by Nora Roberts
she doubted her son’s taste. But she’d been led to believe the house was in serious, perhaps fatal, disrepair. And what she saw now were gracious rooms, charming details, glinting glass and wood.
And in the kitchen she saw her son, hovering over the hand of a very annoyed, very beautiful woman who looked perfectly capable of carrying out her earlier threat.
“I beg your pardon.” Lena elbowed Declan aside and smiled coolly at his parents. “I dropped a cup, that’s all. It’s nice to meet both of you.”
Declan turned to root through cupboards. “You need some antiseptic and a bandage.”
“Oh, stop fussing. You’d think I cut my hand off. And if you don’t watch yourself you’ll step on the shards and be worse off than I am. I’m sorry your welcome’s so disrupted,” she said to his parents. “I’m just going to sweep up this mess, then I’ll be on my way.”
“Where are you going?” Declan demanded. “You promised food.”
She wondered if he could hear her teeth grinding together. “Pour what’s in that bowl into a skillet, turn on the burner and you’ll have food.” She yanked open the broom closet. “Why aren’t you getting your parents coffee or a cold drink after their long trip? They raised you better than that.”
“We certainly did,” Colleen agreed.
“Sorry. Seeing the woman I love bleeding all over the floor distracted me.”
“Declan.” Though her voice was low, Lena’s warning was loud and clear.
“Coffee sounds great,” Patrick said cheerfully. “We came here straight from the airport. Wanted to see this place—and you, too, Dec,” he added with a wink.
“Where’s your luggage?”
“Had it sent to the hotel. Son, this place is enormous. A lot of space for one man.”
“Lena and I want four kids.”
She heaved the broken shards into the trash and rounded on him.
“Okay, three,” he amended without a hitch in his stride. “But that’s my final offer.”
“I’ve had enough of this.” She shoved the broom and dustpan into his hands. “You clean up your own messes. I hope you enjoy your stay,” she said stiffly to Colleen and Patrick. “I’m late for work.”
She strode out the back because it was closer, and fought off the towering urge to slam the door until the windows cracked.
“Isn’t she beautiful?” Declan said with a huge grin. “Isn’t she perfect?”
“You annoyed and embarrassed her,” Colleen told him.
“Good. I tend to make more progress that way. Let me get the coffee, then I’ll show you around.”
An hour later, Declan sat with his mother on the rear gallery while Patrick—who’d lost the debate—made sandwiches.
The worst of the hangover had receded. Declan imagined he had whatever mysterious potion Lena had given him to thank for it—and the pleasure of seeing her in the same room as his parents.
Jeez, he’d missed them, he thought. He’d had no idea how much he’d missed them until he’d seen them.
“So,” he said at length, “are you going to tell me what you think?”
“Yes.” But she continued to sit and look out over his gardens. “Warm, isn’t it? Early in the year to be so warm, I’d think.”
“Actually, it’s cooler today. You should’ve been here a couple days ago. You could’ve poached eggs out here.”
She heard the way he said it, with a kind of pride. “You were never a big fan of the cold. Even when we went skiing, you’d prefer rattling around the lodge to charging down the slopes.”
“Skiing’s something people invented so they can pretend snow’s fun.”
“See if we invite you to Vermont this season.” But her hand moved over, touched his. “The house is beautiful, Declan. Even what you haven’t gotten to yet is beautiful, in its way. I liked to think your fiddling with tools and wood and so on was a nice little hobby. I preferred to think that. As long as you were a lawyer, it was probable you’d stay in Boston. You’d stay close. I dreaded seeing you go, so I made it hard on you. I’m not sorry. You’re my baby,” she said, and touched him in the deepest chamber of his heart.
“I don’t have to be in Boston to be close.”
She shook her head. “You won’t come swinging in the house unexpectedly. We won’t run into you in restaurants or at parties or the theater. That’s a wrench in me, one you’ll understand when you have those three or four children.”
“I don’t want you to be sad.”
“Well, of course I’m sad. Don’t be a boob. I love you, don’t I?”
“You keep saying so,” he said playfully.
She looked at him, gray eyes steady on gray eyes. “Lucky for both of us, I love you enough to know when to let go. You found your place here. I won’t deny I hoped you wouldn’t, but since you have, I’m glad for you. Damn it.”
“Thanks.” He leaned over, kissed her.
“Now, as for this woman . . .”
“Lena.”
“I know her name, Declan,” Colleen said dryly. “As a potential mother-in-law, I’m entitled to refer to her as ‘this woman’ until I get to know her a little better. As for this woman, she’s nothing like what I’d imagined for you. Not when I imagined you climbing up the ranks in the law firm, buying a house close by and within easy access to the country club. Jessica would have suited my requirements as daughter-in-law quite well in that scenario. A good, challenging tennis partner who plays a decent hand of bridge and has the skill to chair the right committees.”
“Maybe you should adopt Jessica.”
“Be quiet, Declan.” Colleen’s voice was mild—and steel. Lena would have recognized the tone instantly. “I’m not finished. Jessica, however well suited for me, was very obviously not suited for you. You weren’t happy, and I’d begun to see, and to worry about that just before you broke it off. I tried to convince myself it was just pre-wedding jitters, but I knew better.”
“It wouldn’t have hurt for you to clue me in on that one.”
“Maybe not, but I was annoyed with you.”
“Tell me.”
“Don’t sass, young man, especially when I’m about to be sentimental. You were always a happy child. Bright, clever, a smart tongue, but I respect that. You had, I’d call it, a bounce in your heart. And you lost it. I see you’ve gotten that back today. I saw it in your eyes again when you looked at Lena.”
He took Colleen’s hand, rubbed it against his cheek. “You called her Lena.”
“Temporarily. I haven’t made up my mind about her. And believe me, boy, she hasn’t made hers up about your father and me, either. So, I’d advise you to stay out of it and let us get on with the job of doing so.”
She stretched out her legs. “Patrick? Did you have to hunt down the pig for those ham sandwiches?”
Declan grinned, gave the hand he held a big, noisy kiss. “I love you guys.”
“We love you, too.” She squeezed his fingers, hard, then let them go. “God knows why.”
He dreamed of storms and pain. Of fear and joys.
Rain and wind lashed the windows, and the pain that whipped through him erupted in a sobbing scream.
Sweat and tears poured down his face—her face. Her face, her body. His pain.
The room was gold with gaslight and the snap and simmer of the fire in the grate. And as that storm raged outside, another spun through her. Through him.
Agony vised her belly with the next contraction. She was blind with it. Her cry against it was primal, and burned his throat with its passion.
Push, Abby! You have to push! You’re almost there.
Tired, she was so tired, so weak. How could she live through such pain? But she grit her teeth. Almost mad. Everything she was, everything she had, focused on this one task, this one miracle.
Her child. Her child, Lucian’s child, was fighting to come into the world. She bore down with all the strength she had left. Life depended on it.
There’s the head! Et là! Such
hair! One more, Abby. One more, chère.
She was laughing now. Better than screaming, even if the laugh was tinged with hysteria. She braced herself on her elbows, threw her head back as fresh, unspeakable pain rolled through her.
This one moment, this one act, was the greatest gift a woman could give. This gift, this child, would be held safe, would be cherished. Would be loved for all of her days.
And on the pain, with lightning flashing, on the roar of thunder, she pushed, pushed, pushed wailing life into the world.
A girl! You have a beautiful girl.
Pain was forgotten. The hours of sweat and blood and agony were nothing now in the brilliant flash of joy. Weeping from it, she held out her arms for the small wriggling baby who cried out in what sounded like triumph.
My rose. My beautiful Marie Rose. Tell Lucian. Oh, please bring Lucian to see our daughter.
They cleaned both mother and baby first, smiling at the mother’s impatience and the child’s irritable cries.
There were tears in Lucian’s eyes when he came into the room. When he clasped her hand, his fingers trembled. When he looked at the child they’d created, his face filled with wonder.
She told him what she had vowed on the instant Marie Rose had been placed in her arms.
We’ll keep her safe, Lucian. No matter what, we’ll keep her safe and happy. She’s ours. Promise me you’ll love and care for her, always.
Of course. She’s so beautiful, Abby. My beautiful girls. I love you.
Say the words. I need to hear you say the words.
Still holding Abigail’s hand, Lucian laid a tender finger on his daughter’s cheek. I’ll love and I’ll care for her, always. I swear it.
19
Patrick Fitzgerald took his wife’s hand as they strolled through the Quarter. He knew their destination was Et Trois and their mission another look at Angelina Simone.
“You know, Colleen, this is very close to interference, and spying.”
“And your point is?”
He had to laugh. After nearly forty years of marriage, the woman could always make him laugh. He considered that, above all, a sign of a successful partnership.
“You realize she might not be there. Owning a bar doesn’t mean you’re in it all day, every day.”
“So, we’ll get a look at her place of business, and have a drink. It’s perfectly up front and respectable.”
“Yes, dear.”
He used that phrase, that tone, only when he was making fun of her. Colleen debated between giving him a good elbow shot in the ribs and laughing. Then did both.
The crowds, the noise, the heat and the somehow florid and decaying elegance of the city weren’t things that appealed to her for more than a brief visit. She preferred the Old-World charm, and yes, the dignity, of Boston.
Certainly Boston had its seamier sides, but it wasn’t so overt, so celebratory about it. Sex was meant to be fun and interesting—she wasn’t a prude, for God’s sake. But it was also meant to be private.
And still, the tragic wail of a tenor sax weeping on the air touched some chord in her.
If her son was determined to make his home here, she’d accept that. Maybe, with a bit more study and debate, she’d accept the woman.
“You’ll have time and opportunity to grill her at the wedding tomorrow,” Patrick pointed out.
Colleen only sighed at the minds of men. God bless them, they were simple creatures. Guileless, really. The first step, obviously, was to observe the girl in her own milieu.
She considered the neighborhood, the positioning of the bar, the level of traffic. She decided Lena had chosen wisely, and had taste and sense enough to let the exterior of the bar blend smoothly into the other establishments.
She liked the gallery over it, the pots of flowers—bright colors against the soft creams. It demonstrated taste and style, an appreciation for atmosphere.
She’d pried the information out of Declan that Lena lived above the bar, and wondered now if she should wheedle a visit upstairs to check out the living quarters.
She stepped inside Et Trois, made a good, objective study.
It was clean, which met with her approval. It was crowded but not jammed, which met with her business sense. Too early for the rowdy night crowd, Colleen judged, too late for the lunch shift.
The music coming out of the speakers was Cajun, she supposed, and she approved of that as well. It was lively, but not so loud as to make simple conversation a chore.
A black man in a bright red shirt worked behind the bar. A good face, she decided, smooth hands. A young waitress—blond, perky, wearing jeans perhaps just a tad too tight—served one of the tables.
Colleen spotted what she decided were a number of tourists from their camera and shopping bags. Others she assumed were locals.
Whatever food had been or was being served put a hot, spicy scent over the air.
Lena stepped out of the kitchen. Their eyes met immediately and with instant acknowledgment. Colleen let her lips curve in a small, polite smile and walked to the bar with Patrick following.
“Afternoon, Mrs. Fitzgerald, Mr. Fitzgerald.” An equally small, equally polite smile curved Lena’s lips. “You’ve been taking in the Quarter?” she asked with a glance at the shopping bags Patrick carried.
“Colleen rarely passes a store without seeing something that needs to be bought.”
“That must be where Declan gets it. Can I show you a menu?”
“We’ve had lunch, thanks.” Colleen slid onto a stool. “I’d love a martini, Stoli, very cold, dead dry, straight up, shaken. Three olives.”
“And for you, Mr. Fitzgerald?”
“Make it the same, and make it Patrick.” He took the stool beside his wife. “You’ve got a nice place here. Live music?” he asked with a nod toward the stage area.
“Every night, nine o’clock.” As she began to mix the martinis, she sent him a genuine smile. “You like to dance, you should come back. We’ll get your feet moving. You enjoying your visit?”
“We’re looking forward to the wedding,” Colleen commented. “Remy’s like family. And we’re pleased to see Declan making such progress on the house.”
“He’s happy there.”
“Yes.”
Lena took out the two martini glasses she’d chilled during the mixing. “Be nicer for you if he’d be happy in Boston—and with the one he almost married.”
“Yes, it would, wouldn’t it? But we can’t choose other people’s lives. Even our children’s. And you certainly can’t select the person they’ll love. Are you in love with my son, Lena?”
Hands rock steady, Lena strained the martinis into the cold glasses. “That’s something I’ll talk to him about, when I’m ready. These are on the house,” she added, sliding the olives in. “I hope they suit your tastes.”
“Thank you.” Colleen picked up her glass, sipped. Raised an eyebrow. “It’s excellent. I’ve always felt mixing the perfect martini is a kind of art, and have been surprised and disappointed that often those who own a bar or club or restaurant make or serve imperfect martinis.”
“Why do anything if you don’t set out to do it right?”
“Exactly. It’s a matter of pride, isn’t it? In self, in one’s work, one’s life. Flaws are acceptable, even necessary to make us human and humble. But to serve a guest or customer less than the best one is capable of, strikes me as arrogant or sloppy. Often both.”
“I don’t see the point in doing anything halfway,” Lena said, and filled a bowl with fresh snack mix. “If I can’t make a martini, fine, then I step back until I learn how it’s done. Otherwise I’d disappoint myself and the person who was counting on me.”
“A good policy.” Colleen sampled an olive. “Without high
