by Nora Roberts
strictly formal. Jack, that's the photographer, will know what to do with you." "Yes, but-"
"Now, Maggie's having a bit of a lie-in this morning, but she'd like to go with you. Liam will stay here, so you can have some time for the two of you to do some shopping, or for Maggie to show you around Dublin."
"That would be nice." Shannon drew a breath. She shouldn't have.
"I'm hoping you'll come by the gallery, have a tour. You said you'd been to our branch in New York." "Yes, and-"
"I think you'll see we try to create different moods in different cities. In order to reflect the ambience. I'm going to be tied up a great deal of the day." He glanced briefly at his watch. "Starting almost immediately. But I'd appreciate it if you'd find a moment to come by the office. Maggie can bring you in about three. We can go over whatever changes you'd like in the contracts."
"Stop." She held up both hands, unsure if she wanted to scream or to laugh. "You're doing it again." "I'm sorry. What's that?"
"Oh, don't apologize or look politely bemused. You know exactly what you're doing. You're the most elegant steamroller I've ever been flattened by." He flashed a grin that had her shaking her head. "And that-that quick charming smile is lethal. I can see how even someone as stubborn as Maggie crumbled."
"That she didn't. I had to batter away at her bit by bit. And you're much more like her than you might like me
to point out." He smothered a fresh grin when Shannon's eyes flashed. "Yes, much more like her."
"Insulting me is not the way to win me over."
"Then let me say this." He folded his hands on the desk. "As your brother-in-law as much as the man who hopes to push forward your career. You didn't come here because I outflanked you, Shannon. That's part of it, yes, that pushed you to move when I pushed you to move. But what I've done is plant an idea in your head."
"All right, you have. It's an idea I toyed with years ago and dismissed an impractical. You're trying to convince me now that it's not."
Intrigued, he leaned back and studied her. "Is it money?"
"I have money. More, actually, than I need. My father was very good at making it." She shook her head. "No, it's not money. Though it's important to me to make my own, to have the satisfaction of that. I need security, and stability, and challenges. I suppose that sounds contradictory."
"Not at all."
Seeing he understood, she continued. "The painting I've done on my own, for myself, has always been a habit, a kind of obligation even-something I worked into my schedule like, well, like an appointment with myself."
"And you're hesitating on making it a focus."
"Yes, I am. I've done better work here than I have ever in my life. And it pulls me in a direction I never seriously considered taking." And now that she'd said it, she was more confused than ever. "But what happens when I go back to New York, Rogan, pick up the life I left behind there? If I sign a contract, I'd have given you my word. How can I do that when I can't be sure I'll be able to keep it?"
"Your integrity's warring with your impulses," he said, putting his finger straight to the pulse. "And. that's a difficult thing. Why don't we oblige them both?" "How do you propose to manage that?" "Your contract with Worldwide will encompass the work you've done in Ireland, and what you have ready in New York-with an option," he continued, running a pen through his fingers, "for a first look at what you may produce over the next two years. Whether it's one piece or a dozen."
"That's quite a compromise," she murmured. "But you wanted a show. I don't know if I've enough for that, or if what I have will suit you."
"We're flexible on the size of a showing. And I'll let you know what doesn't suit me."
She met his eyes. "I bet you will."
Later, when he'd gone, Shannon wandered back upstairs. He'd given her a great deal to think over. Somehow he'd managed to open a door without forcing her to close another. She could accept his terms and go back to her life without missing a beat.
She found it odd, and more confusing than ever, that she wished he had pressed her into a corner where she'd be forced to make one clear-cut choice.
But there wasn't time to brood on it-not if she wanted to see anything of the city before the photo shoot. A photo shoot, she thought, chuckling to herself. Imagine that.
She wiped the smile away and knocked briskly on Maggie's bedroom door. "Maggie? Rogan said to wake you." Hearing no response, Shannon rolled her eyes and knocked again. "It's past nine, Margaret Mary. Even pregnant women have to get out of bed sometime."
Impatient, Shannon turned the knob and eased the door open. She could see the bed was empty, and thinking Maggie might be dressing, and ignoring her, she pushed the door wider.
As she started to call out again, she heard the unmistakable sounds of wretched illness from the adjoining bath. It didn't occur to her to hesitate; she simply hurried through to where Maggie was heaving over the toilet.
"Get out, damn you." Maggie waved a limp hand and fought the next wave of nausea. "Can't a woman retch in private?"
Saying nothing, Shannon walked to the sink and dampened a thick washcloth with cool water. Maggie was too busy heaving to resist when Shannon held the back of her head and pressed the cloth to her clammy brow.
"Poor baby," Shannon murmured when Maggie sagged weakly. "Horrible way to start the morning. Just rest a minute, get your breath back." "I'm all right. Go away. I'm all right." "Sure you are. Can you handle some water?" Without waiting for an answer, Shannon walked over to fill a glass, then came back to crouch and ease it to Maggie's lips. "There you go, nice slow sips. It probably tastes like you swallowed a sewer."
"This child best be a saint." Because it was there, Maggie leaned against Shannon's shoulder.
"Have you seen your doctor?" To soothe, Shannon took the cloth and ran it gently over Maggie's face. "Isn't there something you can take?"
"I've seen the doctor. Bloody swine. A couple more weeks, he says, and I'll be right as rain. Couple more weeks," she repeated, shutting her eyes. "I nearly murdered him on the spot."
"No jury in the world-if they were women-would convict you. Here, come on, let's get you on your feet. The floor's cold."
Too weak to argue, Maggie let herself be helped up and guided in toward the bed. "Not the bed. I don't need the bed. I just want to sit a minute."
"All right." Shannon led her to a chair. "Want some tea?"
"Oh." Desperately relieved the spell was over, Maggie let her head fall back and closed her eyes. "I would. If you could call on the phone there down to the kitchen and ask if they'd mind sending some up, and some toast.Dry. I'd be grateful."
She sat still, while her system leveled off and the chill faded from her skin. "Well," she said when Shannon | replaced the receiver. "That was pleasant for both of us."
"A lot worse for you." Not quite sure Maggie should be left alone yet, Shannon sat on the edge of the bed.
"It was kind of you to help me through it. I appreciate it."
"It didn't sound that way when you were swearing at me."
A grin twisted Maggie's mouth. "I'll apologize for that. I hate being..." She gestured. "Out of control of things."
"Me, too. You know, I've only been drunk once in my whole life."
"Once?" The smile turned into a sneer. "And you, Irish as the Rings of Kerry."
"Nevertheless, while it had its liberating aspects, I found, on hindsight, that it was debilitating. I couldn't quite hit the control button. And there was the added delight of being sick as a dog on the side of the road on the way home, and the wonder and glory of the morning after. So, I find it more practical to limit my intake."
"One warms the soul, two warms the brain. Da always said that."
"So he had his practical side as well."
"A narrow one. You have his eyes." She watched Shannon lower them and struggled against her own sense of loss and impatience. "I'm sorry you mind hearing it."
And so, Shannon discovered, was she. "Both my mother a
nd father had blue eyes. I remember asking her once where she thought I'd gotten my green ones. She looked so sad, for just an instant, then she smiled and said an angel gave them to me."
"He'd have liked that. And he'd have been glad and grateful that she found a man like your father must have been, to love both of you." She looked over as the tea was brought in. "There's two cups," she said when Shannon rose to go. "If you'd like to have one with me."
"All right."
"Would it bother you to tell me how they met-your parents?"
"No." Shannon took her seat again and discovered it far from bothered her to tell the story. It warmed her. When Maggie burst into laughter at the idea of Colin knocking Amanda into the mud, Shannon joined her.
"I'd like to have met them," Maggie said at length.
"I think they would have liked meeting you." A little embarrassed by the sentiment, Shannon rose. "Listen, if you'd like to just kick back and rest, I can take a cab to the photographer."
"I'm fine now. I'd like to go with you-and see Jack torture you the way he did me when Rogan put me through this last."
"Thanks."
"My pleasure. And..." She set the tray aside and rose. "I think I'd enjoy spending some time with you."
"I think I'd enjoy that, too." Shannon smiled. "I'll wait for you downstairs."
She loved Dublin. She loved the waterways, the bridges, the buildings, the crowds. And oh, she loved the shops. Though she was impatient to do more, see more, Shannon held herself back and indulged Maggie in an enormous midday meal.
Unlike her volatile sister, Shannon hadn't found the photography shoot anything but a pleasant, interesting experience. When she'd pointed that out, Maggie had simply shuddered.
When they left the restaurant, Shannon calculated that they'd broken a record of being in each other's company without harsh words or snide remarks.
She was soon to discover that she shared at least one trait with Maggie. The woman was a champion shopper -zipping from store to store, measuring, considering, and buying without all the wavering and wobbling that annoyed Shannon in many of her friends.
"No." Maggie shook her head as Shannon held up a biscuit-colored sweater. "You need color, not neutrals."
"I like it." Pouting a little, Shannon turned toward a mirror, spreading the sweater up to her neck. "The material's gorgeous."
"It is, and the color makes you look like a week-old corpse."
"Damn it." With a half laugh Shannon folded the sweater again. "It does."
"You want this one." Maggie handed her one in mossy green. She stepped behind Shannon, narrowing her eyes at their reflections. "Definitely."
"You're right. I hate when you're right." She draped the sweater over her arm and fingered the sleeve of the blouse Maggie had over hers. "Are you buying that?" "Why?"
"Because I'm having it if you're not." "Well, I am." Smug, Maggie gathered up her bags and went to pay for it.
"You'd probably have put it back if I hadn't said I wanted it," Shannon complained as they left the shop.
"No, but it certainly adds to the satisfaction of the purchase. There's a cookery shop nearby. I want to pick up some things for Brie."
"Fine." Still sulking over the blouse, Shannon fell into step. "What's that?"
"A music store," Maggie said dryly when Shannon stopped to stare at a display window.
"I know that. What's that?"
"A dulcimer. Hammer dulcimer."
"It looks more like a piece of art than an instrument."
"It's both. That's a lovely one, too. Murphy made one a few years back just as fine. A beautiful tone it had. His sister Maureen fell in love with it, and he gave it to her."
"That sounds just like him. Do you think he'd like it? One someone else made?"
Maggie lifted her brow. "You could give him wind in a paper bag and he'd treasure it."
But Shannon had already made her decision and was marching into the shop.
Delighted, Shannon watched the clerk take the dulcimer out of the window, then listened as he gave her a skillful demonstration of the music it could make.
"I can see him playing it, can't you?" Shannon asked Maggie. "With that half smile on his face."
"I can." Maggie waited until the happy clerk went in the back to find the right box for transport. "So you're in love with him."
