When I reach the doorway, I stop altogether.
Simone’s leaning on the kitchen island, a bowl of bread pudding in front of her, her spoon halfway to her mouth as she laughs at something Oona’s said.
The caretaker’s on the opposite side of the counter, her own bowl of pudding forgotten as she gestures animatedly, her Irish lilt sprinkled with amusement.
“—and I says to me mam, ‘I don’t care if you’re the one who birthed me, I’m in charge of this kitchen now!’ Can you believe it? Nine years old and already bossier than a sergeant major,” Oona regales theatrically. “She never let me forget it, God rest her soul.”
Simone throws her head back and laughs. It’s a full belly laugh that lights up her whole face. When she straightens, she wipes tears from the corners of her eyes, shoulders still trembling from the force of the laugh. “That sounds like my grandmother. She’s the same way. Every time she visits us from Ghana, she takes over the kitchen and makes this dessert called kelewele—fried plantains with ginger and spices. Nobody else is allowed to touch anything. Not even my mother or any of the staff. She rules that kitchen like a queen.”
“Ah, sounds like a woman after me own heart.”
I lean against the doorframe, folding my arms to watch them.
Watch her.
There’re small details I’ve gradually started to appreciate about my wife. Things I didn’t pay attention to before but can’t seem to ignore now.
Trivial stuff like how she throws her head back when she laughs hard enough, completely uninhibited. Or how her hazel eyes change colors depending on the lighting and her mood—sometimes green, other times amber or a deep honey brown.
Right now, they’re a golden shade that beautifully contrasts her bronze skin.
As if sensing my stare, both women glance toward the doorway. Simone freezes mid-bite, her spoon resting on her tongue, caught between her lips. She’s truly surprised to see me.
Oona recovers first, planting hands on her girthy hips. “Jesus, Ronan, how long have you been lurkin’ there like some kind of perv? Didn’t your mam ever teach you it’s rude to eavesdrop?”
“Wouldn’t call it eavesdropping when it’s my own house,” I answer, pushing off the doorframe, hands sliding into my pockets. “Besides, nothing wrong with enjoying the rare sound of laughter under this roof.”
Oona’s expression softens, though she tries to hide it behind a huff. “Aye, well, we best keep it down or your father’ll think we’re havin’ too much fun.” She gestures to the casserole dish on the counter. “You want some bread pudding? Made it specially for you and Eddie. I know you three love wolfin’ it down.”
“I’m good. Thanks, Oona.”
“Suit yourself. I’ve got laundry to tend to anyway.” She gives Simone a warm pat on the shoulder before bustling out of the kitchen, leaving the two of us alone.
I use the opening to stroll deeper into the room, rounding the island ’til I’m standing across from Simone. She’s gone back to eating the pudding, not saying a word, though her eyes track my movements as I come to stand near her.
“You and Oona seem real cozy,” I say.
She shrugs, digging her spoon deep into the spiced pudding. A small smile tugs at the left corner of her mouth. “She reminds me of my grandmother. The one in Ghana. She just has that grandmotherly energy about her, you know? She showed me photos of her grandkids. Told me about how much she misses them. But she’s not able to go home for the holidays.”
I think about that. About how fucked up it is. Oona has worked for this family for as long as I can remember, busting her ass 365 days a year, keeping this household running like a well-oiled machine.
Yet she can’t even visit her own family for Christmas because my father believes loyalty is endless. Unyielding dedication to the Callahans is thebare minimum.
No exceptions. Not even for the holidays.
He didn’t approve of any of our employees getting time off, no matter how much they’d busted their asses and earned it.
“I’ll talk to him,” I hear myself say. “See if I can get him to let Oona and some of the others go home for Christmas.”
More genuine surprise flickers across her features. “Really?”
“It’s next week. She deserves to see her grandkids. I’ll arrange the travel for her so she won’t have to worry about that either.”
It takes Simone some effort to fight off the rest of the smile starting to bloom on her face. She barely manages by biting down on her bottom lip and glancing away.
“Speaking of Christmas,” she says slowly, setting down her spoon. “It’s one of the biggest occasions of the year… at least that’s how it is in my family. How do the Callahans celebrate? What’s the plan for us?”
Right away, I get what she’s really asking.