by Nora Roberts
"He wants to cancel it. She's badgering him to go, wants nothing to interfere with his work." Impatient, annoyed, she scowled at the elevator doors. "So damn sure she is that she can handle an infant, the inn, all those bleeding guests, and this Amanda Dougherty Bodine business as well."
"We both know that Brianna's strong enough to handle whatever happens. Just as you are."
Prepared to argue, she looked up. Rogan's amused smile smoothed away the temper. "You may be right." She sent him a saucy look. "For once." Soothed a little, she took some of the flowers from him. "And it's too wonderful a day to be worrying about something that may never happen. We've ourselves a beautiful niece, Sweeney."
"That we do. I think she might have your chin, Margaret Mary."
"I was thinking that as well." She stepped into the elevator with him. How simple it was really, she mused, to forget the pain and remember only the joy. "And I was thinking now that Liam's beginning to toddle about, we might start working on providing him with a sister, or a brother."
With a grin Rogan managed to kiss her through the daffodils. "I was thinking that as well."
Chapter Three
I am the Resurrection and the Light.
Shannon knew the words, all the priest's words, were supposed to comfort, to ease, perhaps inspire. She heard them, on this perfect spring day beside her mother's grave. She'd heard them in the crowded, sunwashed church during the funeral Mass. All the words, familiar from her youth. And she had knelt and stood and sat, even responded as some part of her brain followed the rite.
But she felt neither comforted nor eased nor inspired.
The scene wasn't dreamlike, but all too real. The black-garbed priest with his beautiful baritone, the dozens and dozens of mourners, the brilliant stream of sunlight that glinted off the brass handles of the coffin that was cloaked in flowers. The sound of weeping, the chirp of birds.
She was burying her mother.
Beside the fresh grave was the neatly tended mound of another, and the headstone, still brutally new, of the man she had believed all of her life to be her father. She was supposed to cry. But she'd already wept. She was supposed to pray. But the prayers wouldn't come.
Standing there, with the priest's voice ringing in the clear spring air, Shannon could only see herself again, walking into the parlor, the anger still hot inside her.
She'd thought her mother had been sleeping. But there had been too many questions, too many demands racing in her head to wait, and she'd decided to wake her.
Gently, she remembered. Thank God she had at least been gentle. But her mother hadn't awakened, hadn't stirred.
The rest had been panic. Not so gentle now-the shaking, the shouting, the pleading. And the few minutes of blankness, blessedly brief, that she knew now had been helpless hysteria.
There'd been the frantic call for an ambulance, the endless, terrifying ride to the hospital. And the wait, always the wait.
Now the waiting was over. Amanda had slipped into a coma, and from a coma into death. And from death, so said the priest, into eternal life. They told her it was a blessing. The doctor had said so, and the nurses who had been unfailingly kind. The friends and neighbors who had called had all said it was a blessing. There had been no pain, no suffering in those last fortyeight hours. She had simply slept while her body and brain had shut down.
Only the living suffered, Shannon thought now. Only they were riddled with guilt and regrets and unanswered questions.
"She's with Colin now," someone murmured.
Shannon blinked herself back, and saw that it was done. People were already turning toward her. She would have to accept their sympathies, their comforts, their own sorrows, as she had at the funeral parlor viewing.
Many would come back to the house, of course. She had prepared for that, had handled all the details. After all, she thought as she mechanically accepted and responded to those who walked to her, details were what she did best.
The funeral arrangements had been handled neatly and without fuss. Her mother would have wanted the simple, she knew, and Shannon had done her best to accommodate Amanda on this last duty. The simple coffin, the right flowers and music, the solemn Catholic ceremony.
And the food, of course. It seemed faintly awful to have such a thing catered, but she simply hadn't had the time or the energy to prepare a meal for the friends and neighbors who would come to the house from the cemetery.
Then, at last, she was alone. For a moment she simply couldn't think-what did she want? What was right? Still the tears and the prayers wouldn't come. Tentatively Shannon laid a hand on the coffin, but there was only the sensation of wood warmed by the sun, and the overly heady scent of roses.
"I'm sorry," she murmured. "It shouldn't have been like that between us at the end. But I don't know how to resolve it, or to change it. And I don't know how to say goodbye, to either of you now."
She stared down at the headstone to her left.
Colin Alan Bodine Beloved husband and father
Even those last words, she thought miserably, carved into granite were a lie. And her only wish, as she stood over the graves of two people she had loved all of her life, was that she had never learned the truth.
And that stubborn, selfish wish was the guilt she would live with.
Turning away, she walked alone toward the waiting car.
It seemed like hours before the crowd began to thin and the house grew quiet again. Amanda had been well loved, and those who had loved her had gathered together in her home. Shannon said her last goodbye, her last thanks, accepted her last sympathy, then finally, finally, closed the door and was alone.
Fatigue began to drag at Shannon as she wandered into her father's office.
Amanda had changed little here in the eleven months since her husband's sudden death. The big old desk was no longer cluttered, but she had yet to dispose of his computer, the modem, the fax and other equipment he'd used as a broker and financial adviser. His toys, he'd called them, and his wife had kept them even when she'd been able to give away his suits, his shoes, his foolish ties.
All the books remained on the shelves-tax planning, estate planning, accounting texts.
Weary, Shannon sat in the big leather chair she'd given him herself for Father's Day five years before. He'd loved it, she remembered, running a hand over the smooth burgundy leather. Big enough to hold a horse, he'd said, and had laughed and pulled her into his lap.
She wished she could convince herself that she still felt him here. But she didn't. She felt nothing. And that told her more than the requiem Mass, more than the cemetery, that she was alone. Really alone.
There hadn't been enough time for anything, Shannon thought dully. If she'd known before... She wasn't sure which she meant, her mother's illness or the lies. If she'd known, she thought again, training her mind on the illness. They might have tried other things, the alternative medicines, the vitamin concentrates, all the small and simple hopes she'd read of in the books on homeopathic medicine she'd collected. There hadn't been time to give them a chance to work.
There had been only a few weeks. Her mother had kept her illness from her, as she'd kept other things.
She hadn't shared them, Shannon thought as bitterness warred with grief. Not with her own daughter.
So, the very last words she had spoken to her mother had been in anger and contempt. And she could never take them back.
Fists clenched against an enemy she couldn't see, she rose, turned away from the desk. She'd needed time, damn it. She'd needed time to try to understand, or at least learn to live with it.
Now the tears came, hot and helpless. Because she knew, in her heart, that she wished her mother had died before she'd told her. And she hated herself for it.
After the tears drained out of her, she knew she had to sleep. Mechanically she climbed the stairs, washed her hot cheeks with cool water, and lay, fully clothed, on the bed.
She'd have to sell the house, she thought. And the f
urniture. There were papers to go through.
She hadn't told her mother she loved her.
With that weighing on her heart, she fell into an exhausted sleep.
Afternoon naps always left Shannon groggy. She took them only when ill, and she was rarely ill. The house was quiet when she climbed out of bed again. A glance at the clock told her she'd slept less than an hour, but she was stiff and muddled despite the brevity.
She would make coffee, she told herself, and then she would sit down and plan how best to handle all of her mother's things, and the house she'd loved.
The doorbell rang before she'd reached the base of the stairs. She could only pray it wasn't some wellmeaning neighbor come to offer help or company. She wanted neither at the moment.
But it was a stranger at the door. The man was of medium height, with a slight pouch showing under his dark suit. His hair was graying, his eyes sharp. She had an odd and uncomfortable sensation when those eyes stayed focused on her face.
"I'm looking for Amanda Dougherty Bodine."
"This is the Bodine residence," Shannon returned, trying to peg him. Salesman? She didn't think so. "I'm her daughter. What is it you want?"
Nothing changed on his face, but Shannon sensed his attention sharpening. "A few minutes of Mrs. Bodine's time, if it's convenient. I'm John Hobbs."
"I'm sorry, Mr. Hobbs, it's not convenient. I buried my mother this morning, so if you'll excuse me-"
"I'm sorry." His hand went to the door, holding it open when Shannon would have closed it. "I've just arrived in town from New York. I hadn't heard about your
mother's death." Hobbs had to rethink and regroup quickly. He'd gotten too close to simply walk away now. "Are you Shannon Bodine?"
"That's right. Just what do you want, Mr. Hobbs?"
"Your time," he said pleasantly enough, "when it's more convenient for you. I'd like to make an appointment to meet with you in a few days."
Shannon pushed back the hair tumbled from her nap. "I'll be going back to New York in a few days."
"I'll be happy to meet with you there."
Her eyes narrowed as she tried to shake off the disorientation from her nap. "Did my mother know you, Mr. Hobbs?"
"No, she didn't, Ms. Bodine."
"Then I don't think we have anything to discuss. Now please, excuse me."
"I have information which I have been authorized, by my clients, to discuss with Mrs. Amanda Dougherty Bodine." Hobbs simply kept his hand on the door, taking Shannon's measure as he held it open.
"Clients?" Despite herself, Shannon was intrigued. "Does this concern my father?"
Hobbs's hesitation was brief, but she caught it. And her heart began to drum. "It concerns your family, yes. If we could make an appointment to meet, I'll inform my clients of Mrs. Bodine's death."
"Who are your clients, Mr. Hobbs? No, don't tell me it's confidential," she snapped. "You come to my door on the day of my mother's funeral looking for her to discuss something that concerns my family. I'm my only family now, Mr. Hobbs, so your information obviously concerns me. Who are your clients?"
"I need to make a phone call-from my car. Would you mind waiting a few moments?"
"All right," she agreed, more on impulse than with a sense of patience. "I'll wait."
But she closed the door when he walked toward the dark sedan at the curb. She had a feeling she was going to need that coffee.
It didn't take him long. The bell rang again when she was taking her first sip. Carrying the mug with her, she went back to answer.
"Ms. Bodine, my client has authorized me to handle this matter at my own discretion." Reaching into his pocket, he took out a business card, offered it.
"Doubleday Investigations," she read. "New York." Shannon lifted a brow. "You're a long way from home, Mr, Hobbs."
"My business keeps me on the road quite a bit. This particular case has kept me there. I'd like to come in, Ms. Bodine. Or if you'd be more comfortable, I could meet you wherever you like."
She had an urge to close the door in his face. Not that she was afraid of him physically. The cowardice came from something deeper, and because she recognized it, she ignored it.
"Come in. I've just made coffee."
"I appreciate it." As was his habit, long ingrained, Hobbs scanned the house as he followed Shannon, took in the subtle wealth, the quiet good taste. Everything he'd learned about the Bodines in the last few months was reflected in the house. They were-had been-a nice, closely knit upper-income family without pretensions.
"This is a difficult time for you, Ms. Bodine," Hobbs began when he took the chair at the table Shannon gestured toward. "I hope I won't add to it."
"My mother died two days ago, Mr. Hobbs. I don't think you can make it more difficult than it already is. Cream, sugar?"
"Just black, thanks." He studied her as she prepared his coffee. Self-possessed, he mused. That would make his job easier. "Was your mother ill, Ms. Bodine?"
