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Ireland, even though she herself had never set foot on “the Auld Sod” in her life. Not that you’d know it to look at her. Or hear her. She talked in a brogue straight out of
Angela’s Ashes
—or an old Bing Crosby movie—and twisted her graying red hair into a straggling bun, wore baggy tweed skirts and Aran Isles sweaters summer and winter, and put a shawl over her head when she went to her incessant Daughters of Ireland meetings. “No one in Ireland has dressed like that in the last hundred years,” Briddey wanted to shout at her. “And you’re not
Irish
! The closest you’ve ever been to a peat fire was watching
The Quiet American
on TCM!”
    But it wouldn’t have done any good. Aunt Oona would simply have clutched her rosary beads to her ample chest, called upon Saint Patrick and Briddey’s sainted mother to forgive Briddey’s blasphemous words, and redoubled her efforts to fix her up with a “foine Irish lad.” Like Sean O’Reilly, who was forty, balding, and still lived with his mother—also a Daughter of Ireland.
    I don’t want Sean O’Reilly or any of Aunt Oona’s other aging “lads,”
Briddey thought.
Or any of Kathleen’s ne’er-do-wells. That’s why I’m dating Trent. And why I’m going to have the EED with him, no matter what you say.
    She tried to call him again, but he was apparently still on his phone. And now his message box was full. She emailed him.
    Mistake. When she clicked SEND, nineteen new emails popped up on her screen, all but three of them headed, “OMG EED! Congrats!” The three that weren’t were from Aunt Oona: “It’s checking your phone you need to be. There’s something wrong with it” and, “Is it an accident you’ve had?” And from Maeve: “You have to talk to Mom. She won’t let me watch
The Twelve Dancing Princesses
or any of the
Frozen
movies. Or
Tangled,
which is like my favorite movie next to
Zombie Hordes
!”
    Thank goodness Mary Clare doesn’t know Maeve’s watching zombie movies, or she’d really have apoplexy,
Briddey thought, and her phone rang.
    “Where are you?” Trent said. “I’ve been trying to—”
    “Hello!” she said eagerly. “You have no idea how glad I am to hear the sound of your voice. Last night was so wonderful.”
    “I know,” he said. “You have no idea how happy you’ve made me.”
    “And how happy we’re going to be when we—”
    “Yeah, about that. I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news. I talked to Dr. Verrick’s office, and his nurse said they’re not going to be able to get us in till late summer.”
    “Well, we knew he had a waiting list—”
    “His nurse said we were lucky to get in
that
soon, that some patients have to wait up to a year.”
    “It’s all right,” she said. “I can wait—”
    “Well,
I
can’t! This screws up
everything
!” he exploded. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to shout at you, sweetheart. It’s just that I want us to be connected
now
so I can—so you can know what I’m feeling—”
    “Which I’m guessing is frustration,” Briddey said.
    “
Yes!
I’m trying to see if there isn’t some way to get us in by May, and in the meantime, we need to fill out the preliminary paperwork—sorry, I’ve got to take this,” he said. “Hold on.” His voice cut off for a minute and then came back. “Where was I?”
    “Filling out the preliminary paperwork.”
    “Right. His nurse will be sending a medical history and some questionnaires, and you need to fill them out and get them back as soon as possible so that if he
can
get us in earlier, we’re ready. And meanwhile, I’ve got to figure out what I’m going to do if Schwartz doesn’t come through.”
    “C.B. Schwartz?”
    “Yes. He’s supposed to have some ideas for the new phone that I can present at today’s meeting, but I’ve been emailing him for the last two days with no response, and he isn’t answering his phone either. I don’t know what’s wrong with him. Half the time when you’re talking to