In Death 31 - Indulgence in Death

yours. I want us to be friends, you and I. I want to think that you’ll come back now and then, or we’ll come to you. That this connection will only grow stronger, truer—and that what there is between you and me won’t only be because of the man we both love.”
    Eve said nothing for a moment as she tried to order her thoughts. “A lot of people would have blamed him.”
    “He was a baby.”
    Eve shook her head. “In my world people blame, hurt, maim, kill for all kinds of illogical reasons. His father murdered your sister. Patrick Roarke used her, abused her, betrayed her, and finally killed her—took her from you. And some would twist that into looking at Roarke as the only thing left from that loss, even the reason for the loss. When he learned what had happened, when he found out about his mother after a lifetime of believing a lie, he came to you. You didn’t turn him away, you didn’t blame him or punish him. You brought him into your home, and you gave him comfort when he needed it.
    “I don’t make friends easily. I’m not very good at it. But for that reason alone you’d be mine, so between us I guess we’ve got the elements for friendship.”
    “He’s lucky to have you.”
    Eve shoveled in more eggs. “Damn right.”
    Sinead held her mug in both hands as she laughed. “She’d have liked you. Siobhan.”
    “Really?”
    “She would, yes. She liked the bright and the bold.” Shifting, Sinead leaned forward. “Now tell me, while it’s just us two, all the nasty details of this last murder you solved. The sorts they don’t talk about in the media.”

    S hortly before noon, Eve stood in the little park, hands on hips, studying the equipment. She didn’t know dick-all about kids’ playgrounds, but this looked like a pretty good one. Surrounding the stuff they’d swing on, climb on, tunnel through, and whatever the hell kids did, ran pretty rivers of flowers, young, green trees.
    A cherry tree, a young version of the one Sinead had planted at her farm in memory of her sister, stood graceful and sweet near a little pavilion. Benches sat here and there where she imagined parents could take a load off while kids ran wild.
    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