“That’s what Cecily says. Well, when she says it, it sounds more like”—he paused for the length of a breath and, when he spoke again, did so with a rather impressive version of their sister-in-law’s very proper British voice—“‘Do not you fret, Finbarr. We will discover the solution if we put our minds to it.’” The lad then resumed his normal manner of speaking. “She’s convinced there’s almost nothing I can’t do.”
“You’ve quite an ally there, then. A fellow could do worse than have such support.”
“It’s frustrating, though.”
Patrick tested the knots. “How so?”
“Therearethings I can’t do. Sometimes it feels like they’re all lying to me.”
“If I promise not to lie to you, will you promise to try to help me up here?” Patrick set his hand on his brother’s shoulder.
“I always try. It’s just not ever enough. Cecily and Tavish and Da and . . . well, the lot of them are always pushing me to do more things or do things better.” Finbarr, it seemed, wasn’t having a much easier go of things than he, himself, was. “Sometimes I just can’t, and that’s not good enough for them.”
“It’s good enough for me.” He kept his hand on Finbarr’s shoulder.
“And you meant it when you said you wouldn’t lie to me about the things that are beyond my ability?”
“I meant it.” If Finbarr needed honesty, he’d give it to him. “Now, crawl up toward the ridgepole. I’ll talk you through where to go from there.”
With careful instruction and cautious movement, Finbarr managed to sit directly beside the leak they were meant to repair. A few wood shakes were missing, the reason rain was seeping through, no doubt.
Patrick moved his canvas bag so that it leaned against Finbarr’s leg. “I’ll be needing four wood shakes. Three maybe. Hand ’em over as I ask for them, will you?”
“I’ll keep you supplied and no mistake.”
Patrick smiled at the very Irish turn of phrase. The lad sounded so nearly American a body could be excused for forgetting he’d Irish blood in his veins and Irish family constantly around him.
They worked and chatted. Patrick told him of his ideas for building his house. Sod made more sense than wood, owing to its expense. Saving money on building materials would give him extra to spend on glass.
“A lot of windows?” Finbarr sounded more than a little hopeful.
“Cecily said”—Patrick did his most exaggerated version of an upper-class British accent—“do make certain the dear boy has a great many windows in his house. One simply cannot have too many windows. Neglect the windows, and his house will be utterly banjaxed.”
Finbarr grinned through the ridiculous “impression.” At the final word, he laughed out loud. “I can’t imagine Cecily saying ‘banjaxed.’ Tavish would. All of our siblings and our parents would. This entire half of town would say it.”
“We may’ve left Ireland,” Patrick said, “but Ireland’s not left us.”
“Finbarr!” A voice echoed up from the ground below.
“What’s Aidan doing here?” Finbarr wondered aloud.
“Recognized his voice, did you?”
Finbarr shrugged. “When a person can’t see, he learns to listen.”
“Stay put,” Patrick instructed. “I’ll see if I can’t discover what the boy wants.” He moved to the edge of the roof and sat, legs dangling over the edge. “A fine good morning to you, Aidan.”
The poor lad jumped in surprise, his gaze flying upward. He recovered quickly. “Tavish told me Finbarr was here.”
“Aye. He’s up here with me.”
“On the roof?”
“Aye.”
For a moment, Aidan didn’t say a thing. Shock remained on his face even after he recovered his voice. “I’m returning home to help my step-da in the fields. Finbarr needs to take my place at Archers’ for the rest of the day.”
“Hop over to the ladder.” He motioned to it. “I’ll walk him over to it.”
