by BJ Hoff
She shook her head. “No,” she said uncertainly. “I mean, I was…but not now. Michael is so determined…he won’t hear of our postponing things—”
“Good for him! It would be altogether foolish to delay! I’m glad Michael is a strong man. Decisive. That’s what you need, you know. Your father and I saw that years ago. Only a man as strong-willed as Michael could live with you.”
Sara managed only the feeblest of smiles. Still, her grandmother’s confidence gave her a boost. Grandy Clare didn’t lend her approval lightly. If she saw no harm in going on with the wedding, then surely it was the right thing to do.
Her grandmother moved to press her fingers over Sara’s hand. “It will all work out, Sara. You’ll see. God has a way of making things work when you follow His leading. Sometimes you can only do what you think is right, what your heart tells you is best. Michael is God’s choice for you. You just concentrate on being a good wife to him—God will take care of the rest, in His own way.”
She straightened in her chair and released Sara’s hand. “As a matter of fact, that’s one reason I sent for you, to discuss your wedding plans. Or, more to the point, your plans for after the wedding.” She paused, lifting a hand to the ivory brooch at her throat. “Where have you decided to live after the wedding?”
With her grandmother’s question came the reminder of still another problem. “Actually,” Sara said, giving a long sigh, “we haven’t quite worked that out yet.”
Again her grandmother lifted an inquiring eyebrow.
A familiar knot of tension rose in Sara’s throat. She and Michael had been over this same question countless times. “There’s Michael’s flat, of course,” she said weakly.
“But with those two boys underfoot—you said the apartment is small,” her grandmother pointed out.
Sara nodded. “It is. But Daniel will be moving in with Nora and Evan soon. Nora’s eager to have him at home again, and he’s agreed.”
“Still…there’s Michael’s son.”
“I could manage. It’s Michael who’s being difficult about where we live,” Sara said, frowning. “He has this foolish notion that the flat isn’t…good enough for me, that I wouldn’t be happy there after—”
“After growing up on Fifth Avenue?” her grandmother prompted gently.
Sara got to her feet. “But he’s wrong, Grandy! He is! I could be happy anywhere, so long as Michael is there! But I can’t convince him of that!”
“It would be awkward, Sara,” her grandmother said, reaching for Sara’s hand. “With the boy being nearly a man, and this the second marriage for his father—”
“Marriage to a woman Tierney detests,” Sara finished miserably, feeling once again a painful clenching of her heart at the thought of the boy’s resentment.
Her grandmother squeezed her hand.
“Father offered us rooms at home, of course.”
“But Michael wouldn’t hear of it.”
Sara shook her head. “No. Michael’s very proud, you know. There are the brownstones on Forty-ninth Street—one is empty, and Father says we could move right in. But Michael isn’t keen on that either. What he’s thinking of is renting a small house for a time if we can find one we can afford on his salary.”
“Will the boy live with you at all, do you think?” her grandmother asked.
Again Sara shook her head miserably. “Tierney insists he won’t live with us for a day! Oh, Grandy—I don’t know what we’re going to do, I really don’t!”
Only with her grandmother did Sara feel free enough to let out her pent-up frustration. “It’s all so difficult! Michael refuses to accept help from Father, yet I don’t see how we’ll manage anything but the flat otherwise. Policemen are paid such pathetically low wages—even captains.”
Grandy Clare motioned for Sara to sit down. Neither spoke for a long time, and when her grandmother finally broke the silence, she seemed to choose her words with great care. “How do you think Michael would feel,” she asked slowly, “about living here?”
“Here?” Sara repeated, sinking down onto the chair. “You mean here, with you?”
Her grandmother folded her hands in her lap and sighed, “This house is ridiculously large, Sara. Quite too large and too drafty for an old lady alone. Why, I seldom venture any farther than the dining room or the parlor these days. It’s all a foolish waste, so much house for just me. Besides…” Her voice faltered, but only for an instant. Straightening her shoulders and lifting her chin, she went on. “Besides, lately I find myself feeling…dissatisfied with living alone. Quite frankly, I’d like nothing better than to have some people in my house again! Some noise and bother! It’s so insufferably—quiet!”
Astonished, Sara sat staring at the older woman. Was her grandmother lonely? She had never given the possibility a thought. “Why, Grandy, it never occurred to me—”
“Now don’t misunderstand what I’m saying!” The firm little chin lifted still more. “I still like my solitude—a measure of it. And I’m certainly not helpless. Not yet. But this house needs some life!” She gave a sly smile. “Perhaps the noise of children again. And,” she hurried to add before Sara could interrupt, “it also needs far more care and supervision than I can manage these days. I wouldn’t be doing you any favors, you know. It would mean a great deal of work on your part. But I’d see that you and Michael have all the privacy you need. We’d only keep company when you want. I wouldn’t interfere.”
“Oh, Grandy! You could never interfere!” It struck Sara for the first time how very difficult this must be for her grandmother. She was asking for help, admitting her need, her loneliness—she, who had been the rock of the family for all these years. Even Father stood in awe of Grandy Clare’s strength.
Sara reached to grip both her grandmother’s hands. “I’d love being here with you, really I would.”
“Yes, but it wouldn’t be just you,” her grandmother cautioned. “I wouldn’t for a moment try to convince Michael of something against his will.”
She was right, of course. Still, it occurred to Sara that if Michael understood Grandy’s need, he might not be entirely resistant to the idea. It was accepting something for nothing that seemed so repugnant to him.
For the first time in weeks Sara began to think there might be an answer to at least one of their problems. No matter how often she reassured Michael, she found it almost impossible to conceive of living in the small, cramped flat with the belligerent Tierney so near at hand. Privacy would be impossible, and there would be no getting away from Tierney’s hostility. Yet she had grave doubts they’d be able to afford anything better.
Whether Grandy Clare realized it or not, she would be giving more, much more, to such an arrangement than she would receive. Overwhelmed with gratitude and excitement, Sara gave her grandmother a quick smile. “You needn’t worry about convincing Michael to do something against his will. I doubt anyone could manage that.”
But if anyone can win him over, Sara thought, it’s Grandy Clare. The two of them had hit it off splendidly right from the start. Michael made no secret of the fact that he thought Sara’s grandmother “a grand lady—a delight.” If he were ever going to compromise his pride for anyone, he might just do it for Grandy Clare.
“Michael’s son would, of course, be welcome here,” her grandmother went on. “But if he refuses to come with you, perhaps Michael could afford to keep the flat, at least for a time, and let the boy stay there on his own.” She gave a thoughtful nod, then went on in her brisk, no-nonsense manner. “Let’s do this: you and Michael come to dinner one evening this week. We’ll talk about things together, openly. Perhaps if Michael understands that I’m not attempting to give you something, but instead asking you to help me, he’ll take more kindly to the idea.”
Sara nodded eagerly. She couldn’t for the life of her imagine anyone—even Michael—successfully resisting Grandy Clare. Even Father, who could be every bit as difficult and stubborn as Michael in his own way, invariably capitu
lated to Grandmother Platt’s considerable charm.
Hope rose slowly in her like a distant beacon. Perhaps things would be all right, after all. Sara got up and wrapped her grandmother in a hug.
“You always could make things right with my world, Grandy! Somehow, I think you just did it again!”
Her grandmother patted her hand, then clung to it. “I’m afraid there’s one thing I can’t do for you, my dear. It’s something only you can do—something you must do.”
Still smiling, Sara gave her an inquisitive look. “What, Grandy?”
“I believe you should pay Michael’s son a visit, either now or when he comes home. The two of you need to face each other alone.”
Sara’s immediate response was denial. “I couldn’t! He’s still in bed, he was badly hurt—”
“I understood that he was doing very well, that he’s recovering nicely.”
“Yes, but he’s still—oh, Grandy, I don’t think that’s a good idea at all! Tierney is so…hostile toward me! And besides, I’m not at all sure how Michael would feel about it.”
Her grandmother caught her hand, and Sara was surprised by the strength of the thin fingers. “Have you and Michael’s son ever actually talked to each other? Alone?”
“No, but—”
“I’ve always found it best to confront what’s unpleasant, not avoid it. Even if the boy won’t budge, you need to make the effort, don’t you think? It seems to me that you’ve both danced around your differences quite long enough. Evasion is not the answer, Sara. Avoiding the issue won’t make it go away.”
Apprehension swelled to a strangling knot inside Sara’s throat. Still clinging to her grandmother’s hand, she sat, thinking, Grandy Clare’s wisdom had never failed her. She had always known the right thing to do, and had never been slow to make her opinion known. She had taught Sara not to avoid the difficult, the unpleasant, in life, but to meet it head on. Indeed, even Father often attributed what he called Sara’s “boldness” to her grandmother’s influence.
But this? Could she go through with it? What could she possibly say to Tierney that wouldn’t make things worse? Would he even see her? And Michael—how would he feel about it?
As she stood there, unable to meet her grandmother’s piercing gaze, Sara’s mind played through any number of reasons why this time she could not heed Grandy Clare’s advice. Yet even as she resisted, something deep inside her seemed to turn and acknowledge the fact that her grandmother was right.
And she knew then that, no matter how difficult she found the idea, she would go. God help her, she would go and confront Michael’s son.
14
Caught in the Net of Love
You gave me the key of your heart, my love;
Then why do you make me knock?
JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY (1844–1890)
Sara had no idea what to expect upon reaching the Walsh estate. She had met Alice Walsh once, more than a year ago, at a city-wide mission bazaar, but in truth she scarcely remembered her, beyond a dim, elusive image of a plain woman with a shy smile.
She was uncommonly nervous about being here, and it wasn’t only apprehension about how she might be received. She was, in fact, about to enter the home of a man reputed to be one of the most ruthless, unscrupulous criminals in the city—a man Michael had resolved to ruin. That realization alone made her feel as if she were somehow trapped in a dream episode. Nothing seemed quite real, yet in some vague, inexplicable way she felt threatened.
She put her hand to the brass knocker of the front door and hesitated, her heart pounding. Surely she had been altogether foolish in coming here. Why on earth had she ever let Grandy Clare convince her it was the right thing to do?
Even as she was ushered inside by a pinch-faced maid, Sara was seized by an irrational urgency to turn and run. More than likely, Tierney would not even see her. And even if he did, why would she expect anything but more of the same cold contempt he habitually turned on her?
When Alice Walsh bustled into the spacious entryway from an adjoining room, Sara’s first thought was that she’d been mistaken in her memory of the woman. She wasn’t really plain at all. Short and plump, she was actually rather sweet-faced with a pleasant smile and wide, shining blue eyes that held a look of timid uncertainty.
“Miss Farmington? How nice of you to come and visit Tierney! He’ll be so pleased.”
He’ll be livid, Sara thought with a tight smile, but said nothing.
“Would you like tea before you go up? It will only take a moment.”
Alice Walsh seemed so eager to accommodate that Sara felt almost guilty for refusing. “That’s very kind of you, but I’m afraid I can’t stay. I just wanted to say hello to Tierney and talk with him briefly.”
The woman actually looked disappointed. As she followed her up the sprawling stairway, Sara found herself wondering about Alice Walsh’s life. Somehow she sensed the woman was lonely. If she was as decent as she seemed—and she remembered that Michael, too, had been puzzled by the contrast between Walsh and his wife—how could she bear being married to a man like Patrick Walsh?
But, then, many would question her own wisdom in marrying Michael, she was sure, although for entirely different reasons. It wasn’t for her to approve or disapprove of the choice Alice Walsh had made.
Still, she could not help but wonder how a woman could love a man if he truly possessed, as Michael claimed, “no more conscience than a snake.” Worse yet was the possibility that Walsh had deluded his wife, that perhaps Alice Walsh was indeed a good, decent woman who simply lived with a man she did not know.
At the top of the stairs, Sara paused, shivering. When she had first entered the house, she thought the temperature unduly warm. Now, she felt chilled, as though she had walked inside a dank underground cellar untouched by the light or warmth of the sun.
After checking to make sure Tierney was awake, Alice Walsh left him and Sara alone, stopping only long enough to remind Sara again that, should she change her mind, there would be tea downstairs in the parlor.
Sara could hardly believe that the young man lying in Patrick Walsh’s guest-room bed was the same handsome, slightly arrogant Tierney Burke who had so vehemently opposed her marriage to his father. His skin was an ashen gray, his left cheek still swollen, the bruises turned to an ugly purplish-green. The cut in his lip, half-healed, contorted his mouth into a perpetual sneer.
But the worst by far was his eye. From the center of his left eyebrow, at an angle sloping toward the outer corner of his eye, ran a deep, angry gash held together by a dozen stitches. It was a miracle, Sara realized, that Tierney hadn’t lost the eye altogether. Another half inch, and…
Sara forced herself not to consider the possibilities of what might have happened. He was alive. He hadn’t lost the eye, and although he would undoubtedly have a noticeable scar as a permanent reminder of the attack, it could have been worse—much worse.
Tierney’s surprise at seeing her was obvious. He sat up in bed, arranging the pillows to support his back. For a moment—only a moment—the boy’s usual air of defiant scorn seemed to slip. By the time Sara approached the bed, however, the cloak of cold, hard cynicism in which he normally wrapped himself was securely back in place.
Bracing herself against his antagonism, Sara managed to force some warmth into her smile and her voice. “Hello, Tierney. I thought you might like some company by now.”
It was like watching a fort under siege. Gates slammed shut, bolts thudded into place, and weapons were raised to the ready. He made no reply, simply gave her a flinty, waiting look from those piercing blue eyes. The swollen gash on his lip enhanced the menacing expression.
Determined to ignore his rudeness, Sara stepped slightly closer to the bed. “I’ve brought you the Tribune,” she said, handing him the newspaper. “Your father said you enjoy the papers.”
His gaze flicked from her face to the newspaper, and Sara thought for a moment he was actually going to refuse it. Finally, though, he
reached for the paper, muttering a grudging, “Thank you.”
He’s only a boy, Sara reminded herself, determined he would not get the best of her. He’s Michael’s son.
Once he had been a boy, a little boy who lost his mother. Had he been frightened?, she wondered. Had Tierney ever been a frightened little boy instead of the erratic, complicated youth of today?
Trying for a cheerful tone of voice, Sara said, “Your father told me you’ll be going home on Friday. I’m sure you’re looking forward to it.”
He nodded. A curt nod, followed by a low rumble of acknowledgment.
“Yes, of course,” Sara said lamely. “You’re feeling much stronger, he tells me.”
The fortress held. “Aye.”
She would not be cowed by a boy. She would not. “Tierney—” She tried to swallow, found her throat dry and tight. “Tierney, I had hoped we could talk.”
His gaze never wavered. “Why did you come here?” he asked, his words glazed with ice.
His bluntness unnerved Sara. She deliberately delayed her reply, studying him, the straight dark hair, the terrible scar over his eye, the blade-sharp cheekbones, a beard already as heavy and dark as his father’s. She sensed his anger, smarted from his undisguised contempt.
Suddenly she realized something else, something both she and Michael had missed: Tierney was no longer a boy. He was a man. A young man, perhaps too soon grown—but a man, all the same. Because Michael still thought of him as a boy, still referred to him as a boy, Sara, too, had fallen into the same error.
But this lean-faced, angry young man had left the innocence of childhood far behind. It was an unsettling realization, for Sara had presumed all along that, in time, she could win over a boy. With enough affection, enough attention and care, she had told herself, he would come around. He would accept her, and thereby, accept her marriage to his father. They would eventually be a family.
