Authors: Nora Roberts
“I thought of it once or twice.” She pushed back her untidy hair. “It’s been years since I’ve visited Dublin.” She thought of the juggler she’d seen, and of course, of her father. “I’d forgotten how noisy it is.”
“I assume you haven’t eaten.”
“I haven’t, no.” If she didn’t count the biscuit she’d had with her tea.
“Dinner’s ordered for seven-thirty, but I can have it put back until eight if you’d like to join us for cocktails.”
“Us?”
“My grandmother. She’s anxious to meet you.”
“Oh.” Maggie’s mood plummeted. Someone else to meet, to talk to, to be with. “I wouldn’t want to hold you up.”
“It’s not a problem. If you’d like to change, we’ll be in the parlor.”
“Change for what?” Resigned, she tucked her sketchbook under her arm. “I’m afraid I left all my formal attire at home. But if my appearance embarrasses you, I can have a tray in my room.”
“Don’t put words in my mouth, Maggie.” Taking her firmly by the arm, Rogan steered her into the parlor. “Grandmother.” He addressed the woman sitting regally in the high back brocaded chair. “I’d like you to meet Margaret Mary Concannon. Maggie, Christine Sweeney.”
“An absolute delight.” Christine offered a fine-boned hand, accented with one gleaming sapphire. Matching ones dripped from her ears. “I take full credit for you being here, my dear, as I bought the first piece of your work that intrigued Rogan.”
“Thank you. You’re a collector, then?”
“It’s in the blood. Please sit. Rogan, get the child something to drink.”
Rogan moved to the glittering decanters. “What would you like, Maggie?”
“Whatever you’re having.” Resigned to being polite for an hour or two, Maggie set her sketchpad and purse aside.
“It must be thrilling to be having your first major show,” Christine began. Why, the girl was striking, she thought. All cream and fire, as eye-catching in a shirt and tights as dozens of women would attempt to be in diamonds and silks.
“To be honest, Mrs. Sweeney, it’s hard for me to imagine it.” She accepted the glass from Rogan and hoped its contents would be enough to brace her for an evening of making conversation.
“Tell me what you thought of the gallery.”
“It’s wonderful. A cathedral to art.”
“Oh.” Christine reached out again, squeezing Maggie’s hand. “How my Michael would have loved to hear you say that. It’s exactly what he wanted. He was a frustrated artist, you know.”
“No.” Maggie slanted Rogan a glance. “I didn’t.”
“He wanted to paint. He had the vision, but not the aptitude. So he created the atmosphere and the means to celebrate others who did.” Christine’s smoky silk suit rustled as she sat back. “He was a wonderful man. Rogan takes after him, in looks and temperament.”
“That must make you very proud.”
“It does. As I’m sure what you’ve done with your life has made your family proud of you.”
“I don’t know as pride’s quite the word.” Maggie sipped her drink, discovered Rogan had served her sherry and struggled not to grimace. Fortunately, the butler came to the doorway at that moment to announce dinner.
“Well, that’s handy.” Grateful, Maggie set her glass aside. “I’m starved.”
“Then we’ll go straight in.” Rogan offered his grandmother his arm. “Julien is delighted you’re enjoying his cuisine.”
“Oh, he’s a fine cook, that’s the truth. I wouldn’t have the heart to tell him I’m such a poor one myself I’ll eat anything I don’t have to prepare.”
“We won’t mention it.” Rogan drew out a chair for Christine, then for Maggie.
“We won’t,” Maggie agreed. “Since I’ve decided to try to barter some of Brie’s recipes for his.”
“Brie is Maggie’s sister,” Rogan explained as the soup course was served. “She runs a B-and-B in Clare, and from personal experience, I can attest that her cuisine is excellent.”
“So, your sister’s an artist in the kitchen rather than the studio.”
“She is,” Maggie agreed, finding herself much more comfortable in Christine Sweeney’s company than she’d expected to be. “It’s a magic touch Brianna has with hearth and home.”
“In Clare, you say.” Christine nodded as Rogan offered her wine. “I know the area well. I come from Galway myself.”
“You do?” Surprise and pleasure flitted across Maggie’s face. It was another reminder to her of how much she missed home. “What part?”
“Galway City. My father was in shipping. I met Michael through his business deals with my father.”
“My own grandmother—on my mother’s side—came from Galway.” Though under most circumstances, Maggie would rather eat than talk, she was enjoying the combination of excellent food and conversation. “She lived there until she married. That would be about sixty years ago. She was a merchant’s daughter.”
“Is that so. And her name?”
“She was Sharon Feeney before her marriage.”
“Sharon Feeney.” Christine’s eyes brightened, as deep now and as sparkling as her sapphires. “Daughter of Colin and Mary Feeney?”
“Aye. You knew her, then?”
“Oh, I did. We lived minutes from each other. I was a bit younger than she, but we spent time together.” Christine winked at Maggie, then looked at Rogan to draw him into the conversation. “I was madly in love with Maggie’s great-uncle Niall, and used Sharon shamelessly to be around him.”
“Surely you needed to use nothing and no one to get any man’s attention,” Rogan said.
“Oh, you’ve a sweet tongue.” Christine laughed and patted his hand. “Mind yourself around this one, Maggie.”
“He doesn’t waste much sugar on me.”
“It dissolves in vinegar,” Rogan retorted in the most pleasant of tones.
Deciding to ignore him, Maggie turned back to Christine. “I haven’t seen my uncle in years, but I’ve heard he was a fine, handsome man in his youth, and had a way with the ladies.”
“He was, and he did.” Christine laughed again, and the sound was young and gay. “I spent many a night dreaming of Niall Feeney when I was a girl. The truth is”—she turned her brilliant eyes on Rogan, and there was a hint of mischief in them that Maggie admired—“if Michael hadn’t come along and swept me off my feet, I’d have fought to the death to marry Niall. Interesting, isn’t it? You two might have been cousins had things worked out differently.”
Rogan glanced at Maggie, lifted his wine. Horrifying was all he could think. Absolutely horrifying.
Maggie snickered and polished off her soup. “Niall Feeney never married, you know, and lives a bachelor’s life in Galway. Perhaps, Mrs. Sweeney, you broke his heart.”
“I’d like to think so.” The bone-deep beauty so evident in Christine Sweeney’s face was enhanced by a flattering blush. “But the sad truth is, Niall never noticed me.”
“Was he blind, then?” Rogan asked, and earned a beaming smile from his grandmother.
“Not blind.” Maggie sighed at the scents as the fish course was set before her. “But a man perhaps more foolish than most.”
“And never married, you say?” Christine’s inquiry, Rogan noted with a slight frown, was perhaps just a tad too casual.
“Never. My sister corresponds with him.” A wicked twinkle gleamed in Maggie’s eye. “I’ll have her mention you in her next letter. We’ll see if his memory’s better than his youthful judgment.”
Though her smile was a bit dreamy, Christine shook her head. “Fifty-five years it’s been since I left Galway for Dublin, and for Michael. Sweet Mary.”
The thought of the passing years brought a pleasant sadness, the same she might have felt on watching a ship sail out of port. She still missed her husband, though he’d been gone for more than a dozen years. In an automatic gesture Maggie found touching, Christine laid a hand over Rogan’s.
“Sharon married a hotelier, did she not?”
“She did, yes, and was widowed for the last ten years of her life.”
“I’m sorry. But she had her daughter to comfort her.”
“My mother. But I don’t know as she was a comfort.” The dregs of bitterness interfered with the delicate flavor of the trout in Maggie’s mouth. She washed them away with wine.
“We wrote for several years after Sharon married. She was very proud of her girl. Maeve, isn’t it?”
“Aye.” Maggie tried to envision her mother as a girl, and failed.
“A lovely child, Sharon told me, with striking golden hair. The temper of a devil, she would say, and the voice of an angel.”
Maggie swallowed hurriedly, gaped. “The voice of an angel? My mother?”
“Why, yes. Sharon said she sang like a saint and wanted to be a professional. I believe she was, at least for a time.” Christine paused, thinking, while Maggie simply stared. “Yes, I know she was. In fact she came up to Gort to sing, but I couldn’t get down to see her. I had some clippings Sharon sent me, must have been thirty years past.” She smiled, curious. “She no longer sings?”
“No.” Maggie let out a quiet baffled breath. She had never heard her mother raise her voice in anything other than complaint or criticism. A singer? A professional, with a voice like an angel? Surely they must be speaking of different people.
“Well,” Christine went on, “I imagine she was happy raising her family.”
Happy? That was surely a different Maeve Feeney Concannon than had raised her. “I suppose,” Maggie said slowly, “she made her choice.”
“As we all do. Sharon made hers when she married and moved from Galway. I must say I missed her sorely, but she loved her Johnny, and her hotel.”
With an effort, Maggie put thoughts of her mother aside. She would have to pick through them later, carefully. “I remember Gran’s hotel from childhood. We worked there one summer, Brie and I, as girls. Tidying and fetching. I didn’t take to it.”
“A fortunate thing for the art world.”
Maggie acknowledged Rogan’s compliment. “Perhaps, but it was certainly a relief to me.”
“I’ve never asked you how you became interested in glass.”
“My father’s mother had a vase—Venetian glass it was, flute-shaped, of pale, hazy green. The color of leaves in bud. I thought it was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. She told me it had been made with breath and fire.” Maggie smiled at the memory, lost herself in it a moment, so that her eyes became as hazy as the vase she described. “It was like a fairy tale to me. Using breath and fire to create something you could hold in your hand. So she brought me a book that had pictures of a glass house, the workers, the pipes, the furnaces. I think from that moment there was nothing else I wanted to do but make my own.”
“Rogan was the same,” Christine murmured. “So sure at such a young age of what his life would be.” She let her gaze wander from Maggie to her grandson and back. “And now you’ve found each other.”
“So it would seem,” Rogan agreed, and rang for the next course.
Chapter Eight
M
AGGIE
couldn’t stay away from the gallery. There seemed to be no reason to. Joseph and the rest of the staff were welcoming enough, even going so far as asking for her opinion on some of the displays.
However much it might have pleased her, she couldn’t improve on Rogan’s eye for detail and placement. She left the staff to carry out his orders and set herself up unobtrusively to sketch the Native American artwork.
It fascinated her—the baskets and headdresses, the meticulous beading, the intricacies of the ritual masks. Ideas and visions leaped around in her head like gazelles, bounding, soaring, so that she rushed to transfer them to paper.
She preferred burying herself in work to everything else. Whenever she took too much time to think, her mind veered back to what Christine had told her about Maeve. Just how much, she’d wondered, was beneath the surface of her parents’ lives that she’d been ignorant of? Her mother with a career, her father loving some other woman. And the two of them trapped—because of her—in a prison that had denied them their deepest wishes.
She needed to find out more, and yet she was afraid, afraid that whatever she learned would only further demonstrate the fact that she hadn’t really known the people who had created her. Hadn’t known them at all.
So she put that need aside and haunted the gallery.
When no one objected, she used Rogan’s office as a temporary studio. The light was good, and as the room was tucked away in the back of the building, she was rarely disturbed. Roomy, it was not. Obviously Rogan had elected to utilize every space he could find for the showing of art.
She couldn’t argue with that decision.
She covered his gleaming walnut desk with a sheet of plastic and thick pads of newspaper. The charcoal-and-pencil sketches she had made were only a start. She worked now by adding splashes of color. She’d picked up a few acrylics in a shop near the gallery, but often her impatience with the imperfections of her materials caused her to use other materials at hand, and she would dip her brush into coffee dregs or dampened ashes, or stroke bolder lines with lipstick or eyebrow pencils.
She considered her sketches merely a first step. While she believed herself an adequate enough draftsman, Maggie would never have termed herself a master with brush and paint. This was only a way to keep her vision alive from conception to execution. The fact that Rogan had arranged for several of her sketches to be matted and hung for the show embarrassed her more than pleased her.
Still, she reminded herself that people would buy anything if they were made to believe in its quality and value.
She’d become a cynic, she thought, narrowing her eyes as she studied her work. And a bean counter as well, tallying up profits before they were made. God help her, she’d been caught up in the gossamer dream Rogan had spun, and she’d hate herself, even more than she would hate him, if she went back home a failure.
Did failure run in her blood? she wondered. Would she be like her father and fail to achieve the goal that mattered most to her? She was so intent on her work, and on her darkening thoughts, that she hissed in surprise and annoyance as the office door opened.
“Out! Out! Do I have to lock the damn thing?”
“My thoughts exactly.” Rogan closed the door at his back. “What the hell are you doing?”
“An experiment in nuclear physics,” she snapped back. “What does it look like?” Frustrated by the interruption, she blew her choppy bangs out of her eyes and glared. “What are you doing here?”