Nell (25 page)

“On the contrary,” she said. “It will look as if you and the Labour Party are enlightened. Your government is still new enough to pull it off if you act quickly. Institute parade legislation immediately, set up a human rights commission, investigate the Bloody Sunday murders, and enforce the rights of suspects to remain silent during police interrogation and trial.”

“I'll call a press conference.”

“That should help.”

“When will the talks resume?”

“We expect trouble in Belfast,” she said quietly. “When it's clear that the nationalists are appeased over Garvaghy Road, their leaders will come back to the table.”

“I want to speak with Wilson and Browne first, before the press conference. Can you find them?”

The silence stretched out.

“Jillian, are you there?”

“Yes, Tom.”

“Will you find them?”

“I'll try.”

Jillian waited for the click at the other end of the line before replacing her receiver. West Belfast was a war zone and the last place she wanted to be. She could call Frankie at the Sinn Fein office, but the chances of finding him there were slim. He had given her his home number, but she shied away from using it. It was too personal and, after the way they last parted, too immodest. She would have to wait for him in front of his flat, and that meant crossing the barricades late in the day.

Perhaps she would see Connor. The thought lifted her spirits. He was such a dear little lad. She would bring something along to cheer him up. If small boys were anything like girls, they loved toys with moving parts. She would find something appropriate tomorrow.

The following morning, Jillian waited her turn in the queue of autos lined up to cross into West Belfast. Octagonal guard towers with automatic rifles pointed menacingly in the direction of West Belfast towered above the Peace Wall gate. Soldiers checked the papers of Catholics and Protestants wishing to cross over to opposite sides of the city.

A young man about Casey's age poked his head into her window. “Papers, please.”

She passed them over, watched him scan her identification, and saw his eyes widen. “Begging your pardon, ma'am, the streets are a mess just now. I wouldn't go in for a few more days.”

Jillian smiled politely. “Unfortunately, my business won't wait. Thank you for the warning. I'll be careful.”

He nodded, handed back her papers, and waved her through.

She should have brought a driver or taken a black taxi, those notorious hearselike autos that operated in West Belfast under the direction of the Irish Republican Army. Driving her expensive sedan with its Ulster plates through smoke-filled streets was an invitation for trouble. She stared straight ahead, praying for lights to turn before she came to a full stop.

Ahead of her, a crowd of men, women, and children milled in front of the community center. On a hastily erected dais, a tall, dark-haired man with a full beard addressed the crowd through a loudspeaker. “I have demanded the rerouting of the parade scheduled for the Lower Ormeau Road,” he said to the angry crowd. “All right-thinking people will agree with us.”

A man shouted from below. “They said they couldn't hold the barricade against the Orangemen.”

Robbie Wilson laughed, a short, sharp bark that held little humor. “Ask any nationalist how long he can hold a barricade on the Falls Road. He'll tell you forever. The unionists behave the way they do because the British government lets them,” he said. “If we—”

The low rumble of a tank engine drowned out his voice. Jillian pulled over to the curb and looked behind her. The color drained from her face. Three armored Land Rovers rolled slowly, steadily toward the assembly. A woman screamed. The crowd scattered in every direction, and the sharp crack of gunfire ripped through the chaos. Glass shattered, and the smell of chemicals filled the air.

From the end of the street, a small black-haired boy darted into the path of the oncoming tanks. Dear God! “Connor!” Jillian screamed. Horrified, she flung herself out of the car, praying that she would be in time. The dreadful crack of a sniper's rifle whistled past her ear. Petrol bombs and rocks crashed around her.

The boy's small body crumpled to the ground in a heap. The rat-a-tat-tat of gunfire came from all directions. Smoke filled her nose and burned her eyes. Jillian could no longer see. “Connor!” she cried out again. Falling to her knees, she began to crawl.

“They've shot a boy, the bastards!” The cry rang out from the street. “A wee lad is down!”

“Connor!” A man's agonized cry came from a shop on the corner.

Through streaming eyes, Jillian saw Frankie race into the street. A soldier in green camouflage lifted his gun and took aim. She opened her mouth to call out when a voice, calm and soothing, reached her ears.
Go
back, Jilly. Go back now. I'll take care of this.

Confused, Jillian stared at the scene in the street. Frankie had reached Connor and thrown his body over his son's still form. A woman stood over them, fearlessly facing the tanks. She spread her arms, encompassing the man and the boy in a circle of pale hair and windy light.
Nell!
Petrol bombs exploded all around them, and bullets riddled building walls, car doors, lampposts, billboards, everywhere but inside the small nucleus of light.

Jillian looked back at the steadily approaching Land Rovers. Somewhere, through the chaos, she heard the voice.
Now, Jilly. Now they need you.

Reacting instinctively, Jillian ran back to her car, turned the key with shaking hands, and careened wildly into the path of the oncoming tanks, stopping beside the two figures lying in the street. Frankie knelt on the pavement, holding the boy in his arms. “Get in!” she shouted at him, leaning across the seat to open the door.

He lifted a ravaged face to hers. “He's alive.”

“We haven't much time.” She forced herself to remain calm. “Get into the car. I'll take you to the Royal Victoria.”

Somehow, she made him understand the urgency. Without another word, he climbed into the automobile.

Jillian never knew how long it took to drive through the angry streets of Belfast, but it seemed the longest journey of her life. She called ahead on the car phone and when she stopped at the emergency entrance to the hospital, a full retinue of doctors greeted them. Within minutes, Connor was stabilized and on his way to surgery.

Frankie was in shock. Even Jillian, inexperienced in medical science, knew what the blueness around his lips and the pallor of his complexion meant. Quickly, she called for help, slipped her arm around his waist, and led him to the waiting-room couch. A nurse and an orderly rolled in a gurney. Together they lifted him onto the clean white sheets and draped a blanket over his body. Then they wheeled him away.

Jillian looked at the cheerful picture-lined walls, at the stacks of colorful magazines arranged on the coffee table, at the coffee perking in its spot on the shelf. Then she sank down on the couch, rested her head in her hands, and wept.

Jillian's hand tightened on her cell phone. “I don't care where Mr. Flanagan is,” she said tightly. “Either he returns my call within the hour, or I'll take steps to remove him from his position as chief of police.”

The voice on the other end of the line was silent. “I'll relay your message,” he said at last.

The doctor stepped into the waiting room. “The boy's injuries are not serious, Mrs. Graham. The bullet grazed his head, causing a concussion, nothing more. We'll watch him tonight and release him tomorrow morning.”

Jillian closed her eyes. Then she opened them again, the picture of control. “How is Mr. Browne?”

“We've given him a sedative. He's sleeping.”

“Does he know that Connor is out of danger?”

“Not yet.”

“I'd like to tell him, if you don't mind.”

“Of course. I'll show you to his room.”

Jillian settled herself in a chair at the foot of Frankie's bed and prepared herself for a long wait. Frankie Maguire, sedated, his features relaxed in sleep, did not look at all like himself. He seemed younger, more vulnerable, the way he looked before he'd taken on the task of rescuing Northern Ireland from the British. What would he have been, she wondered, if circumstances had been different? He was well spoken and sensitive, an intelligent man, comfortable with animals and children. His manners were impeccable, and on occasion he had revealed a dry wit that surprised her. He was certainly adept at negotiating, reading between the lines, and isolating the pulse of an issue.

Everything else about his life was a mystery. She knew nothing about how he'd lived after he left Kilvara, the friendships he cultivated, the books he read, even the extent of his family besides Connor and Colette. He appeared athletic and knowledgeable about spectator sports, particularly boxing, but it wasn't an obsession with him. He drank his tea with milk and sugar, abstained from spirits, and, on occasion, smoked filtered cigarettes.

It was very little, really, the totality of a man and his parts. Certainly no reason for this all-consuming desire to ease his pain, to feel his glance from across the room, to connect beyond mere eyes and words, to sweep the hair back from his forehead, to feel the clean fineness of it slide between her fingers.

She drew a long, shuddering breath and deliberately focused her attention on the liquid dripping through the tube above his head. Clearly, for the first time in her life, she was besotted. After twenty-two uneventful years, she, Jillian Fitzgerald Graham, had found him again, the boy-turned-man whose smile shortened her breath and squeezed her heart into its present erratic rhythm. Ironically, he was the one man who despised everything she was. She laughed shortly, hysterically, remembered her place, laced her fingers tightly together, and brought her roiling emotions under control.

Mixed relationships were as common in other parts of the United Kingdom as they were in the rest of the world. Even Thomas Putnam's wife was Catholic. But in Northern Ireland, stepping outside one's faith for a mate was not encouraged. Only ten percent of the population married outside their religion. Frankie Maguire wasn't just a nationalist, he was a Sinn Fein nationalist, one of the chosen elite, elected to a council seat. His official position demanded that everyone having anything to do with the British occupation in Northern Ireland be consigned to the devil.

Jillian was not completely inexperienced. Because of her appearance, her wealth, and her family's position in society, she had been courted by a number of men before marrying Avery Graham. For the most part, they were charming, clever, and agreeable companions. But never once had she been inclined to do anything more than offer her lips in a chaste kiss before saying good night at her door.

There were times when she wondered if desire was something one was born with and if her requisite dosage had been misplaced or, worse, given to someone else. She knew that some women were cold. That explained the existence of the world's oldest profession. She'd read and heard enough to understand that many women did not enjoy sex to the same degree as their husbands did.

At times a restlessness claimed her, after a blatant invitation had been offered, when she'd admitted to a prurient curiosity and imagined what it would be like to take off her clothes and feel a man's body move over and inside her. But never had she wanted it enough to consider seriously acting on it, until tonight.

Her eyes flicked over Frankie's broad shoulders bordered by the hospital white of the sheets, lingering on his strong neck, his square chin, the slashing hollows below the bones of his cheeks, the black lashes resting on sun-dark skin. Jillian swallowed. She wanted Frankie Maguire, wanted him in ways she had never imagined wanting a man.

There was no hope for anything permanent. She understood enough of him to know he would reject that idea completely. However, he was a man, a man without a wife. And men had needs.

Jillian stood and walked to the side of the bed. Tentatively, she reached out to touch his cheek. The first signs of a new beard scratched her fingertips. She had needs as well. They were strong within her, especially one. It was madness really, even to think the thoughts working themselves into her head. She was a woman with no experience at all in seduction. But her time was running out. Nothing would be lost by asking. All he could say was no. Of course, she would have nothing left of pride or self-respect, and the tenuous friendship that had built up between them would be lost forever. “Nell,” she whispered, “if ever I needed you, it's now. Please help me.”

The tinny double ring of her cell phone interrupted her. She walked into the hall, pressed the receive button, and held it to her ear. “Jillian Graham,” she said crisply.

“Ronnie Flanagan, here.”

“Mr. Flanagan, I would like a full report on today's events in West Belfast, including the name of the person who authorized you to send Land Rovers into a peaceful assembly.”

“Your information is incorrect, Mrs. Graham,” the police chief replied. “There were no tanks on the west side.”

Rage drummed in her ears. “Listen carefully, Mr. Flanagan, and don't interrupt. I was there. Those bloody tanks were shooting at me. Now, either I receive an accurate report, faxed to my office within the hour, or I'll call the prime minister. Is that clear?”

“Aye,” the clipped voice answered. “You'll have it.”

Jillian switched off her phone and walked to the end of the hall to compose herself. When she reentered Frankie's room, he was awake.

Immediately, his eyes met hers. “How is Connor?”

“Recovering beautifully,” she reassured him, moving to the side of the bed. “The bullet grazed his forehead, and he has a concussion. They want to keep him overnight and release him in the morning. He'll need a few days of quiet, but that's all.” She wet her lips. “He was very lucky. You were both very lucky.”

He nodded. His eyes were still on her face. “Thank you,” he said. “I should have taken better care of him. If it hadn't been for you—”

She reached for his hand. His fingers closed around hers.

“Come home with me to Kildare,” she said abruptly.

He stared at her, his expression unreadable.

“Connor needs rest. You've been working very hard. It's been a difficult time.”

“No more than for you.”

She looked down at her hands. “We could both use a holiday.”

“Together?”

Color rose in her cheeks. “If you don't mind.”

“Why are y' doing this, Jillian? Is it because of Colette?”

She was very aware of him. The question he posed burned in his eyes. “It's not Colette,” she whispered. “You said that you would come. Now seems like a good time.” Frankie knew it wasn't wise to see too much of her. Any fool would know better. But he was particularly vulnerable where she was concerned, and she knew all the right buttons to push. He was tired. He couldn't remember a time when he hadn't been tired. What would it be like to explore the rolling farm country of Kildare with Jillian again, where the stroll was more important than reaching a destination, where a woman's walk, like her conversation, had a languid, slow-moving grace? It was dangerous, but what wasn't? “Thank you,” he said at last. “We'll be pleased t' come.”

***

Frankie carried Connor up the wide staircase of Kildare Hall, through the door into a bedroom, and looked around. It was unlike any bedroom he had ever seen before. White clouds had been skillfully and realistically painted on robin's-egg blue walls. A white canopy stretched across a bed large enough for five children to sleep comfortably. Three mobiles with dancing cartoon figures hung from the ceiling. A box stuffed with toys, its lid left invitingly open, was pushed against the wall. Books, expensive hardbound copies of every children's story imaginable, lined the shelves. A rocking horse three feet high with real hair stood beside a life-size tin soldier, his arm raised protectively over a small table with dinosaur figures strategically placed across the top. A large television was mounted on the wall. Below it was a cabinet filled with tapes of animated children's videos. The colors red, white, and blue assaulted him from every angle.

He whistled a low, piercing note and set Connor on the bed. How could anyone sleep in such a room?

“It is a bit excessive, isn't it?” Jillian stood against the door, arms behind her back. “It was Casey's room a long time ago. We furnished it when she first came to us.”

Frankie remained silent.

The color was high in her cheeks. “Perhaps it's too much.”

Connor recovered first. His eyes sparkled. “Will this be my room?” he asked in a hushed whisper.

“Only if you like it,” Jillian said quickly. “There are other rooms.”

“I love it,” replied the child reverently. “Please, Da. May I stay?”

Frankie looked down at the cherubic face leaning against his arm and relented. Poor little bloke. How could he ever give him this? Why not let him enjoy it while he had the chance? “Of course, you may stay,” he said gently, “as long as Casey doesn't mind.”

“She moved down the hall years ago,” said Jillian. “I suppose I should have remodeled it, but there are other rooms, and I'd hoped—” She met Frankie's quizzical glance and faltered.

Mrs. Hyde poked her head through the door and smiled at Connor. “Welcome to Kildare, love. Shall I set everything to rights while Mrs. Graham shows your da to his room? I've two grandsons of my own,” she assured Frankie.

Connor nodded. “Do you have chips today, Mrs. Hyde?”

“Connor,” his father admonished him. “Whatever Mrs. Hyde is serving will be fine.”

“It's all right, Mr. Browne. I've a basket of chips and a bite of fish all ready for the lad, if you don't mind. After all, it is almost tea time.”

Frankie grinned. “So it is. Fish and chips sounds wonderful. Say thank you, Connor.”

“Thank you.”

Jillian crossed the room and leaned over the bed to kiss Connor on the cheek. Frankie could smell her perfume.

“Rest now, love,” she said softly. “Your da will be back soon.”

Frankie left his son to the redoubtable Mrs. Hyde and followed Jillian two doors down to a suite with a light, airy bedroom that looked down over the garden, a large modern bathroom, and a masculine sitting room furnished in muted colors and expensive period pieces.

“These were Avery's rooms,” explained Jillian. “There are larger ones, but I thought you would want to be close to Connor.”

They were separated by twelve feet, but never had the distance between them seemed greater. Frankie had never before stepped beyond the kitchen of Kildare Hall. Years ago, in the cozy glow of an old-fashioned cookstove, a woodburning oven, ice box, and pantry, all presided over by a woman from his own class, anything had seemed possible. He should have looked behind the swinging door to the long, glowing banquet table, the gleam of polished silver, the Persian carpets, the priceless paintings, and the rows of Fitzgerald ancestors peering down at him with their long English faces. He would have understood the limitations of his place long before and spared himself years of grief.

“Is it all right?” Jillian asked anxiously. “If not, I can—”

“The rooms are grand,” he interrupted. “I'm sorry. If you'll give me a minute, I'll look in on Connor and meet you downstairs.”

The hazel eyes lowered, hiding her thoughts. “Take as long as you like. There's no rush.”

He'd offended her, or worse, hurt her feelings. “If there's time,” he said quickly before she closed the door, “I'd like to take a walk before tea.”

“The paths are well marked. You won't get lost.”

“Will you come with me?”

She looked startled, as if a man had never asked her such a thing before. He watched her gather herself and assume the Fitzgerald poise, expecting her to refuse him.

“I'd like that,” she said. “I'll wait downstairs.”

Frankie stared at the closed door for a long time. She'd agreed. Just like that. No coy glances through lowered lashes. No flirtatious smile or embarrassed stammer. Just a quiet acquiescence, an affirmation that she wanted his company as he wanted hers.

He ran his hand down his face and headed for the washroom. After a quick shave, he brushed his teeth and combed his hair. Rummaging through the cabinet, he found a bottle of expensive aftershave with the seal and price tag intact. Apparently, Avery Graham had discriminating tastes. He twisted off the lid, held the bottle to his nose, and applied it sparingly to his cheeks and chin. If she recognized the scent, he would tell the truth.

Connor was asleep. Frankie closed the door quietly and walked down the stairs. She waited for him in the drawing room, dressed in the same wide-legged beige slacks and white linen blouse she was wearing when he arrived. Her hair was twisted behind her head and held in place with something brown, the same brown that grew from her roots and lightened into varied streaks of toast and honey as it lengthened to her shoulders. Jillian had beautiful hair, the same hair she'd had as a child, thick and springy, milk chocolate in the shadows, dark blond where it caught the light.