Epilogue

January 6th, 5 years later . . .

“Stop peeking, Johanna!” Ian mock scolded, chasing her out of the kitchen.

“I just wanted to know if you needed any help,” she said with the lift of an eyebrow.

Ian put his hands on his hips. “I don’t need any help. I’m managing.”

With a grin, Jo nodded toward his apron. It was hers, actually, and it had red ties and was covered in apples. “The apron suits you!”

She took a step back, laughing, but he caught her by the wrist and pulled her to him, kissing her. “Listen, Mrs. Twomey, how am I going to put this dinner on for the Women’s Christmas if you keep harassing me?”

Jo shrugged, giggling, and leaned in to kiss him again. “It smells good. What is it?”

Ian pulled away. “Oh no you don’t. You’re not going to trick me into ruining the surprise.”

“I’m surprised already,” she said.

“I know I’m not known for my cooking—”

“That’s because you’ve never done it,” Jo pointed out.

A timer went off behind them in the kitchen, and Ian looked toward it and then back at her.

“Did you want me to get that?” she asked.

He shook his head. “No, I’ll get it. Maybe you can collect Nana? It’s almost ready.”

“Sure,” she said. Reluctantly, she pulled away from Ian, grabbed her coat, and bounced out of the house.

As she made her way to Nana’s house, she smiled to herself. She was happy. They were just back from the States, where they’d spent Christmas with her family. Marc had been there with his wife, Stacy, and their new baby, Lindsay. Gram, like Nana, was now ninety, and she’d finally moved in with Jo’s father and mother. The last time she and Bridie were together was last spring, when Jo and Ian had gotten married.

They decided to live in Ireland, mainly because of Ian’s job. Jo had found work with the Health Service Executive, Ireland’s public health service provider, as an art therapist. Her time off was spent driving around Ireland with Ian, sketching ruins, people, donkeys, and landscapes.

She knocked on the door and stepped into Nana’s house.

“Nana?” she called out.

Nana appeared with her coat on, a bit frailer looking and slightly stooped over. She’d slowed down considerably since she’d fallen and broken her hip two years previous. But she was still formidable. Now she had a carer and home-help coming out to the house daily.

“Should I eat a sandwich before I go there?” she asked with a twinkle in her eye.

Jo laughed. “No, I think it’ll be okay. It smells good, whatever he’s cooking. And he’s picked up a cake from Dash’s bakery in town,” Jo said.

“We can always fill up on cake if the dinner is a bust,” Nana said. “Hopefully, he’ll do better than his grandfather.”

“I think it’ll be fine.”

Nana nodded and linked her arm through Jo’s as they walked back up to their house.

Nana had her eyes glued to the footpath, watching where she was walking. “You know, he must really love you if he’s going to all this trouble to cook a meal for you on the Women’s Christmas.”

“He wouldn’t even let me do a load of wash this morning. Took the basket right out of my hands,” Jo said.

Nana stopped walking. “He’s got it bad then.”

Jo laughed. “We both do.”