan. He’s managing her.”

“I haven’t signed the contract yet,” Shannon said quickly. “I haven’t even—”

“Maybe you can do it before you sign up with him,” Kate interrupted. “I can gather them up and bring them to you whenever you say.”

“Stop badgering the woman,” Alice said mildly. “And what did you come bursting in here to tell me?”

“Tell you?” Kate looked blank for a moment, then her eyes cleared. “Oh, you won’t guess who just walked in the door. Maeve Concannon,” she said before anyone could try. “Big as life.”

“Why, Maeve’s not been to a ceili in twenty years!” Diedre said. “More, I think.”

“Well, she’s come, and Lottie with her.”

Brianna and Maggie stared at each other, speechless. then moved quickly, like a unit.

“We’d best go see if she wants a plate,” Brianna explained.

“We’d best go see that she doesn’t storm down the house,” Maggie corrected. “Why don’t you come, Shannon? You had a way with her last time.”

“Well, really, I don’t think—”

But Maggie grabbed her arm and dragged her out of the kitchen and down the hall. “Music’s still playing,” she said under her breath. “She hasn’t put the stops to that.”

“Look, this is none of my business,” Shannon protested. “She’s your mother.”

“I’ll remind you of your own words, about connections.”

“Shit, Maggie.” But Shannon had no choice but to grit her teeth and be propelled into the parlor.

“Sweet Jesus,” was all Brianna could say.

Maeve was sitting, Liam in her lap, tapping her foot to the rhythm of the reel. Her face might have been set, mouth grim, but that tapping foot gave her away.

“She’s enjoying herself.” Astonishment had Maggie’s eyes round and wide.

“Well, for Christ’s sake.” With an ill-tempered jerk, Shannon freed herself. “Why shouldn’t she?”

“She’d never come around music,” Brianna murmured. “Not in all my memory.” As Lottie swung by, dancing a Clare set in the arms of a neighbor, Brianna could only shake her head. “How did Lottie get her to come?”

But Shannon had forgotten Maeve. Across the room, Murphy stood, hip shot, a fiddle clamped between shoulder and chin. His eyes were half closed, so that she thought he was lost in the music his quick fingers and hands made. Then he smiled and winked.

“What are they playing?” Shannon asked. The fiddler was joined by a piper and another who played an accordion.

“That’s Saint Steven’s reel.” Brianna smiled and felt her own feet grow restless. “Ah, look at them dance.”

“Time to do more than look.” Gray snatched her from behind and whirled her into the parlor.

“Why, she’s wonderful,” Shannon said after a moment.

“She’d have been a dancer, our Brie, if things had been different.” Brows knit, Maggie shifted her gaze from her sister to her mother. “Maybe things were different then than they’re beginning to be now.”

After taking a long breath, Maggie stepped into the parlor. After a moment’s hesitation, she made her way through the dancing and sat beside her mother.

“That’s a sight I never thought to see.” Alice stepped next to Shannon. “Maeve Concannon sitting with her daughter at a ceili, her grandson on her knee, her foot tapping away. And very close to smiling.”

“I suppose you’ve known her a long time.”

“Since girlhood. She made her life, and Tom’s, a misery. And those girls suffered for it. It’s a hard thing to fight for love. Now it seems she’s found some contentment in the life she leads, and in her grandchildren. I’m glad for that.”

Alice looked at Shannon with some amusement. “I should apologize for my own daughter for embarrassing you in the kitchen. She’s always been one for speaking first and thinking last.”

“No, it’s all right. She was . . . misinformed.”

Alice pursed her lips at the term. “Well, if there’s no harm done. There’s my daughter Eileen, and her husband Jack. Will you come meet them?”

“Sure.”

She met them, and Murphy’s other sisters, his brother, his nieces and nephews and cousins. Her head reeled with names, and her heart staggered from the unquestioning welcome she received each time her hand was clasped.

She was given a full plate, a fresh beer, and a seat near the music, where Kate chattered in her ear.

Time simply drifted, unimportant against the music and the warmth. Children toddled or raced, or fell to dreaming in someone’s willing arms. She watched men and women flirt while they danced, and those too old to dance enjoy the ritual.

How would she paint it? Shannon wondered. In vivid and flashing colors, or in soft, misty pastels? Either would suit. There was excitement here, and energy, and there was quiet contentment and unbroken tradition.

You could hear it in the music, she thought. Murphy had been right about that. Every note, every lovely voice lifted in song, spoke of roots too deep to be broken.

It charmed her to hear old Mrs. Conroy sing a ballad of love unrequited in a reedy voice that nonetheless held true. She laughed along with others at the rollicking drinking song shouted out. In awe and amazement she saw Brianna and Kate execute a complex and lyrical step-toe that had more people crowding into the parlor.

She clapped her palms pink when the music stopped, then glanced over as Murphy passed off his fiddle.

“You’re enjoying yourself?” he asked her.

“I’m loving every minute.” She handed him her plate to share. “You haven’t had a chance to eat anything. So do it quick.” She grinned at him. “I don’t want you to stop playing.”

“There’s always someone to fill in.” But he picked up half her ham sandwich.

“What else can you play—besides the violin and concertina?”