“I don’t know you.” But her lips were warm with the taste of his, her body primed for the weight of him. “I don’t sleep with men I don’t know.”
He lowered his head, skimmed his teeth lightly over her throat. “Is that a firm policy?”
“It used to be.”
He nipped his way along her jaw. “We’re going to get to know each other very quickly.”
“All right. That’s all right. Don’t kiss me again now. It isn’t proper, not with them downstairs this way, Jack. They’re waiting supper for us.”
“Then we’ll go down.”
THEY SETTLED IN the small dining room made charming with china figures and antique glass. The walls were decorated with a collection of old, floral-patterned plates.
“You have such a lovely home,” Rebecca complimented Mary. “It’s so nice of you to let me come.”
“It’s a treat for us.” Mary beamed and helpfully cocked her ear in Rebecca’s direction. “Jack never brings his girls to see us.”
“Doesn’t he?”
“No, indeed.” She had the soft music of Ireland in her voice. “We only met the one he married twice, and once was at the wedding. We didn’t like her very much, did we, Steven?”
“Now, Mary.”
“Well, we didn’t. She had a cold streak, if you ask me, and—”
“The roast is perfect, Gram.”
Distracted, Mary sent Jack a twinkling look. “You always favored my pot roast.”
“I married you for it,” Steven said with a wink. “Like a lot of young men, I did the Grand Tour when I was done with university,” he told Rebecca. “Outside of Dublin, I stayed at a small inn and met my Mary, whose parents ran it. I fell in love with her over pot roast, and ended my tour then and there. It took me two weeks to convince her to marry me and move back to Bath.”
“You exaggerate. It took you only ten days.”
“And we’ve been married now sixty-eight years. We lived in America for a time. In New York. My father’s family had fallen on very hard times. They’d never recovered from the crash of ’twenty-nine. One of my daughters married an American and settled there. It’s her daughter who’s Jack’s mother.”
He reached over to lay his hand over Mary’s. “We’ve had four children, two sons and two daughters. They gave us eleven grandchildren, and they six great-grandchildren and counting. Every one of them owes their life to Felix Greenfield. That one unselfish and courageous act set the rest in motion.”
“He didn’t intend it. The way it’s been told in my family,” Rebecca explained. “He only wanted to live, to survive. He was panicked when he found the life jacket. He thought only of saving himself, then he saw your mother, and you, trapped in the debris. He said she was so calm, so beautiful in the midst of all the horror. And she held you close to comfort you, and you her, without even crying for all you were just a little thing. And he couldn’t turn away.”
“I remember his face,” Steven said. “Dark eyes, white skin already smeared with smoke or soot. My father was gone. I didn’t see it happen, or don’t remember. That she’d never speak of. But we fell when the ship lurched. She was carrying me, and we fell. She twisted herself to keep me from hitting the deck. She always had a limp when she tired after that.”
“She was a brave and wonderful woman,” Rebecca said.
“Oh, she was. And I think her courage met Felix Greenfield’s that day. The ship was sinking, and the deck tilting higher and higher. He pulled her up it, trying to get us to one of the lifeboats. But the boat lurched again, and though he tried to reach us—I see his face even now as he called out and tried to get to her—we fell into the water. Without the life jacket he’d given us, we wouldn’t have had a prayer.”
“Even with it, it’s a miracle. He said she was hurt.”
“She broke her arm shielding me as we went into the water, and as I said, she’d already badly twisted her leg. She wouldn’t let me go. I had barely a scratch. The miracle,” he said, “was my mother and Felix Greenfield. Because of them, you could say the thread of my life has been long and productive.”
When Rebecca stared, Jack lifted his water glass. “Which brings us to the Fates. Did I tell you my great-great-grandfather had a small antique shop in Bath?”
A chill ran over Rebecca’s skin. “You didn’t mention it, no.”
“Yes, indeed.” Steven polished off his roast beef. “Inherited it from my grandfather. We were going to visit my mother’s parents there. My grandmother wasn’t well. After my father was lost, we stayed in Bath rather than returning to New York. Because of that I developed quite an interest in antiques and made my own living through them, in the same shop my grandfather had. Another twist of fate that owes its run to Felix.”
He crossed his knife and fork tidily over his plate. “I can’t tell you how fascinated I was when Jack told me Felix stole one of the Three Fates from Henry Wyley’s stateroom just before he saved my life. Mary dear, are we going to have that apple pie in the parlor?”
“Never can wait for his pie. Go on and settle in, then, I’ll bring it along shortly.”
Questions were tripping over her tongue, but her mother had drummed manners into her. “I’ll help you clear, Mrs. Cunningham.”
“Oh, there’s no need.”
“Please, I’d like to help.”
Mary shot Jack an arched look as everyone got to their feet. “The one you married never offered to clear a dish, to my recollection.”
While the dishes were seen to, Rebecca was treated to a full rundown of Jack’s ex-wife. She’d been beautiful, brainy and blond. An American lawyer who, according to Mary, worried more about her career than hearth and home. They’d taken their time marrying and had divorced, in her opinion, in a finger snap and without even the heart for battling over it.
Rebecca made appropriate noises and filed the information away. She was interested; in fact, she was dying to know everything. But she couldn’t juggle the matter in her brain with thoughts of the Fates.
She wheeled in the dessert tray herself and held back the barrage of questions that raced through her mind.
“This one’s been raised right,” Mary said with approval. “Your mother must be a fine woman.”
“She is, thank you.”
“Now, if the two of you don’t finish what you’ve started and give this poor child the rest of it, I’ll do it myself.”
“Connections,” Jack said. “We’ve talked about them, haven’t we, Rebecca?”
“We have.”
“The little shop in Bath was called Browne’s. It was established in the early eighteen hundreds and catered, for a number of years, to the gentry who came to Bath for the waters. Often, its clientele were those who needed to liquidate possessions into cash, discreetly. So its stock was varied and often unique. While discreet, it was a carefully run business, and records were meticulously kept. According to them, in the summer of 1883, a certain Lord Barlow sold a number of trinkets and artifacts to Browne’s. Among them was a small silver statue, Grecian style, of a woman holding a pair of scissors.”
“Holy Mary, Mother of God.”
“My grandfather was proprietor of Browne’s when Wyley made his last crossing,” Steven continued. “I have no way of knowing if he’d been in touch with my grandfather regarding the Fate. I first learned of them when I was a young man, enthusiastically studying my trade. I was interested in the legend of the statue and whether or not the one Browne’s had purchased so long before had been authentic. When I heard that Wyley had owned one of the set, and had, by all accounts, taken it with him on the ship, I was more fascinated.”
“But even if the statue Browne’s had bought was authentic,” Jack put in, “its value was diminished as the first Fate was, by all accounts, lost along with Wyley. So what was left was an intriguing connection to another
Lusitania
passenger, and a piece of a legend.”
“Was it real? Where is it now?” Rebecca demanded.
“My mother never tires of family history.” Rather than answering, Jack rose to put another log on the parlor fire. “I was raised on it, and the sinking of the
Lusitania,
the legend of the Fates were part of all that. And, I came by my own interest in antiques naturally,” he added, laying a hand on Steven’s shoulder. “When Anita mentioned the Fates, it stirred my interest in them again, enough that I phoned my mother and asked her to confirm the stories she’d told me. Enough for me to arrange for an overdue visit here, with a stop in Cobh to check out Sullivan and pay my respects to Felix Greenfield.”
He crossed to a satinwood display cabinet, opened it. “Imagine my surprise when I discovered the Sullivans were just one more connection, to this.”
He turned and held up the third Fate.
“It’s here.” Though her legs felt like rubber, Rebecca rose. “It’s been here all along.”
“Where it’s been,” he said as he held it out for her, “since Granddad closed the doors of Browne’s twenty-six years ago.”
She held it in her cupped hand, testing the weight, studying the cool, almost sorrowful silver face. Gently, she ran her thumb over the shallow notch in the right corner of the base. Where, Rebecca knew, Atropus would link with Lachesis.
“Another thread, another circle. What will you do now?”
“Now, I take it with me back to New York, negotiate with Cleo Toliver for hers, then figure out how to get yours back from Anita.”
“It’s good you remember the first is mine.” She gave the statue back to him. “I’ll be going to New York as well.”
“You’ll be going back to Cobh,” he corrected. “And staying an ocean away from Anita.”
She angled her head. “I’ll be going to New York, with you, or on my own, for I’m damned if you or my brothers will finish this off without me. You’d best resign yourself, Jack, that I won’t be tucked in a corner to wait while the men do the work. I pull my own weight.”
“There now.” Mary cut her husband a second slice of pie. “What did I tell you? I like this one much better than the one you married, Jack. Sit down and finish your pie, Rebecca. Of course you’re going with him to New York.”
Her expression was smug as Rebecca turned away and sat. She forked up a bite of pie. “Thank you, Mrs. Cunningham. I wonder if I should stop in Dublin and buy some clothes for the trip, or wait and buy some things in New York. I’ve only packed one change of clothes.”
“Oh, I’d wait if you can. You’ll have such a fine time shopping in New York, won’t you?”
“It’s not a damn vacation,” Jack snapped.
“Don’t interrupt your Gram,” Rebecca said mildly.
“Let it go, boy.” Steven waved a hand. “You’re outnumbered.”
Fifteen
M
ALACHI knew exactly how he would handle Tia, from his initial greeting, to his overall tone of approach. He would apologize again, of course. There was no question about that. And he would use all the charm and persuasion at his disposal to soften her stance toward him.
He owed her; there was no question of that either. For the financial backing, but more, much more, for the help she’d given his brother.
That he could repay by keeping their association completely professional, friendly but reserved. He thought he understood her well enough to know that was the way she’d prefer it.
Once they were on the proper footing again, they would get down to business.
He and Gideon would move into a hotel. Naturally they couldn’t continue to impose on her privacy. But he hoped he could convince her to allow the Toliver woman to stay. In that way, he’d be assured they were both safe. And, almost as important, that they were out of his way.
A bit worn from the trip, he knocked briskly on her apartment door. And hoped her sense of hospitality would run to a cold beer.
Then she opened the door, and he forgot the beer and his carefully outlined approach.
“You’ve cut your hair.” Without thinking, he reached out to dance his fingers over the short ends of it. “Just look at you.”
She didn’t jerk back. That was the willpower she’d been working on for hours. But she stepped back, stiffly. “Come in, Malachi. Set your bags down,” she invited. “I hope your flight went well.”
“It was fine. It suits you, you know. The hair. You look wonderful. I missed seeing you, Tia.”
“Do you want a drink?”
“I would, please. I’m sorry, I haven’t even thanked you for fronting me the means to fly over.”
“It’s business.” She turned and walked into the kitchen.
“You’ve changed more than your hair.”
“Maybe.” Assuming he’d prefer a beer, as his brother did, she pulled one out of the refrigerator, shifted to get a glass from the cupboard. “Maybe I’ve had to.”
“I’m sorry, Tia, for the way I handled things.”
Proud of herself, she popped the top of the beer and poured it into the glass without the slightest tremor in her hand. “The way you handled me, you mean.”
“Yes. I could make excuses for it.” He took the glass she held out to him. Waited for her gaze to meet and hold his. “I could even make you accept them, but I won’t bother. I regret lying to you more than I can tell you.”
“There’s no point in hashing it over at this stage.” She started to walk back into the living room and stopped when he stepped over to block her.
“It wasn’t all a lie.”
Though her color came up, her voice was cool and brisk. “There’s no point in discussing that either. We have a mutual interest, and a mutual claim, on a particular piece of art. I intend to use my resources, and yours, to get it back. That’s all there is to discuss.”
“You’re making it easier on me.”
“Oh?” She cocked her head to what she hoped was a sarcastic angle. “How?”
“By not being vulnerable, I don’t have to worry so much about bruising you.”
“I had thin skin once. That doesn’t seem to be one of my problems anymore. Now, house rules.” This time she skirted quickly around him and began to breathe easier as soon as she had some distance. “No smoking in the apartment. You can use the terrace or, as Gideon is just now, the roof. He and Cleo had a good case of cabin fever working up, so I suggested they use the roof for a while. It’s not as confining as the terrace, and it’s safe.”