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Cal is in his workshop, painting stain onto a turned piece of wood. Lena isn’t used to finding him there alone. He hasn’t put on music; he’s just sitting at the worktable, head bent, his brush moving steadily and carefully. For the first time, the workshop, with its neatness and its carefully ordered array of tools, looks like a retired man’s brave attempt to keep busy.

“Hey,” he says, looking up as her shadow falls through the window. “Everything OK?”

“Never better,” Lena says. “I just came to warn you: I told Noreen we’re after getting engaged. I reckoned you oughta know.”

The look on Cal’s face makes her burst out laughing. “Put your head down between your knees,” she advises him. “Before you go fainting on me. Don’t be worrying: I’ve no intention of marrying anyone.”

“Then what…?” Cal clearly wants to say what the fuck, but feels it might come across as impolite.

The laugh has done Lena good. “There’s forty shades of shite going around about Rushborough,” she says. “One of ’em involves you. I reckoned I might as well stamp that one out before it had a chance to take hold. People’ll think twice before they spread talk about a man that’s about to be Noreen’s brother-in-law.”

“OK,” Cal says. He still looks stunned enough to keep Lena grinning. “OK. If you…OK. I mean, I’ve got no objection, I just…What are people saying?”

“Not a lot,” Lena says, shrugging. “They’re only throwing rumors around, trying them on for size; you know the way. I just don’t want them deciding this one fits.”

Cal looks at her, but he doesn’t press her. He understands some, at least, of what Ardnakelty is capable of weaving around him, if it should choose to.

The man came here asking for nothing but green fields and peace. Lena knows there was a time when he considered turning around and walking right back out the door. A part of her wishes, for his sake, that he had done it.

“Shit,” Cal says suddenly, realizing. “The damn pub. Next time I go in there, I’m gonna get roasted harder’n a Thanksgiving turkey. What are you getting me into, woman?”

“Listen to me, you,” Lena tells him severely. “You haven’t a notion of the slaggings I’ve put up with, going out with a blow-in and a Guard, and a beardy one at that. You can take your turn and like it.”

“I already get enough crap for coming over here and taking their women. If I actually get engaged to you, they’ll probably get me blackout drunk on poteen and dump me on your doorstep in a wedding dress.”

“You’ll be only gorgeous,” Lena says. “Don’t let them forget the veil.”

She knows he’s wondering what Trey will make of this. She almost points out that they can tell Trey the real story—God knows the child can keep her mouth shut—but she stops herself. Something is going on between Cal and Trey; things are shifting and fragile. Lena shoving her oar in could easily do more harm than good.

“Come here,” she says, leaning in at the window and holding out her hands to him. “If I was going to get engaged to anyone, I could do a lot worse than you.” When he comes to the window, she gives him a kiss that aims to make him forget everyone else in Ardnakelty, at least for a minute or two.

—

Ardnakelty, as Cal predicted, pounces joyfully on the opportunity to give him copious amounts of shit. Mart shows up on his doorstep right after dinnertime, with his fluff of gray hair slicked down and his donkey hat tilted at a jaunty angle. “Put on your best shirt, bucko,” he orders. “I’ve a pint to buy you.”

“Oh, man,” Cal says sheepishly. “You heard, huh?”

“Course I heard. This requires a celebration.”

“Aw, Mart. Come on. It’s not a big deal. I just figured, we’ve been together long enough that—”

“It’s a big deal whether you like it or not. You’ve got friends around here that wanta congratulate you properly, and we need something to celebrate, after the few weeks we’ve had. We didn’t win the hurling, so the next best thing is young love. You can’t begrudge us that. Go take off that sawdusty aul’ rag and put on something dacent, and we’ll be off.” He flaps his hands at Cal like he’s herding a sheep. “Don’t keep me hanging about. I’ve a mouth on me like Gandhi’s flip-flop.”

Cal yields to the inevitable and heads inside to put on a shirt. He knows that, regardless of engagements, he needs an evening in Seán Óg’s. He needs to find out how Trey’s story has landed, and what ripples it’s sending out.