Family Affairs

by Pamela G Hobbs

  Her arms lay by her sides, the cuts from the plastic ties on her wrists almost healed. The scar on her face was long, curved and narrow – a badge of courage if ever he saw one. Her glorious hair was chopped and hacked, and one side was definitely going to need some serious help from a magician to bring any kind of order to it. Dev just stared. He couldn’t take his eyes from her face. He could feel his eyes fill as his heart squeezed itself so tight he thought it would break in two.

  This. This was love.

  Lying here in front of him in all her mangled and bruised glory was the epitome of love. He’d figured out some things as he’d paced the floorboards over the last few days in an agony of doubt and self-loathing. She loved him. And she’d chosen to love her damaged, broken sister. Frankie had reached out in love to a demented nutcase of a woman in order to help her. If Mary Frances lived, he was in no doubt whatsoever that Frankie would have seen to whatever care she needed. And yet, she’d forced Mary Frances to shoot her, called to her knowing, knowing the madwoman would shoot.

  And she’d done it to save him. And by extension, his family.

  Love. That’s what this was before him. Pure and clean. No taints, no stains. How could he ever measure up? He sat gingerly on the side of the bed and leaned down to kiss her lips tenderly. At that gentlest of touches, her eyes flew open and she shoved him away.

  “Bastard,” she said tightly, “you selfish bastard.”

  Dev just pushed back against her hands and kissed her again. The relief that flowed through his body, coupled with the sheer exhaustion of worry, had him lay his forehead against hers and clench his teeth together tightly so that he didn’t make a complete fool of himself and come apart in her arms. He cupped her face in his hands and looked straight into the most beautiful grey eyes in the world. Right now, they were cross and spitting fire, but he didn’t care. He kissed her lips again and again.

  “I love you. I love you. I love you.” He said it softly, firmly, with each kiss.

  Frankie was having none of it. Okay, that wasn’t strictly true. Her stomach turned over at the first “I love you,” her heart started hammering by the second and her soul took flight by the third. But she needed to stay in charge here. And he needed to grovel. Just a little.

  “Why did you stay away? I needed you. You bastard.” The last part sort of lost its force as she cupped his rough unshaven jaw with her own trembling fingers. “Oh, Dev, I needed you,” she whispered.

  And with that the tears finally came.

  Flynn popped his head around the door a while later, slightly anxious because it was too quiet and he’d expected a few objects to have been thrown across the room by now. Frankie had been so angry at Dev for being absent that Flynn was sure his brother was going to get a roasting.

  He paused, swallowing hard at the sight before him. Frankie was curled into Dev’s shoulder, one of his arms holding her firmly in place. She was crying quietly against his shirt front and his other hand was stroking tenderly at her odd, misshapen hair. His face was wet and the eyes that met his gaze were so full of love and pain that Flynn backed from the room, aware that he was disturbing an intensely private moment. It was a long time since he’d seen his brother cry, and it made his chest feel tight and uncomfortable. Best to walk away. He texted Caro: Dev’s here. It’s going to be okay.

  Dev knew he had to go first – he had to apologise for not being fast enough, for letting her down when she needed him most. And he had to hope like hell that she’d forgive him.

  “I’m sorry, babe,” he whispered into her scraggy head. “I wanted to save both of you, you and your sister, but, hand on heart, if it came to you or her, there was no contest. There was no option.”

  Frankie shifted over and lay back on her pillows. She wiped her soaked eyes with the sleeve of her nightdress and sniffed. She reached to her side table and grabbed a tissue. She blew long and hard, balled it up, stuffed it into Dev’s waiting hand as he passed her another, and she blew again. Dev just waited.

  She took a deep breath. “You’re so wrong, you know. Flynn told me everything and I told him all the mess that happened before you arrived. It was never about saving us both. I see now it could never be both of us. Mary Frances made that decision when she started her campaign of nasty letters over a year ago. It was her mother’s death that pushed her to the edge, I think. She felt as if she’d never been enough for either of them, and all the guilt and pain hurtled in.

  “The only way for her to deal was to blame someone. And, funnily enough, I actually get that she couldn’t blame her dad then – he was still her daddy and I suppose you love your father even if he’s a deranged lunatic. So she needed a target and in her grieving, angry, messed-up head, I was the cause of it all – if I hadn’t been born or, more to the point, if I was never discovered, her dad would have loved her. My fault entirely.” She sighed deeply, the feel of Mary Frances’ pain so real and blatantly evident as she clutched her bandaged side.

  “So, are you telling me you get why Mary Frances did this to you?” Dev tried not to sound incredulous but failed miserably.

  “Yeah, I really do,” she said. “I had a fantasy father my whole life, a magical man who righted wrongs and fixed everything. He was kind and understanding, rarely scolded and always supported my choices. Of course, he never existed, but Mary Frances didn’t even get the chance to pretend. She had no made-up dad. No hero, no prince. Not even in her head. Her dad was a real-live menacing giant in a way you or I can’t even begin to comprehend.”

  Frankie shifted back into Dev’s warm, safe arms as he settled in on the bed beside her.

  “Imagine if Patrick always praised Flynn and never you, always went to his games, his shows, his award ceremonies. And never yours. Imagine if Patrick took him on holidays, just the two of them, and plastered evidence about the house of the amazingly fun time he and your brother, not you, had together. If he left you and Jo and the girls out of everything and only talked to, played with, focused on Flynn. Can you imagine the loneliness of that?

  “Her reality never went away, Dev. I could change the look and feel of my imagined dad, the shape and size of him, the accent and colour of him as much and as often as I liked. She was stuck with Francis Donovan and all his obsessions.”

  Dev tried to think of Mary Frances that way – as a victim of such unkindness, such coldness, but although he may be able to do that in time, now all he could see was her pointing a gun, point-blank, at the woman he loved. He could only see the cuts, the bruises, the scars that she’d inflicted on this, his precious woman.

  “How did you get to that place in your head? I think I’d hate her for all the tragedy and suffering she caused.”

  “I understand. And she did do all those things. Hurt so many people. But as I listened to her crying out to me about her loss, I understood. I don’t know why or how, but I did. And no, before you start canonising me, I don’t forgive her, yet, and I’ll never forget. But I do understand.

  “I just wish she hadn’t killed my father – I would have liked to have met him, even just once.” Her lips trembled. “But maybe not. How could I respect a man who treated his daughter like he did Mary Frances? I’m not sure I could love a man like that.”

  Dev reached up and tugged a wayward lock of her hair before skimming his hand, feather-like, over her injured cheek.

  “Well, I’ll certainly never forgive her.” He swallowed, overcome suddenly at the magnitude of all Frankie had endured. The physical and mental pain, not just for herself but knowing Toby was missing, that her own sister had killed their dad and Frankie’s own fiancé, if Mary Frances was to be believed. “Jesus,” he swore quietly, “I promise never, ever to take you for granted. You’re more precious than I can ever say.” His voice cracked and he closed his eyes tightly.

  Frankie shifted in his arms, tapping on his chest for attention.

  “I don’t look too bad, do I?” she asked, forcing him to pay attention to the here and now.

  He chuc
kled, he couldn’t help it – she looked ridiculously hopeful. Dev pretended to study her closely, swooped in for fast, hard kiss.

  “Babe, you look like shite,” he declared and then tried to duck as she whacked him with the closest thing, a water bottle. “Ouch!” he exclaimed. “I’m just telling you what the others won’t.”

  “Jerk,” she laughed. “Caro wanted me to wear a headscarf to cover all my bald bits, but though I’m tempted, I’m not sick and it felt disrespectful to women who do wear one for way more serious reasons than having one’s hair hacked off with a dagger.”

  “Here, give me a swig of that water.” He took the bottle from her, tipped it to her lips first and then took a swallow himself.

  “Dev?”

  “Hmm?” He drank some more. “What, babe? What’s the matter?” He noted her hesitant way of asking and his gut clenched.

  “In the room, when you came in after Flynn, why didn’t you look at me?” She lowered her eyes from his gaze as she spoke. “I really wanted you to come. I waited and waited. And then it was like you were barely aware I was there in front of you.”

  “Aw, sweetheart, I didn’t mean to hurt you like that. I swear.” He closed his eyes briefly. “But, honestly?” he asked.

  She nodded determinedly.

  “I knew if I looked at you fully, saw the state you were in, saw your pain and your fear, I would just . . . I’d have . . . fallen. And would have been utterly and hopelessly useless. I needed to block you out and focus on what I could control. I’m just so sorry I couldn’t save Mary Frances for you.”

  Frankie placed a finger to his mouth, quietening him. “Flynn told me, straight out, that you saved my life. You, Dev, no one else. Don’t be sorry for anything. You. Saved. Me.”

  It was her turn to place kisses on his lips, one after the other, to emphasise her point. And then, bastard that he was, Dev simply couldn’t resist.

  “You’re beautiful, hair, scars, scratches and bullet wounds included,” he whispered to her, his voice catching.

  He tried to remember she had an injury to her side and he didn’t intend to ravish her, exactly, but he absolutely had to have that woman’s mouth under his. Properly. Fully. Lips to lips, or he thought he just might die. And as he swept his against hers, his blood racing through his veins, heart pounding as she returned his kiss just as deeply, her mouth as eager and hungry as his, he felt a tiny bit of the fear seep away. Just enough so that they could savour the taste and smell and touch of each other.

  Frankie slid one arm up and over his shoulders, her fingers tracing his muscles, her fingers lightly touching his skin. She clutched at his hair, holding on as he deepened the kiss further, his belly fizzing like the Fourth of July. She moaned “Oh yes,” and he wanted to crawl into the very bones of her . . .

  “Ahem.” An embarrassed cough broke them apart as a nurse arrived with some food on a tray.

  Frankie and Dev quickly untangled themselves from their embrace. Dev had to adjust himself as her hotness factor hadn’t diminished one iota with her new avant-garde appearance. But for now, they were both ravenous and they tucked into her plate of food together. Holding one hand tightly in his – he couldn’t quite let her go yet – Dev decided he must tell her, when his mouth wasn’t full of bread roll, that she looked like a very raunchy Tinker Bell – not an image he minded one bit.

  Epilogue

  “Mercy fuck? Really? That’s what you had to go with?” Dev rolled a grinning Frankie off his beautifully toned body and pulled her next to his side. His hand slid gently over the healing scar just below her ribcage and she once again silently thanked all the gods who’d saved her.

  She laughed in delight. “Have you been saving that up?” She swatted him playfully, her own heartbeat starting to even out. She kissed him on his rather impressive bicep and snuggled closer.

  A few weeks had passed since that day in Clifden and her recovery was well under way. Frankie had eventually been released into Jo’s care and convalesced in Dalkey with a continual flow of visitors, food and entertainment. Jason had flown over and arranged an interview with the press. Frankie hadn’t wanted to do it, but having talked it out with Dev, realised the speculation would just continue if she didn’t set the record straight.

  She told the truth. Or at least some of it. Her dad was kept out of it – Mary Frances was just a crazed fan acting on her own and although she knew some eager newshound could go digging and discover more, she decided to leave that to fate. She’d made the very difficult phone call to the Caldwell family to explain about her part in Stephen’s death. It hadn’t been easy and nor should it have been. They’d heal in their own time and if they had to blame Frankie to help them heal, she was okay with that.

  Frankie and Caro had spent hours together, their shared, though different, traumas bringing them even closer. Frankie had finally told Caro her long-held secret about Stephen, and Caro, pragmatist that she was, told her to snap out of it, talk to Dev and move on. Ah, yes, such easy advice to give, much harder to follow.

  Caro told Frankie she was seriously thinking of taking Toby with her to Italy for a sabbatical – she’d been offered a stint in Rome several times but had always put it on the back burner. Maybe now she would just jump and do it.

  “But what about Toby’s school and the language?” Frankie had asked.

  Not a problem, it seemed. History of art and Italian were Caro’s college subjects and she’d kept up conversational classes – and unbeknown to the entire Fitzgerald family, Toby was practically fluent. Caro had sent him to an Italian tutor since he was four and it was such a normal part of their week, her in conversation and him at lessons, that at first it hadn’t occurred to them to say anything. And then Caro had made a game of it and decided it would be their secret.

  “So, Italy here we come,” she said.

  Although she’d miss her friend dreadfully, Frankie knew a change of scene might be just the thing to help with their healing, too. Caro was to go ahead for a few weeks to get things settled and Toby would follow.

  But she still had to talk to Dev about Stephen.

  “Dev?”

  “Tink?” He got an elbow-dig for that.

  “I’m serious.”

  She pulled away from his warm embrace and reached for his discarded T-shirt. Her top was somewhere in the studio, probably draped on a chair, or even in a heap with her La Perla bra on the floor. It didn’t matter. This would suffice and cover the distractions, a term he used to refer to her breasts.

  She straightened the fabric and sat up, back to the headboard. Dev pulled himself up next to her. He didn’t appear overly worried at her tone.

  Things were good between them. They were in the very early stages of a life together, or at least that’s how she saw it. Shit.

  Maybe he saw it differently. Okay, now she was worried. But he reached for her hand and held it firmly.

  “Talk.”

  She brought him back to the night in New York when Stephen was killed. She told him of her shock, her pain, her guilt in thinking it should have been her, and her new guilt that it was him, on purpose because of her.

  Most of this he knew already but, thankfully, he let her talk – there was a point in here somewhere and she needed to get to it in her own time.

  “Do you remember that night in June when we were at the lodge – your parents had arrived and we ended up outside talking about Caro and Toby and marriage and Stephen?”

  “I remember.” His hand clenched hers a little tighter.

  “What you said about why people got married, it was so beautiful and yet hurtful in a way, because I’d been torturing myself for weeks before the night of Stephen’s death, questioning my own motives and always coming up short. I’d previously convinced myself that Stephen and I would be good together – we’d have a decent marriage. We’d have kids, a life. But, oh God, I hate myself for this . . .” She stopped to take a breath. “I’d made up my mind to break off the engagement at supper, right after the
opening.

  “We were on our way to the restaurant and I was so nervous about telling him we were over that I kept twiddling with my earring and it fell out. Well, you know the rest. But, Jesus, Dev, I was about to break his heart . . . and then he died!”

  Dev stayed quiet for a while, thinking over everything she’d said, absently rubbing his thumb back and forth over her wrist, feeling her life pulse beneath his touch.

  “What changed your mind?” he asked.

  Frankie rested her head on his shoulder. “You. Your family. The daisies.”

  Dev raised his eyebrow at her. “Explain.”

  “I wrote a list.”

  “Of course you did!” he snorted.

  She whacked him.

  “Two lists, actually. Of reasons why and why not to marry Stephen. The plus list was long. The ‘not to marry him list’, not so much. But one thing was missing. The daisies.” She smiled at him, joy filling her eyes, the telling of this truth coming easier perhaps than she’d realised. “I’d told Stephen months earlier that my favourite flower was the daisy and yet all the bouquets he’d delivered to me during our courtship, and there were many, were surrounded by a complete absence of daisies. Silly, really, but when I studied the lists, that’s what struck me, and I wondered did he know me at all.

  “So I’d almost certainly decided not to marry him and then the clincher . . .” She paused and wrinkled her nose at Dev in her delightfully Tinker Bell-ish kind of way. “No daisies from you that night. Nothing. And I remember so clearly the hurt I felt that you didn’t send them.” She pressed her fist to her chest. “It was so clearly a feeling of loss and abandonment that it was like a crystal ball opening in my heart.