The Player and the Pixie
Page 7

Seductive.
Seductively curious.
Much better.
A new image, one of Mini-Fitzpatrick lying on her back—shyly covering her sweet curves with a sheet, that delicious beauty mark just visible, her rainbow hair spread over a white pillow—made me wonder why I’d been so belligerent with her last night.
I wondered if she dyed the carpet to match the drapes. It certainly would give a new meaning to the candy slogan, Taste the Rainbow.
These were inconvenient thoughts for a Sunday morning breakfast with the Cassidy corpses. I reluctantly pushed the image away, recalling instead her irritated expression just before she’d walked away.
At one point, despite my sordid history with her brother, I suspected she was actually trying to be nice.
This gave me another pause.
I was glaring at the kippers when my cousin Eilish, the only decent one in the lot of us, challenged Grady. “Didn’t you beg Sean for those tickets?”
“What? Not at all.” He sounded offended by the suggestion.
“Yeah, you did. You were salivating all over him last week.”
“Eilish! Do you really have to use such language?” My aunt punctuated her disapproval by sniffing.
“Which word gives offense, Mother? Salivating?”
“Can we refrain from discussing such things? Is this another of Sean’s influences?”
“No, Mother. I’ve been home from university for two days and at no point has Sean advocated I discuss saliva.”
“Oh! That word.” A teacup clattered, highlighting my aunt’s distress.
I hadn’t realized Eilish would be home from school so early. She’d been sent to boarding schools since she was ten, proving to be too boisterous and unmanageable for my aunt’s temperament. But she’d always spent the summers at the tomb in Dublin.
Sorry. Did I say tomb? I meant house.
I was careful to wipe the smirk from my face before I turned to the breakfast table, and was equally careful to avoid Eilish’s gaze. If I were caught smiling I’d never hear the end of it.
Meanwhile, Eilish asked the table if anyone had read the latest report on the refugee crisis and was chided for placing her elbows on the table. My aunt made several unflattering comments comparing Eilish to a barnyard animal.
The berating wasn’t too scathing and E didn’t seem bothered by it. Still, my aunt’s comments tend to turn abusive without much warning. I kept an ear in the conversation, just in case I needed to throw myself on the grenade of Aunt Cara’s temper.
True to form, none of my other cousins made any outward sign of hearing anything untoward.
Theresa remarked on the weather before she took a bite of her buttered toast.
Brigid sedately asked after Connor’s new Bentley.
Liam unobtrusively poured himself another cup of coffee without glancing up from the newspaper.
I followed their example. If I kept quiet, masked all outward expression except boredom, I’d be free of this house within the half hour. And when I left, I knew without a doubt I’d be cold again.
I was always cold when I left the house where I grew up.
***
“Did you see her face? When I said saliva? I thought she might faint.” Eilish snickered on a whisper, helping me with my jacket.
“You shouldn’t poke the bear,” I warned, shaking my head at her, my face drawn with disapproval I tried to feel. Instead I was fighting a smile.
Eilish was perhaps the only person in my life who could make me smile. She was so good.
Well, she had a good heart, but enjoyed testing her mother’s patience.
She shrugged. “What can she do? Yell at me? I’m no longer a child.”
I smirked at my cousin, saying nothing. I hadn’t missed how she still cut the crust off her toast and added too much sugar to her tea during breakfast.
“Be good and I’ll take you shopping this week.”
We were still whispering because the large marble entryway echoed. I’d offered to let her stay at my flat on more than once occasion. But I think—despite their tenuous relationship—Eilish felt sorry for her mother. She didn’t want to leave her completely alone during the summer.
I wanted to tell my cousin her efforts were wasted, but didn’t want to be unkind. Nor did I wish to be the source of her eventual and unavoidable disillusionment. I liked Eilish as she was. She was certainly clever, but her spirit was currently unencumbered by the burdens of reality.
If Eilish still held hope for warmth from Aunt Clara, I wasn’t going to be the one to burst her bubble. Let her be naïve and hopeful. Yet I dreaded the day she discovered all her efforts were in vain.
She’d learn eventually it’s much better to preemptively numb oneself against disappointment.
“You’ll take me shopping even if I’m not good.” Eilish laughed at me, tilting her head to the side as she studied my face. “You can’t help yourself, especially when you see me in mismatched shades of navy.”
She was right, of course. But she was also wrong. I couldn’t help but take her shopping because seeing her happy inexplicably made me happy. Yet she was also wrong, because I used her mismatched outfits as an excuse. I’d never tell her that. It was part of the game we played.
She pretended she couldn’t coordinate her outfits and I pretended it drove me to distraction. I wasn’t in so much denial to realize I needed Eilish quite a bit more than she needed me.
“Thursday. Ten o’clock. We’ll have tea after, if you’re fit to be seen.” I kept my tone dry and superior, because doing so made her laugh harder.