Epilogue
Annagassan. 2 August 2000.
Only when the taxi crossed the ancient stone bridge across the Glyde River did Francois stir. The rhythmic sweeping of the wiper blades and the incessant drizzle had lulled him to sleep. He rubbed his eyes.
“Your mother-in-law is expecting us?”
“She’s not my mother—”
“Sorry . . . Connor’s mother . . . Did you phone her?”
Emilee snorted as she stared at the grim strips of Irish Sea appearing and disappearing behind the dark houses. She shrugged and offered him a quick glance only to turn back to face the sea.
“I dared not speak to her.” She tore the Kleenex in her hands to shreds. “It’s been a lifetime since I last saw her—least of all spoken to her.” She abandoned the scraps of paper and clasped Francois’s hands. He cradled hers.
The cab crunched
