Free A Gift to You by Patricia Scanlan Page A

under the hem of her winceyette nightie. She knew that friends and relatives felt sorry for her, thinking that she
was lonely living by herself but her widowhood had liberated her. She was as free as a bird.
    Irene sighed. That was a terrible reflection on her marriage. But the truth was, she’d been just as lonely when her husband, Jim was alive. Jim had been a hard worker, a good provider.
He’d left her well looked after. There was no denying that. Her lovely new home was proof that her late husband could not be faulted for looking after her material well-being, but the same
could not be said for the way Jim had dealt with her emotional needs.
    Her marriage had been such a disappointment, she reflected drowsily. She had started out with such hopes because she really had loved Jim. And at the beginning, she’d felt that he’d
loved her. He’d wooed her in his quiet, shy way, taking her for long walks along the winding country roads of Waterford, where they’d both grown up. They’d known each other since
childhood but it was only when Jim had become an apprentice to a carpenter in Wexford and left their small village, that Irene had realized how much she missed his quiet, stalwart presence.
    When he’d asked her to go to the pictures with him, one weekend that he was home, she’d been delighted. Jim O’Shaughnessy was a challenge and she wanted him. She was going to
bring down those barriers and get under his skin and find out what made him tick. During the following weeks, she’d drawn him out of himself, got him talking about his work, made him laugh
and felt slowly but surely that she was getting through his reserve. His grey eyes with their incredibly long, curling lashes would light up when he saw her and the shy smile that curved around his
firm, well-shaped mouth always lifted her heart and made her feel incredibly happy.
    When Jim kissed her for the first time, Irene kissed him back with a passion that surprised him.
    ‘I love you,’ she whispered, burying her face in his neck.
    ‘Do you?’ he whispered back, holding her tight against him. ‘What do you love me for? Sure, you could have any man you wanted. All the fellows in the village are mad for
you.’
    ‘I don’t want any of the fellows in the village. I want you. I’m happy when I’m with you.’
    ‘I’m happy when I’m with you, too. You’re beautiful, Irene.’ Jim blushed a dull red as he said the words with bashful shyness.
    Irene was over the moon with happiness. He loved her as much as she loved him; it was just that he found it hard to say the words. His kisses were passionate and hungry. The kisses of a man in
love. What more could she want?
    She would have gone the whole way; it was Jim who’d drawn away and said that he didn’t want to do anything to dishonour her. He respected her too much and besides he didn’t
want her father after him with a shotgun, he’d murmured as his breathing returned to normal. Girls who went all the way were considered loose and beyond redemption but, at the time, Irene
didn’t care. She just wanted to make love and be as intimate as she possibly could with the strong, virile young man who’d taken over her mind and soul.
    Jim fascinated her. She loved watching him work with his hands, his long fingers caressing a piece of wood as gently as they caressed her. He made beautiful ornaments for her and when he’d
given her an intricately carved sandalwood jewellery box with a heart in the middle of the lid, on Valentine’s Day, she’d known that she was loved, even if he had yet to say the words.
Irene waited patiently for his proposal. Eighteen months went by, and not a word, until finally, in complete frustration, she’d asked him, ‘Are we going to get married?’
    ‘I suppose so, if that’s what you want.’ He looked away, embarrassed.
    ‘Don’t be too enthusiastic,’ she snapped.
    ‘Don’t be like that, Irene,’ he muttered.
    ‘Do you love me?’ she