by Nora Roberts
“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.”
&nbs
p; 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 standards, we tend to settle for less than what makes us happy and productive, and can shortchange the people who matter to us.”
“When someone matters to me—and I’m careful about who does—I want the best for them. They may settle for less. But I won’t.”
When Patrick leaned over, peered closely at Colleen’s martini, she frowned at him. “What are you doing?”
“Trying to see what’s in yours that isn’t in mine.”
It made Lena laugh, had her shoulders relaxing. “He’s an awful lot like you, isn’t he? Got his mama’s eyes though. Sees right through you. Even when you don’t want him to. He loves you both like crazy, and that says something to me. So I’m going to say something to you.”
She leaned a little closer. “I come from plain stock. Strong, but plain. My mother, she’s a dead loss, and more of an embarrassment to me than I care to speak of. But my grandfather was a fine and decent man. My grandmama’s as good as anybody, and better than most. I run this bar because I’m good at it—and I like it—and I don’t waste my time on things I don’t like.”
She swept her hair behind her ear, kept her gaze level on Colleen’s. “I’m selfish and I’m stubborn, and I don’t see a damn thing wrong with that. I don’t care about his money, or yours, so let’s just set that aside. He’s the best man I ever met in my life, and I’m not good enough for him. I say that knowing I’m good enough for damn near anybody, but he’s different. Turns out under that affable exterior that man’s even more stubborn than I am, and I haven’t figured out what to do about that quite yet. When I do, he’ll be the first to know. I expect he’ll fill you in on that particular outcome.
“Now.” Unconsciously, Lena toyed with the key she wore around her neck. “Would you like another drink?”
“We’ll just nurse these for a while,” Colleen told her.
“Excuse me a minute. I see I have an order to fill.” She moved down the bar to where her waitress waited with an empty tray.
“Well?” Patrick asked. “I believe she set you neatly in your place.”
“Yes.” Well satisfied, Colleen took another sip of her martini. “She’ll do.”
“I’m not nervous.” Pale, jittery, Remy stood in the library while Declan attached the boutonniere of lily of the valley to his friend’s tuxedo lapel.
“Maybe if you say that another dozen times, you’ll believe it. Hold still, damn, Remy.”
“I’m holding still.”
“Sure, except for the mild seizure you seem to be having, you’re steady as a rock.”
“I want to marry Effie. Want to live my life with her. This is the day we’ve both been looking forward to for months.”
/>
“That’s right. Today,” Declan said in sober tones, “is the first day of the rest of your life.”
“I feel a little sick.”
“It’s too late to puke,” Declan said cheerfully. “You’re down to the final fifteen. Want me to call your dad back in?”
“No. No, he’ll have his hands full with Mama. How many people did you say were out there?”
“Couple hundred last I looked, and more coming.”
“Jesus. Jesus. Why didn’t we elope? How’s a man supposed to stand up in front of hundreds of people and change his life forever?”
“I think the tradition started so the groom couldn’t run away. They’d go after him like a lynch mob.”
“That sure does settle me down, cher. How about you find me a couple fingers of bourbon?”
Declan merely strolled over to a painted cabinet and took out a bottle. “I figured you’d need a hit.” He pulled out a tin of Altoids as well. “And these. Don’t want to be breathing whiskey on the bride. She might be the one who runs.”
Declan started to pour, but when the door opened after a cursory knock and his mother marched in, he whipped bottle and glass behind his back.
“Don’t you both look handsome! Declan, don’t give him more than one shot of that whiskey you’ve got behind you, and make sure he chases it with mouthwash.”
“I got Altoids.”
“Fine.” Smiling, she walked over and fussed with Remy’s tie. “You’re nervous because this is the most important day of your life. There’d be something wrong with you if you didn’t have some shakes. I promise, they’ll go away the minute you see Effie. She looks beautiful.”
Colleen framed Remy’s face in her hands. “I’m very proud of you.”
“How about me?” Declan demanded. “I thought of the Altoids.”
“I’ll get to you later. You’re marrying the woman you love,” Colleen went on. “You’re surrounded by friends and family who love you both. It’s a beautiful day, and your brother—the one of your heart—has seen to it that you have a beautiful setting. Now you take a shot of that bourbon, then take a deep breath. Then get your butt out there and get married.”
“Yes, ma’am. I purely love you, Miss Colleen.”
