IT is, by all accounts, an interesting reinvention.
As someone who has loved and lost more than once, a foray into an industry that promises the fairytale ending may not have seemed like an obvious move.
But for those who know Mary Lowry, her new job, working for a local wedding planner in Tipperary town, is exactly what she is suited to.
"She's delighted with herself," said one acquaintance.
"She's working with a small business owner, a wedding planner, and she has a spring in her step. She has the personality for that type of thing too, gregarious and down-to-earth."
It's been a year since the longest-running murder trial in the history of the State began in the Central Criminal Court in Dublin.
The Mr Moonlight trial, a nod to the stage name of Bobby Ryan, the much-loved Cashel DJ found murdered at the bottom of a farm run-off tank in 2013, transfixed the nation. Mr Ryan had been dating Ms Lowry, Pat Quirke's widowed sister-in-law, when he mysteriously went missing on the morning of June 3, 2011, having spent the previous night with her on her farm in Fawnagowan.
Quirke had been having an affair with Ms Lowry, an affair that she ended to take up with Mr Ryan, and Quirke wasn't best pleased to learn of her new love interest. In what is believed to have been a preplanned killing, Quirke decided to take matters into his own hands.
The prosecution case, laid out in all its sensational detail last year, was that Quirke, the jealous ex-lover, murdered his 'love rival' and hid him in the tank on Ms Lowry's farm in a desperate bid to rekindle their romance. After a three-month trial, a jury of six men and six women returned a majority verdict of guilty on May 1 and Quirke, the unassuming farmer from Tipperary, was led from court number 13 a convicted murderer.
The trial began on January 17, but national interest in the case was ignited several days later, when Ms Lowry took the stand. She was the star witness for the State, the person the crowds wanted to see, and during her four days of evidence, they came in their droves.
They filed in from early morning, a mixture of curious onlookers and wannabe sleuths. There were the stalwarts with earmarked seats and the fair-weather spectators who attended sporadically. They listened with bated breath as Ms Lowry (52) told the court that she began an affair with Quirke in 2008, a year after her husband died of cancer. He is married to her late husband's sister, she explained, and helped her with the farm and finances. She sought comfort from her grief but Quirke became "overpowering" and she grew ashamed of the relationship.
She ended it in 2010 and started dating Mr Ryan, calling him a "breath of fresh air". Quirke resented the part-time DJ, the court heard. He had written a "Dear Patricia" letter to 'Sunday Independent' agony aunt Patricia Redlich, complaining he was a married man ditched by his girlfriend.
Mr Ryan vanished on June 3, 2011, after leaving Ms Lowry's home. Ms Lowry said Quirke later showed up at the farm looking "hot and sweaty and bothered".
More than two months after her first court appearance, Ms Lowry swept back into court dressed in purple. She had returned unexpectedly to give evidence about a secret recording Quirke had made of her talking to her boyfriend at the time, Flor Cantillon. As word trickled through that she had been spotted coming through the front doors of the criminal court, a flurry of onlookers descended on court 13. "Where's Mary?" shouted one man as he appeared through the double doors.
As the tape of her and Flor was played for the jury, the sound of her infectious laugh and witty chat ricocheted around the room, bringing a blast of warmth to the grim proceedings and the austere surroundings. Later that day, after Flor had also given evidence, the former lovers were spotted in a nearby bakery having lunch. Several other recordings, which became known as the sex tapes, were not played to the jury. The intimate recordings, of Quirke and Ms Lowry and Quirke and his wife, were deemed "too prejudicial" by Judge Eileen Creedon.
One by one, the witnesses in the trial came to give their evidence, strands in an intricate story of murder, that, when all weaved together, left only one man standing as the killer.
Mr Ryan's boss Niall Quinn said he had called to Robert Ryan's home wondering why the usually diligent and punctual employee had not shown up to drive his truck at the quarry that day.
Robert, Bobby's son, was equally concerned when he saw his father's work boots and clothes still in the hallway. He sent him a text message at 10.44am asking: "Da, are you not working today?"
He never got an answer because the message never reached its intended recipient. Fifteen minutes earlier, Mr Ryan's phone signal had pinged off a local mast before it was lost forever. The phone was never found. It was the last question Robert asked his father but the first of many, many more that would haunt the Ryan family for years to come.
Treated initially as a missing person investigation, the forensic investigation normally activated in a murder inquiry did not kick in until 22 months later when Mr Ryan's body was found in an underground tank just yards from where he was last seen. There was no murder weapon, no murder scene, no forensics - Quirke had made sure of that. It was a circumstantial case, the hardest to prove.
Although circumstantial, some of that evidence was damning.
Quirke had been caught on CCTV around Ms Lowry's home, taking her underwear from her clothes line and peering in her windows - an event which led to her telling him she wanted him off the land.
The jury was told the clock was ticking and Quirke's position on the farm was compromised so he staged the discovery of Mr Ryan's body fearing it would later be found by the next person to lease the land. Prosecutors said Quirke inflicted blunt force trauma on Bobby Ryan and hid the body in a disused run-off tank.
In April 2013 Quirke told police he had found a body in the tank while pumping water. Prosecutors said he did so because his lease on the farm - and control over the tank - was due to expire.
It was Breda Dwyer, an earthy, no-nonsense woman from the country, who blew the lid on the apparent alibi Quirke had given to gardaí. On the morning Mr Ryan went missing Ms Dwyer, an artificial insemination technician, said she saw Quirke standing milking cows, not having breakfast as he told detectives. In the 15 years she had been visiting, he was always done and dusted by the time she arrived. The inference? That the small matter of a murder had held him up on June 3.
There were many days of what seemed like interminable legal argument. There were the countless challenges over the evidence - the warrants for the searches of the farm, the tank reconstruction carried out by gardaí, arguments over whether Quirke had said the word 'had' or 'hadn't' in a Garda interview. Most significantly, there had been days spent trying to stop the grisly contents of Quirke's computer going before the jury. In the end, Quirke's twisted suggestion that he had Googled 'human decomposition timeline' on his computer because of his son's death had been a step too far for many. As the weeks turned to months, the tired faces of the Ryan family, huddled together outside on the steps of the Central Criminal Court, said it all. Tired from travelling twice a day between Tipperary and Cork and Dublin, tired from enduring hundreds of hours of testimony, tired of waiting for justice.
They sat together, Mr Ryan's daughter Michelle and son Robert, with their mother Mary and extended family members, bookended on either side of a wooden pew by two victim support staff.
Behind them, sitting alone on a bench reserved for the accused's family, was Imelda Quirke. For the duration of the 15-week trial, this frail woman, the faithful companion of the man in the dock, was the loyal wife. Every morning she arrived at the court, walking by his side, her face tilted slightly upwards, just like his, as if in a small act of defiance.
Even when they were separated - when Quirke took his seat on the accused bench and she retreated to her lonely perch close by - she would sneak knowing glances at him, often fiddling with her scarf.
The gardaí, a small team from Tipperary town, had a corner on the right-hand side of the court, close to a small room that stored the volumes of circumstantial evidence on which this trial hinged.
Lastly, there was Quirke, the man on the accused bench. Always unflinching, never reacting, regularly yawning.
He held the same stoic demeanour when he was sentenced to life in prison on May 1. Since then, he has been serving time in Portlaoise Prison. His appeal, set for five days in October, may now be delayed as a result of court backlogs due to the coronavirus.
Imelda, his ever-supportive wife, is still standing by her man. The couple haven't seen each other in over two weeks due to restrictions on prison visits and a scheduled video call ended when there were problems with the connection. For now, at least, he remains behind bars and unable to physically see any of his family.
The Ryan family, who will mark the ninth anniversary of Mr Ryan's death in the coming months, will have little sympathy for his plight. They lost the privilege of seeing their father long ago.