Connor and Murphy walked together along the strand, just above the shingled tide line. Both wore flowing, white button-down shirts untucked and unbuttoned. Despite the chill of the salty Irish air, it felt wonderfully refreshing. Both had on new jeans and new boots as well. It was as though a total transformation had overcome the two men. One could tell by the synchronized step and the more-than-obvious similarities that they were twin brothers; though Connor had lighter hair and eyes than his slightly smaller twin.
They had made it a morning ritual in the two weeks they had been on Erin's shores to walk along the strand in the morning, when the twining of the Irish mists had just begun to lift. Today, the normally azure sky was grayed with the promise of rain. They had come at the end of summer, the most temperate time of year. Murphy wondered if they were totally insane. No, not insane. Just madly in love. And still mourning the death of their father. Murphy still saw the service they had held for him in the brilliance of his mind's eye, threatening to bring tears afresh. The brothers had set the headstone together, speaking the family prayer in unison. Kiley and Ciara had respectfully stayed behind at the O'Fallon house, which they had come home to. They had yet to visit their mother, but knew it would only be a matter of time before she noticed her children leaving the house next door. She had been gone to Dublin when they had arrived to tend to Brighid's mother, their aunt. She would be returning home within the next two days. They knew that the guess would undoubtedly be accurate. In their small hometown, nothing went unnoticed by the gossipy neighbors.
Murphy spotted the girls first, sitting on a rocky outcrop just above where the tide rolled in and out, laughing as the waves lapped at their feet, then away again to reveal a barnacle-encrusted rock face. Kiley was wearing a dress the color of the ocean itself; a deep, radiant blue-green. Her feet were bare, her hair knotted loosely at the base of her neck to avoid the salt spray. Ciara, love of Murphy's life, was clothed in a loose, white dress that seemed more like a shift for the lightness of the fabric. Her hair had been braided and tied back. He hadn't seen her in a dress since they were eight or nine. The sight if it made him catch his breath in the depths of his throat. She waved to them, beckoning them to join the sisters in their carefree moment. "G'mornin'," Connor greeted them, the accent in his voice renewed by the visit. He sounded as any normal Irishman speaking the English language, incredibly wonderful. Kiley giggled childishly as he swung her around. Ciara lowered her lashes demurely, smiling sweetly for Murphy.
"Ya look amazin'," he told her, kissing her cheek.
"Never thought ya'd see me in a dress, did ya?" she asked him.
"Wasn't expectin' it. Ya should try it more often. 'S lovely." The men finally convinced their women that it was time to return to their mother's. They walked in a line across the strand, eyes taking in the raging sea with slight pangs of regret. The O'Fallon sisters could sit there all day, watching it change constantly, drowning out thought altogether at times. The decision to return home had been a good one, despite the doubts they had not voiced about the plan.
They walked together up the road. It was still cobbled in places, and along the rise in the distance, silhouettes of lazy, grazing sheep could be seen. Connor began to question why they had ever left. He watched Ciara tuck her blue-beaded rosary under her dress, trying to hide his surprise at seeing her dressed so nicely. She smirked at him, her freckled nose wrinkling comically as she fought the urge to stick out her tongue. On the front porch of the small, single-level house, a lone figure watched them approaching. She was short, stout, and round, like all good Irish matrons should be. She had traces of gray in her beautiful, fire-tinted hair; and a fierce sparkle in her gray-blue eyes. Looking at the sisters led to only one conclusion; they both looked very much like their mother in their faces. "There ya are. An' fancy ya 'ave yer lads wi' ya?" Kiley smiled in good Irish fashion, winking at Ciara.
"An' ya dinna expect us ta be walkin' ourselves home, now, did ya?" Their mother's face cracked into an enormous grin.
"Con, Murph, yer mam's made it 'ome. I dinna tell 'er ya were 'ere. Fancy ya should go an' see herself?"
"Fancy we should," Connor returned, glancing at Kiley.
"Well, go then. Yer mam should na wait all day fer ya. Coom back when yer ready," she told him, cuffing him lightly on the cheek. "Ci n' I'll be discussin' plans." The two women kissed their men on the cheeks and watched them go. Ciara shook her head to keep from snorting with laughter.
"I should think ya wanted ta discuss the weddin'?" their mother asked. Rosie O'Fallon was as sharp as her Blarney-gifted tongue.
"Surely," Kiley said for them, leading the way into their mother's home.
Connor knocked apprehensively on the door. "It isn't like we dinna live 'ere," Murphy chided him, turning the knob.
"Mam?" Murphy called into the kitchen. There was a pot on the stove, simmering with potatoes inside.
"What d'ya think yer doin'? Dinner's not 'til tonight," a voice admonished loudly. The squat figure of their mother moved surprisingly quickly, rapping his hand with a ladle in one hand, nursing an oversized bottle of gin in the other. "Fancy not tellin' yer mam ya were comin'. 'Ad ta hear from Rosie O'Fallon that me own boys were in town. Rotten little shiteheads! Connor, get yer arse in 'ere an' give yer ol' mam a hug." Connor and Murphy hugged her from both sides. "There's me boys," she said in grudging approval. "No doubt ya 'ave reasons fer comin'? Tell yer ol' mam, there's good lads." Murphy let Connor explain their engagement.
"Took ya long enough. Good lasses, the O'Fallon's. They come from good stock. I fathom the weddin'll be quick? Ya boys never could sit still." She had a tearful tone to her voice. Their mother was tougher than either of their prospective brides. Hearing her near tears was enough to set them both crying. "Nevermin' ya tellin' me about yer da. 'E called me, night afore 'e went on his little mission. Ya lay his stone, did ya?" Murphy nodded, hugging his mother tighter. He had always been his mommy's little boy, while Connor had gravitated toward their father. "Good news 'bout yer women, boys. I been helpin' Rosie wi' the plans since she got the call. Got somethin' for 'er in Dublin. Are yer hands clean?" She laughed as her sons scrambled to the sink, fighting for the water. They had done this as children quite often. Seeing them doing it as grown men brought back memories. When she was satisfied, she pulled out a staggeringly expensive amount of delicate Irish lace. "Fer the dresses. Rosie's makin' 'em herself. From yer ol' mam." Connor and Murphy both looked as though they were holding porcelain dolls. "I'll git the door, won't I? Of course I will. Ya better send the women ta see me, as soon as they c'n give me a moment. An' come for supper t'night. Bring herself along as well." Herself, Connor knew, was Rosie O'Fallon. She watched her sons leave through the front gate, bursting with happiness at seeing her boys alive and well. Despite the fact she was a tough woman, she still had a fierce sense of pride; and she loved her sons more than words could say. She was especially pleased that they had fallen for the O'Fallon sisters. As soon as the O'Fallon's had moved in next door, her husband and Mr. O'Fallon had discussed their children getting married one day. She had always loved the smiling little girls, with their flame-red hair and bright eyes. She had always wanted a daughter, but the boys had damaged her beyond that point. She had settled for watching the O'Fallon girls grow into young women.