Indulgence in Death (In Death #31)(7)

A pretty stone fountain gurgled near a pint-sized house complete with scaled-down furniture on a covered porch. Nearby ranged what Sinead called a football pitch, some bleachers, a kind of hut for serving snacks, a larger building where players could suit up.

Paths wound here and there, though some went nowhere for the moment. Work wasn’t quite done, but she had to give Sinead and the family major credit for what had been accomplished already.

“It completely rocks.”

Sinead let out a long breath. “I was so nervous it wouldn’t be all you wanted.”

“It’s more than I could’ve thought of or done.” She stepped closer to the swings, stopped, looked down as she pumped her boot in the spongy ground.

“It’s safety material. Children fall and tumble, and it protects them.”

“Excellent. It looks . . . fun,” Eve decided. “It’s pretty and nicely designed, but mostly it looks like fun.”

“We brought some of our young ones out to test it, and I can promise you that’s what they had.”

The steady breeze ruffled the hair Sinead had unclipped as she—hands on hips—turned a circle. “The village is full of talk about it. It’s a lovely thing altogether. Just a lovely thing.”

“If he doesn’t like it, I’ll kick his ass.”

“I’ll hold your coat. Ah well now, here they come.” Sinead lifted her chin as she spotted the truck. “I’m going to take my group off a ways so you can give Roarke his gift in private.”

“Appreciate it.”

She wasn’t comfortable with gifts—giving or receiving—most of the time anyway. And in this case she was a little nervous she’d taken on too much. What had seemed like a good idea at the time—the past November during Sinead’s visit—had become more complicated and complex, and she worried maybe not altogether appropriate.

Presents, anniversaries, family—limited experience all around.

She watched him walking toward her, long and lanky in jeans and boots, a faded blue shirt rolled up to his elbows, the thick black silk of his hair pulled back in work mode. Two years married, she thought, and he could still make her heart hum.

“So, giving it all up for farming?” she called out.

“I think not, though I did have fun at it for a few hours. They’ve horses.” He stopped, leaned down to kiss her when he reached her. “You could try a ride.” He skimmed a fingertip down the dent in her chin when she gave him a bland stare. “You might enjoy it, more than that recent holo-ride into battle.”

She remembered the speed and power of the hologram horse, and thought she actually might. But she had a different agenda for the moment.

“They’re bigger than cows, but don’t look as weird.”

“There’s that.” He glanced around, and her nerves started to jingle. “Are you after another picnic? It’s a perfect place for it.”

“You like it?”

“It’s charming.” He took her hand, and she caught the scent of the field on him. The green of it. “Want a push on the swing?”

“Maybe.”

“Neither of us got much of that, did we, when we were children?” With her hand in his he began to walk. “I didn’t realize there was a park here. A nice spot, near enough to the village, and just out enough to make it an adventure. The trees are young, so I suppose it’s new, and still being done,” he added, noting the digging equipment and tarped supplies.

“Yeah, still needs some work.” She guided him around, as subtly as she could, beyond the little house to the gurgling fountain.

“A fine day like this, I’m surprised it’s not packed with kids.”

“It’s not actually officially open for business.”

“All to ourselves then? Sean’s along with us. He’d likely enjoy a romp through.”

“Yeah, maybe . . .” She’d thought he’d look at the fountain, but should’ve known he’d be more interested in the equipment, probably speculating on what was left to be done. “So, there’s this thing.”

“Hmmm?” He glanced back at her.

“Jeez.” Frustrated, she turned him around and all but shoved his face into the plaque on the fountain.

SIOBHAN BRODY MEMORIAL PARK

DEDICATED BY HER SON

When he said nothing, she shoved her hands in her pockets. “So, well . . . happy anniversary a few days early.”

He looked at her then, just stared at her with those wonderful wild blue eyes. Just said her name. Just “Eve.”

“I got the idea when the Irish invaded last fall and walked it by Sinead. She and the rest of them ran with it. Mostly I just sent money. Hell, your money since it’s what you dumped in that account for me when we got married. So—”

“Eve,” he repeated, and drew her in, hard, pressed his face to her hair.

She heard him draw a breath, long and quiet, release it as his arms tightened around her.

“So it’s good.”

He didn’t speak for a moment, only ran his hand up and down her back. “What a woman you are,” he murmured, and she heard the emotion in it, the way the Irish thickened just a bit in his voice. And saw it in those vivid eyes when he drew back. “That you would think of this. That you would do this.”