by Nora Roberts
“Thank you, Sally.” Rising, Breen went in for a hug, just laid her head on Sally’s shoulder. The man had been more of a mother to her than her own for the last decade.
“We’ll talk soon. And you call me if you need me. Not before ten in the morning unless it’s an emergency. I need my beauty sleep.”
“No, you don’t. You’re the most beautiful person I know.”
“Go on. Take off. I’ve got a club to run.”
They went out the back. Marco’s arm automatically went around Breen’s waist. Her head automatically tipped toward his shoulder.
“I’m so tired all at once, Marco. I don’t know if I can eat.”
“You’ll eat, or I’ll tell Sally. Then I’m going to tuck you into bed.”
He walked her along the brick-paved streets under the rainbow streetlights.
The clubs, the restaurants, the cafés were all hopping, as they should be on a pretty Friday night in May.
“I just remembered I left the watering can on the floor of my mother’s office. It’s probably going to leave a ring.”
“Aw.”
“They’re beautiful floors, Marco. None of this is their fault.”
“They’re your mother’s problem, and there wouldn’t be a ring on them if she hadn’t hidden all this from you for, Jesus, sixteen years. So you stop, right now, or you’ll piss me off. Tell me what you’re going to do next.”
“Pay off the student loans. Mr. Ellsworth said he was going to talk to someone—I can’t remember, it’s all so much—about that. And how I could probably get them down a little with a full payoff, if that’s what I wanted to do. And I do. I want them off my head.”
“Okay, I get that. But two other things. How you’re going to talk to your mom and—maybe most important of all—what you’re going to do for fun.”
“I can’t think about the fun.”
“Fine. I will.”
He swung into Philly Pride and the scent of grilled onions. She decided not to think at all while he picked up the food—and flirted harmlessly with Trace, the counter guy.
“Do you think I should ask him out?” Marco wondered when they walked outside again.
“Trace? No, he’s too young for you.”
“He’s our age!”
“Chronologically. He’d bore you inside a week because all he’d want to do other than sex is play video games. You’d say let’s check out this club, and he’d say maybe after I run up my score on Assassin’s Creed.”
“I hate you’re right, because he’s mmmm.”
“But the mmmm—and it’s there all right—wouldn’t last that week. And you’re bringing all this up to take my mind off things.”
“It worked.”
She started to tip her head toward his shoulder again, and caught a glimpse of the man—the silver hair, the tall, slender build in black—across the street.
“Do you see that man, Marco?” She grabbed his arm, then turned to point.
“What man?”
“I—He was just there. He must have turned that corner. He was on the bus today. He . . . I got a weird feeling.”
Since he knew her weird feelings often panned out, Marco gripped her hand, jogged to the corner, peered down the side street.
“Do you see him? What’s he look like?”
“No, he’s just gone. It’s nothing. I had that stupid headache, and that weird feeling. It just felt weird all over again seeing him so close to home. If I did,” she qualified. “I just caught a glimpse. Never mind.”
They walked the half block more to their apartment—a three-level walk-up. She loved the building, the old brick, the rainbow the owner had painted on the entrance doors, the music flowing out of the open windows on a happy spring night.
It made the climb to the third floor worth it.
The landlord kept the building, and the units, in good repair. The tenants kept it clean, and looked out for each other.
They walked up to the sounds of the Friday-night card game from 101, a fretful baby from 204, and soaring opera from 302.
Inside, Marco headed straight for their tiny galley kitchen.
“You go change out of those clothes—and I wouldn’t mind one bit if you listened to Sally and tossed them out the window.”
“There’s nothing wrong with these clothes.”
“The pants are baggy in the ass, the sweater’s beige and washes you out, and, girl, don’t get me started on those shoes.”
Sulking a little, she walked back to her room with its neatly made bed, its small but organized desk, and its single window that looked out on all the color of her part of the city.
She stepped out of her shoes, then put them away in her broomstick of a closet. She stripped off the sweater she now hated, but tossed it in the hamper rather than out the window. Then did the same with the pants.
Maybe they were baggy in the ass, but they didn’t draw any eyebrow wiggles from male students or staff the way Anna Mae’s—US and world history—body-conscious outfits did.
She put on cotton pajama pants and a T-shirt. Took a look at her desk, where she should be sitting right now grading papers.
And walked back into the space that served as their living room, dining room, and her workout area.
It wasn’t much, but since she’d let Marco have his way there, it had style.
Together they’d painted the walls a warm, spicy color that made her think of crushed chili peppers, hung a shelf that held colored bottles of every size and shape. Art—framed posters—ran the theme of musicians. Springsteen, Prince, Jagger, Gaga, Joplin.
They’d covered the secondhand couch in dark green and a lot of wild pillows. Their dining room table consisted of a repurposed door—another thrift-store find—bolted to old iron legs.
An artist friend had painted an orange and emerald dragon, in flight, on top of the old door as a birthday gift for Breen.
Marco set plated food on the table, lit the candles in their iron stands.
“Sit,” he ordered. “Eat. No more wine until you get some food in you.”
“I shouldn’t have any more wine.”
“Well, you’re going to.”
He turned on their shared iPod, eased the volume down so music whispered out.
She sat, and though she didn’t have an appetite, picked up her sandwich. “You know, I couldn’t get through life without you, Marco.”
“Never going to have to. Eat.”
She ate. Maybe she didn’t have any appetite, but she could feel herself settling with the food.
“I want to quit my job.”
The minute she said it, she dropped her cheesesteak, slapped a hand over her mouth. “Where did that come from?” she demanded.
“Could be it comes from you never wanting to be a teacher in the first place.” He continued to eat placidly, but he had that tiny smile going.
“Well, I can want to quit, but it’s crazy and stupid. Yes, I’ve fallen into a lot of money out of nowhere, and it can last me a long time, even grow if I’m careful. Quitting a steady job, one I studied for, paid for—or will shortly pay for—isn’t the way to handle this.”
“You wanted to be a vet.”
“I wanted to be a vet. I wanted to be a ballerina. I wanted to be a rock star, and I wanted to be J. K. Rowling. I’m none of those things, and won’t be.”
“You’re a really good writer, girl.”
She shook her head, went back to eating. “That’s an old dream. I have to think of now, and next.”
“Quit your job.”
“Marco—”
“You hate it. You never wanted to be a teacher. That’s what your mother wanted you to be, that’s what she convinced you you had to be. Like it was your only option. Pay off the debt, quit your job, and give yourself some time to figure out what you want to do, want to be.”
“I can’t just—”
“Yes, you can. It came out of your mouth because it’s what’s in your heart and your mind. Now’s your ch
ance, Breen.”
“But I don’t know how to do anything else.”
“Because you never had the chance. Take some time to find out. You could write, I’m telling you. Or if that ain’t the thing, you could start a business.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you. Damn it, Breen, you’re smart and organized.” Scowling, he poured the wine now that she’d eaten a little. “You could do design work, and don’t say ‘me’ in that dumbass tone. I didn’t put this place together alone, and it looks damn good. We did it. You’ve got a voice, and play the piano. You could do that.
“You let her put you in a box,” he continued, revved up now, “and now the top’s flown off. Don’t you dare slam it shut again.”
“I . . . Just go in Monday and tell the principal I won’t be back in the fall. Just like that?”
“Yeah, like that. You take the summer to figure out what you want to do, or try to do.”
“That’s pretty terrifying.”
“I’d say liberating. Name one thing—the big thing—you really want to do now that you can. You have time, some money. What do you want to do most? Don’t think, don’t try to figure out what makes the best sense. Just say it, like you said you wanted to quit. Let it come.”
“I want to go to Ireland. Oh Jesus, oh God, that’s what I want. I want to go see where my father came from, see what pulled him back there and away from me. I want, if I can, to find him, to ask him why. Why he left, why he sent money. Just why.”
“Do it. That’s a great one thing. Spend the summer in Ireland, let yourself have that time, that place to figure the rest out.”
“The summer?”
“Why the hell not? When’s the last time you had any sort of vacation?”
“When we graduated from college and took a bus to the Jersey Shore for a week.”
“We had a great time,” he remembered. “And that was a time ago, Breen. Long time ago.”
She picked up her wine, drank deep. “Go with me.”
“To Ireland?”
“I’d never do it alone. Go with me. You’re right, you’re right.” She pushed away from the table, whirled around the room. “Why the hell not? It’s what I want. The one thing I really want. We’ll fly first class this time, and stay in a castle. At least one night in a castle. We’ll rent a car and drive on the wrong side of the road. We could—we could rent a cottage. An Irish cottage with a thatched roof.”
“You maybe had too much wine.”
“I haven’t.” She laughed now, eyes dancing. “Go with me, Marco, and share my one thing.”
“I can’t go off for the whole summer. Sally and Derrick, they’d be cool with it, but I’ve got a day job I gotta keep.”
“You hate your day job. You hate working in the music store.”
“Yeah, but nobody slapped me with four mil. But I could go for a couple weeks, get you started. Jesus, I’ve never been to Europe. What a kick in the ass it would be.”
“I’ll kick yours, you kick mine. Deal?”
He sat back. He loved her, more than anything or anyone in the world. And he couldn’t put out that light in her eyes. But he could sure as hell bargain.
“I have conditions.”
She plopped back down. “Name them.”
“I can’t afford first class, so fine, that’s on you. But I pay my share of the rest.”
“I don’t care about that.”
“Yeah, because you’re a freaking millionaire.”
She threw back her head and howled with laughter. “I’m a freaking millionaire.”
“That’s one condition. The others are just as solid from my side. When you finish eating, you’re going in there and washing your hair until you wash that stupid-ass brown shit out of it—for the last time. And you’re tossing that stupid-ass hair dryer out, the one you spend an hour with every morning blowing your gorgeous curls straight.”
He shook his head when she opened her mouth to object.
“You’re going to Ireland. Bet you won’t be the only redhead there.”
“I’m not the only redhead anywhere.”
“That’s right, but you let yourself be convinced the hair, your hair, made you look, what, frivolous? That it attracted attention—and why the hell shouldn’t it? Fuck that, Breen.”
“You’ll go with me, at least two weeks, if I go back to my natural hair.”
“That’s right.”
“Deal.”
“Not quite there yet. I have one more.”
“You’re a hard sell, Marco Polo.”
“I ain’t no pushover. This one’s important, it might be key.” He leaned forward. “Tomorrow, we’re going shopping because tonight we’re bagging up damn near everything in your closet. We’ll drop it by the Goodwill tomorrow, then you, being the lucky woman with every woman’s dream of a gay best friend, are going to let me help you buy clothes that don’t hurt my heart when you wear them.”
“My clothes aren’t that bad.”
“Sad and pitiful is what they are, and you are not. You’ve let yourself think you need to be, or need to be goddamn beige. I’m not going to talk against your mama, because that’s not how I was brought up. But I am going to say, when you go talk to her next week, you’re going to look like what you really are: strong, capable, beautiful, and smart. And we’re buying some good makeup while we’re at it, too.”
“That’s a lot of conditions.”
“It is what it is. I love you, Breen.”
“I know you do, and so . . .” She held out a hand. “Deal.”
“That’s my girl!”
CHAPTER THREE
In another series of firsts, Breen took off work on the day of her mother’s expected arrival. She’d bought the listed groceries, put them away. After all, she’d agreed to do so.
She opened the windows, watered the plants, sorted the mail.
She had a calm, and firm, monologue in her head. In fact, she’d written out what she intended to say to her mother. She’d edited and revised it several times. Practiced it in the mirror.
Then she’d practiced it without the mirror, as she didn’t altogether recognize the person looking back at her.
She knew the drama of the change if only from the looks, comments, even compliments at work, on the bus.
The hair, flaming curls well beyond her shoulders—and Marco had vetoed her option of having it cut—made the statement. She wasn’t sure, yet, what the statement was, but it made one.
No chance of fading into the background now, she thought. She’d see, that’s all, she’d just see how she felt about it in a week or two.
But she knew already she liked her new—if limited—wardrobe. A few strong colors, some spring pastels—no beige. Pants that fit, a couple of simple, and pretty, dresses. One business suit. New shoes—she’d held the line at three against an enthusiastic Marco. And with Ireland in mind, a good pair of walking boots.
She’d stuck with sales, and had still spent more money in a single day than she spent on herself—just Breen—in six months.
More.
Maybe it had been the rush of it all that had weakened her enough to let Marco talk her into getting her ears pierced.
She fiddled with the little silver stud as she looked at the latest text from Marco on her phone.
It said: Courage.
And as she saw the cab pull up outside, she tried to take it to heart.
Going with instinct, she went to the door, stepped out.
Because her eyes were trained on her mother, she didn’t see the man with the silver hair glance her way as he strolled by across the street.
Jennifer Wilcox looked, as always, perfect in trim gray pants, a light jacket in bold red over a soft white shirt. Her hair, richly brown, expertly highlighted, complemented her sharp-featured face with an angular wedge.
Breen saw the surprise—and, oh yes, the quick disapproval—as she walked down to help with the luggage.
“I’ve got this,” Breen said as s
he took the handle of the large wheeled Pullman.
Jennifer shouldered the matching tote and her computer case.
“I didn’t expect to see you here. Why aren’t you at work?”
“I took the day off.” Battling back the knee-jerk anxiety, Breen rolled the suitcase to the door and inside.
“That certainly wasn’t necessary.”
“It was for me.”
“Are you ill?”
“No.” She wheeled the suitcase to the base of the stairs, realized she’d started to take it up. Stopped herself. “I’m absolutely fine. In fact, I’m just terrific.”
“A new boyfriend, is it?” Jennifer set down the tote, gestured at Breen’s hair. “Is that was this is all about?”
“No, no boyfriend, new or otherwise. I’m a redhead,” she heard herself say. “I’ve decided to embrace it.”
“Your choice, of course, but no one’s going to see past your hair. How do you expect your students to take you seriously when you look frivolous?”
“That won’t be an issue much longer. I’ll finish out the school year, but I turned in my resignation on Monday.”
The fact Jennifer stared, just stared, brought Breen a dark satisfaction.
“Have you lost your mind? You need to rescind that resignation immediately. You’re not going to throw away your education, your security, your future.”
“I never wanted to be a teacher.”
“Oh, don’t be ridiculous. And I don’t have time for this nonsense. I need to unpack, check in with the office.” She looked at her watch. “You have plenty of time to get back to school, apologize to your supervisor, and fix this.”
“No.”
Jennifer’s eyes, a changeable hazel, narrowed with temper. “I beg your pardon?”
“I said no, and you’re going to need to take some time out of your busy schedule to talk about Mr. Ellsworth and my Allied Investment account. And my father.”
The color, rising hot in Jennifer’s cheeks, leached away. “How dare you! You went into my private papers?”
“My papers, but no, I didn’t. And that’s not the point. You lied to me, that’s the point. You lied.”
