Secrets Between Sisters: The perfect heart-warming holiday read of 2018. Kate Thompson

all grown up.’

      ‘Oh, I wouldn’t have thought you’d have remembered.’

      ‘I could hardly forget a girl who tried to order me off “her” land.’

      Izzy registered the emphasis and felt herself blushing again. ‘What a horrible brat of a child I was.’

      ‘You got your comeuppance when you fell off Dorcas.’

      ‘Yeah. You laughed like a drain at that.’

      Finn smiled. ‘I was actually quite looking forward to teaching you to ride.’

      ‘Why didn’t you?’

      ‘Word got out that your mummy didn’t want you associating with the local kids.’

      Izzy bit her lip. Why did he call her mother ‘Mummy’ when he’d called his own mother ‘Ma’ earlier? Was he jeering at her? ‘I can make my own decisions now,’ she said with hauteur, ‘as to whom I associate with.’ And then she cursed herself for using the word ‘whom’ because she knew it made her sound prissier than ever, so she tried to change the subject again.

      ‘Are the donkeys still there?’ she asked.

      ‘Pinkie is. But she’s all grown up now too.’

      ‘Finn!’ came his mother’s–his mas–voice.

      ‘Coming!’

      He got to his feet and stretched, and Izzy was horrified to find herself studying the musculature of his chest under the cotton of his T-shirt and wondering how it would feel to run her hands over it.

      ‘Goodbye, Isabella,’ he said, saluting her with a relaxed hand before moving off. She watched his progress, aware that his mother was doing likewise, with a cross expression on her face. Halfway across the road, Finn paused, turned and gave her an appraising look. Then he smiled, and something elastic in Izzy’s tummy tautened. ‘I’d still like to do it,’ he said.

      ‘Do what?’

      ‘Teach you to ride, of course, princess.’ Finn’s wicked smile broadened, his green eyes narrowed, and then he was gone.

       Chapter Seven

      Río had just said goodbye to the last mourner, a maudlin Mrs Murphy–who had been utterly mortified to find out that she, and not Río, had inherited her neighbour’s garden–and now she and Dervla and Mr Morrissey, Frank’s solicitor, ‘needed to talk’, and Río just felt like getting drunk and going down to the beach to huddle in the dunes and watch the waves.

      ‘Glass of wine, Ma? Dervla?’ Finn emerged from the kitchen with a bottle and fresh glasses, on loan from O’Toole’s pub. ‘Mr Morrissey, you’ll have a glass of wine, won’t you?’

      ‘No thank you, young Finn. I’m driving.’

      ‘I’ll have one,’ said Río, thanking God she wasn’t driving.

      ‘We’ll take it into the study, shall we?’ suggested Dervla.

      Turning on her heel, Dervla walked briskly into the study, where she perched herself on top of the old partner’s desk, which had belonged to Frank, and where their mother had used to sit crying over the household accounts. The way she crossed her legs and folded her hands in her lap reminded Río of one of her old teachers, and she felt as if she were back at school again. How had her sister become such a grown-up?

      Finn poured wine and handed round glasses, and then he and Río and Mr Morrissey sat down on the kitchen chairs that had been borrowed from Mrs Murphy for the occasion. She’d also lent plates for the sandwiches she’d made, and teapots for the tea she’d brewed, and a cake stand for the cakes she’d baked. Mrs Doyle from Father Ted would have been lost in admiration for her.

      ‘I hope you don’t mind if I don’t turn my phone off?’ said Mr Morrissey. ‘I’m expecting a rather urgent call from His Grace.’

      ‘Not at all,’ said Dervla. ‘Shall we get down to business? Perhaps you’d like to outline my idea to Río, Mr Morrissey?’

      ‘Certainly’

      Mr Morrissey took some papers from his briefcase, and shuffled them importantly. He wore the self-absorbed expression of an actor getting ready for his close-up, and Río couldn’t help thinking of all those Agatha Christie novels where relations gather together to hear the will of some deceased family member. ‘Oh, get on with it!’ she wanted to say. ‘I already know I’ve been cut out of the bastard’s will!’ She felt like reaching for a zapper and fast-forwarding him.

      ‘As you know, Ríonach,’ began Mr Morrissey, eyeing her over the rims of his glasses, ‘your father left no provision for you in his will. However, your sister is keenly aware of the injustice of this, and is prepared to gift you a portion of the estate.’

      Río turned to Dervla. ‘Jesus, Dervla! That’s bloody decent of you.’

      Dervla shrugged. I can’t claim that it’s entirely for altruistic reasons. I have a professional reputation to safeguard, and it’s a small town. ‘It wouldn’t do my credibility any good if word got out that I’d shafted my own sister.’

      ‘You didn’t shaft me. Our father did. Or rather, your father did. I take it that Mr Morrissey knows why Frank cut me out of his will.’

      ‘I do,’ said Mr Morrissey. ‘And you may rest assured, Ríonach, that I shall not breathe a word of your–er–paternity to anyone.’

      ‘That wouldn’t be difficult,’ said Río, ‘since I don’t have a clue about my paternity myself. How many men called Patrick were living in Lissamore in the early nineteen seventies?’

      Dervla shot her a warning look, and Río remembered that Mr Morrissey’s Christian name was Patrick. ‘Oops,’ she said. ‘No disrespect intended, Mr Morrissey I mean, I’m sure–um–you know–um. Sorry.’

      Río was stifling an overwhelming impulse to giggle. This afternoon was turning out to be increasingly like something off a daytime soap. Maybe she’d wake up and find herself in the shower, like Bobby Ewing.

      ‘No apology necessary,’ burbled Mr Morrissey. ‘No, no, no.’ His ears had turned red, which made Río want to laugh even more. ‘I’m sure, Ríonach, that if you were desirous to learn the identity of your real father, it could be done. With DNA testing, nowadays—’

      ‘D’you know something, Mr Morrissey? At this moment in time–’ (it felt right to be saying ‘at this moment in time’ to Mr Morrissey) ‘I actually don’t want to learn his identity. I couldn’t bear to find out that my real father was some salaryman with halitosis.’ Oops. That was a pretty accurate description of Mr Morrissey. She’d better do some backtracking. ‘I mean, I’d really rather think of him as some heroic adventurous type who swept my mother off her feet and then–um–left Lissamore for ever when he realised she was never going to leave my father. Your father,’ she amended, turning to Dervla. ‘Hey! I guess this means I can’t call myself Kinsella any more. I’ll have to be just plain old Río.’

      ‘That could be pretty cool, Ma,’ said Finn. ‘You’d be like those famous one-name dames, like Madonna or Britney or Angelina.’

      ‘You need have no worries on that account,’ Mr Morrissey assured her. ‘Your surname was always and always will be Kinsella. That you have legally inherited from your–er–stepfather.’

      ‘Wow. At least he left me something other than destitute.’

      ‘Let’s get on with the matter in hand,’ said Dervla. ‘I’m sure Mr Morrissey has more pressing concerns.’

      ‘Yes, indeed,’ said Mr Morrissey,