I took a deep, excited breath. “Speaking of good news… there’s something I need to tell you.”
“If you’ve finally fixed the inventory labels, I’ll fetch the confetti.”
“Bigger. More existential.”
“You’ve joined a cult. Don’t worry, child. We’ve all been there. Mine was Weight Watchers in 1989. I still get the Catholic guilts every time I see a scone with jam and cream. Speaking of which, is it time for morning tea yet?”
I took a breath. “Cal and I are starting the surrogacy process.”
Mrs. Mulroney gasped and clapped her hands together like someone had just wonBake Off.
“Well, it’s about feckin’ time! I was beginning to think the two of you were going to buy a village in the South of France and spend your days naming cheeses after yourselves.”
I laughed, half -relieved. “We’re just exploring it right now. You know—dipping a toe. It’s a whole thing.”
“It’s a wholejoy, Matthew. Wait till you’re holding that little pudding and thinking, ‘This is mine. I made this.’ And it’s crying because it’s hungry and not because it’s been reading the news.’”
She rushed over and squeezed me tight. Then quickly pulled back and said in all seriousness, “Have you started thinking about names? Whatever you do,don’tgo for the obvious. The world has enough Liams. And don’t be adding extra letters to things that were already fine—no child needs a name spelled ‘Kayleee’ with three Es. You’re not buying vowels onWheel of Fortune. And for the love of Mary, don’t start making names up. A baby shouldn’t sound like a Wi-Fi password or an antihistamine. And none of this business where you name them after car brands or perfumes—it’s a child, not a marketing event. Don’t name them after a state, you never know which color it may turn at the next election, and don’t even think about punctuation. If I see an apostrophe or a dash in the middle of a first name, I swear on the Virgin’s handbag I’ll march into the hospital and correct the birth certificate myself. What you want is a proper name. AnIrishname. Something noble. Something ancient. Something that scares the Americans.”
I braced myself as Mrs. Mulroney rattled off names I had no idea how to spell. “What about Máiréad. Róisín. Bláthnaid. Caoimhe. Fionnuala. Or if it’s a boy—Oisín, with the fada.”
I blinked. “Are those names or crossword clues? I don’t even know what a fada is!”
“They’re names, and they’re beautiful,” she said, misting the tulips with a flourish. “They’re full of Celtic mythology andtragedy and adventure… and about fourteen silent letters. You don’t want your child to be the tenth Tiffany in the classroom, do you? Of course not. You want her to sound like she could lead a rebellion.”
I was still trying to mentally spellBláthnaidwhen Mrs. Mulroney bent to pick up a heavy bucket of hydrangeas—and promptly let out a yelp.
“Sweet Jesus in a back brace!” she groaned.
“Okay, stop—stop!” I dashed forward. “You’re supposed to bend your knees.”
“And listen to the cartilage grind? No thank you.”
“Well, now you can listen to your back creak instead.”
She grimaced and pressed her hand to her lower back. “I knew it. My spine’s finally gone on strike.”
I guided her carefully to the armchair behind the till. She winced again as I lowered her into it. “God, are you okay?”
“No,” she muttered. “I’m old, I’m sore, and I’m done trying to convince Instagram bridezillas that mason jars are not vases.”
I blinked. “Wait. Are youokay-okay?”
Mrs. Mulroney let out a sigh. I sensed defeat, but also relief. “I’ve been thinking of selling the shop.”
I stared at her. “You can’t. This placeisyou.”
“Itwasme,” she said, rubbing her back. “But when I hear you and that handsome husband of yours are wanting to start a family… honestly, all I want to be lifting these days is a baby.”
That stopped me.
“Yourbaby,” she added sharply. “Obviously. I’m not planning some miracle comeback. I might be Catholic, but I’m not delusional.”
I smiled, full of emotion I didn’t know what to do with.
Mrs. Mulroney reached over and squeezed my hand. “It’s your time, Matthew. Go on and build something. Something wonderful.”
CHAPTER 3
