by Nora Roberts
“I didn’t lie to you. I did my job as a parent and did what was best for you. I looked out for your future.”
“By making my past and present a lie, and miserable. He sent that money to me, for me. You let me believe he just left, he didn’t care.”
“He did leave, and I invested the money. You were a minor—”
“I haven’t been a minor for a long time.”
“You’ve never shown any skill or interest in handling money.”
“I’m not taking that.” Fury just erupted inside her. “That’s bullshit.”
“Don’t you dare take that tone with me.”
“I’ll take whatever tone I like. I worked two jobs, took out loans, did without, all so I could get degrees I didn’t want. So I could become a teacher because you hammered it into me that’s all I could be. Not that it’s a vital, honorable, incredible profession and vocation, but that those who can’t do, teach. How many times did I hear that, Mom?”
“You don’t have any other skills. And you’d better calm down.”
“I’m way past calm. I could’ve taken a couple semesters to explore, to try to figure out what I wanted to do, to be. I could have tried writing.”
“Oh please. Stop being childish.”
“You decided what I should do, how I should do it. How I should dress, how I should wear my own hair, for God’s sake. And you kept what was freedom for me locked in a file cabinet drawer.”
“I protected you! I’ve spent my life protecting you.”
“From what? From living my life? You told Mr. Ellsworth I had no interest in handling the money, you let him think I was incapable of handling it.”
“Because you aren’t capable, Breen.” Jennifer brushed back her hair, and her voice took on that irritatingly, endlessly patient tone.
“Look at you, right now. You find out there’s some money, and the first thing you do is quit your job. How is that responsible?”
“You know what I think’s irresponsible? Slogging through a job you hate day after day. Covering up who you are, or who you may be given the chance to be, because your mother’s made you feel inadequate.”
“I’ve never said you were inadequate. That’s not fair.”
“No, you’re right. Adequate was the line. Just barely adequate. And you know, maybe you’re right. Maybe it’ll turn out that’s all I am. But I’m going to find out.”
She took a breath. She could see, clearly, her mother looked ill, but she couldn’t stop. “You knew how anxious I was about the student debt, how I had to juggle my paycheck, take extra work to keep treading water. And you kept the money that would have let me take a good, clear breath secret.”
“It’s important to learn how to budget.”
Jennifer walked away to drop down in a chair. “Your father was a dreamer, and you took after him. You needed to learn how reality works. I did my best for you, always.”
“Where is he?”
“I don’t know.” She pressed her fingers to her eyes. “I don’t. He chose not to come back, you remember that when you slap out at me. He chose not to be a father to you. I never stopped him from seeing you. I wouldn’t have.”
She dropped her hands again. “I’m the one who was here. The one who made sure you had a stable home, who took care of you when you were sick, who helped with your homework, who was a mother while building a career so we could have that stable home.”
“Yes, you did all that, but you left out one thing. You spent a lot of time and effort trying to mold me into what you thought I should be, and none letting me be who I wanted to be.”
“Everything I did, everything, was to keep you safe, to give you stability, to teach you how to live a normal, productive life.”
“As an unhappy, anxious middle school teacher who covered up her red hair with a brown rinse and wore a lot of beige so nobody noticed her.”
“You’re safe,” Jennifer insisted, “you’re healthy. You have an education and a profession.”
“That’s not enough. It hasn’t been enough for you. You have a career, take vacations, go to spa retreats.”
Hints of anger flashed through the patience. “I worked for it.”
“You did, you did.” For a moment, Breen sat across from her mother. “Nobody pushed you into becoming the media director of a successful ad agency. You had the skills, the determination, and you went for it. You worked and work hard. I admire what you’ve made of your life, and you’re entitled to the rewards. I’m entitled to try to do the same.”
Breen rose. “I’ve had your name taken off the account. Mr. Ellsworth should contact you tomorrow to discuss if you want another firm or another account executive to handle your investments. The groceries you asked me to get are put away. I watered the plants, sorted your mail. And, as you can see, the windows are still open. You’ll have to close them yourself. It’s the last time I’ll serve as your general dogsbody.”
She hesitated, then decided to say what she felt. “I’m sorry you’re upset, but you were dishonest, and what you’ve done hurt me. It hurt me, Mom.”
“I never wanted to hurt you.”
“Maybe not. Maybe that’s true but, like you always say, that’s reality. I need to go. I’m meeting Marco.”
“What are you going to do? What are you going to do, Breen?”
“Well, to start, the day after the last day of classes, Marco and I are flying to Ireland. I’m going to see where my father came from. I’m going to try to find him.”
“You won’t.” Jennifer pressed her fingers to her eyes again. “You won’t.”
“I’m going to try. Either way, for the first time since he left, I’m going to have an adventure.”
“Don’t do this, Breen. Take time to think, not just react.”
“You should close the windows. It looks like a storm’s coming.”
She walked out and kept walking, past the bus stop as the clouds thickened overhead.
The man in black strolled behind her. He carried a black umbrella, as it would rain, he knew, in sixteen minutes.
He hadn’t expected things to move so quickly, so smoothly. Of course, they still had a ways to go, but the first steps had been taken.
He’d assumed he’d have to give the girl a few little pushes. But the one, it seemed, had been quite enough. And if she wavered on the following through, then push he would.
But for now, he could enjoy this visit to Philadelphia, a city he found full of fascination. The food—he particularly liked the soft pretzels, though he’d found the candy billed as Irish potato a disappointment.
He liked the neighborhoods, little communities, and the mix of architecture. He’d taken a tour or two, found himself amused when the guide spoke of old and history.
They knew nothing of old in the grand scheme, or of the long, long road of history.
But, all in all, he found it charming in its way.
The country had formed its government here, and they were so proud of it. Of course, the government was more than a bit of a mess, but these things did ebb and flow over time. And they were so very young yet.
And stubborn, and violent, and too often greedy.
And still there was heart and hope. Much could be done with both.
He thought the girl had it—and would need it—though she’d buried it for most of her time in this world.
She walked and walked—and good for her. He much preferred it to the buses. Though he did like the trains, and very much. However, if she kept walking, she’d end up very wet.
Then she stopped, studying some sort of shop. Started to walk on, walked back again. Stopped. He was about to tap into her thoughts, when she walked—quick, determined—inside.
He strolled along, paused to study the sign. Puzzled over it for a moment.
Then laughed and laughed as he opened his umbrella. The rain came down—exactly on time—and in a thunderous torrent. Delighted by the way things progressed, he wandered off to find a bite to eat. He had a yen for
a hoagie, and thought he’d miss them when he went home again.
Two hours later, when Breen walked into the apartment, Marco was waiting. Saying nothing, he simply walked to her, wrapped around her, swayed.
“It was awful.”
“I know. Wine or ice cream?”
“Why not both?”
“You got it. Sit down, let Uncle Marco fix everything.” He brushed a hand over her hair. “Got caught in the rain.”
“A little bit.” She did sit. Now that she’d gotten home, exhaustion dropped down like broken bricks. “Don’t you have to go to work?”
“Not for an hour or so,” he said from the kitchen. “Time for wine, ice cream, and venting. I guess she didn’t take it very well.”
“She led with the insult I’d go through her private papers, harangued me for quitting my job, using that as evidence I’m irresponsible and can’t handle my finances. She kept the money, and the fact my father sent it, from me to protect me.”
Being Marco, he brought two bowls of cookie dough ice cream, two glasses of chilled pinot grigio on a bamboo tray, with cloth cocktail napkins.
“From what?”
“Myself, I guess, since I’m stupid, irresponsible, and incapable of making my own decisions.”
Marco sat, picked up his spoon, spoke carefully. “I love your mother.”
“I know you do.”
“I love her because she was always good to me. I love her because when I came out, she accepted me in a way my family couldn’t, and never has. It mattered.”
“I know.”
“I can love her and still say she’s wrong, really wrong. No-excuses wrong, and I’m sorry.”
“She was upset, genuinely. And not just because I caught her in this lie—and it is a damn lie, however she tries to spin it around. It was almost like she was somehow upset and worried I’d just sealed my doom or something.”
He smiled as he ate ice cream. “Maybe overreacting a little, Breen?”
“Maybe, but it felt like that to me. She said she doesn’t know where my father is, and I believe her. I think she was too upset to lie. We argued—fought really—most of the time. But she kind of gave up, if you know what I mean. Just gave up.”
“Did you tell her we’re going to Ireland?”
“Yeah, and all she said, basically, was I wouldn’t find him.” Breen picked up her wine now. “She never once, not once, said she’d been wrong. Never once said she was sorry. Why couldn’t she just say ‘I’m sorry’?”
She shook her head before Marco could speak. “Because she doesn’t think she’s wrong, simple as that. She’s not going to apologize for being right, is she? Jennifer Wilcox is always right.”
“Not this time.”
“It doesn’t matter.” She went back to the ice cream. “I said what I had to say, and I’m doing what I have to do. Want to do. I don’t have to prove myself to her.”
She caught the look he gave her, sighed. “Okay, part of me wants to, but most of me wants to prove myself to me. That comes first. Oh.” Breen wagged her spoon. “She disapproved of the hair, and it hit me as I was walking—and walking—I got my hair from my father. Bright red and curly. So maybe it’s too much of a reminder, but you know what?”
“What?”
“It’s my damn hair, and she’s supposed to love me as I am. So she can just get the hell over it.”
“That’s the way.” His quick grin turned to distress as he grabbed her hand. “What did you do? You hurt yourself.”
“Oh, well, not exactly.” Hastily, she picked up her wine again while Marco shoved up her sleeve to examine the bandage over her wrist.
“What exactly?”
“I was so mad. I walked right by the bus stop, then the next bus stop. I was going over and over the whole argument again in my head. It was so insulting, Marco, on top of it all, just insulting. And I remember how I used to take ballet, and how I loved it.”
“You looked really cute in your leotard and tights.”
“I had such fun with it, and Dad called me his Tiny Dancer, and when he left . . . She said we couldn’t really afford the lessons anymore, but I shouldn’t be sad because I was only average. I’d already gotten all I could get out of the lessons—the poise, the posture. She’d manage the piano lessons for another year, but that was all.”
“You never told me.”
“It hurt so much. It wasn’t as if I had any illusions about becoming a prima ballerina—or not since I was about seven. I knew I was only average, but I loved it—the dancing, practicing with our little troupe, being a part of it. Doesn’t matter now, and not the point. It’s just that I remembered that, and other things. And I remembered I never fought back, never stood up for myself. And it made me mad all over again.”
“So you cut your wrist?”
“I didn’t cut my wrist. I was walking and thinking of all the times I gave in, didn’t fight. And I saw this sign. Express You. And wasn’t that what I needed to do? Express me? So I went in, and . . .”
She puffed out her cheeks, blew out air.
“Jesus my ass, Breen. You got a tattoo!”
“It was impulse. It was temper. It was revenge or something. And by the time I calmed down, it was too late to stop.”
“What’d you get? Lemme see! Why didn’t you text me to come? We would’ve gotten one together. That was the plan.”
“We never had a tattoo plan.”
“We would have if you’d ever said you wanted one. What is it? When can you take the bandage off?”
“It’s not really a bandage, and I can take it off now. I started to get it on my biceps, then I thought no, if I have it on my wrist, I can turn it over and look at it whenever I need it. Which is more stupid.”
She took the protective gauze off, turned up her right wrist.
“It’s beautiful lettering, like what they carved in old stones, and I like the color—dark, dark green that’s almost black but isn’t. But what the hell is misneach?”
“It’s pronounced ‘misnaw.’ It’s Irish for ‘courage’—I looked it up. And it’s your fault I have a tattoo on my wrist.”
He had her hand, turning it this way, that way, his big, beautiful eyes examining each letter. “How’s it my fault?”
“It’s what you texted me just as my mother got home. Courage. It’s what I needed, and it’s what I thought of when I saw that damn sign.”
“I’m taking the credit because this is so cool. Let’s go back tomorrow so I can get one. No, wait. I’ll get one in Ireland—cooler yet. And you can get another.”
“I don’t think I’m up for another. You go right ahead.”
“Did it hurt?”
“I was too mad to notice, then yeah, some when I came back down. By then, too late. Maybe I am irresponsible.”
“You are not. You made a statement. I love it. Why don’t you come into work with me, show it off?”
“I’m going to stay right here, do my lesson plans. And I’m going to start looking for a cottage for rent in County Galway.”
“We’re really doing it.”
“We’re really doing it.” She turned her wrist over, thought: Courage.
Dutifully, as Breen believed in duty, she went to school every morning and did her best. She graded papers, found some satisfaction when she saw some improvement in certain students.
In the evenings, on the weekends, she prepared for the trip of her lifetime. She found a cottage in Connemara—a district in County Galway—exactly what she was looking for. It was just a few miles from a quaint village and there were acres to explore, and it even had a bay and mountain view.
She considered it another sign—like the tattoo parlor—that previous bookings fell through. So she snapped it up for the summer.
And struggled against the anxiety of making so big a commitment.
Before she could falter—courage!—she booked three nights in Clare at Dromoland Castle, then booked the flights.
Done.
N
ow she had to wait for her passport and Marco’s to arrive, buy some Dramamine. She didn’t know if she got airsick, since she’d never flown. But better safe than sorry.
She bought guidebooks and maps, rented a car—and spent a sleepless night worried about driving in Ireland.
She had two meetings with Ellsworth, who arranged for a thousand euros—dear God, a thousand.
It all seemed like a strange dream, even the packing.
When she walked out of school for the last time, she felt as if she walked through someone else’s dream.
She walked to the bus stop, another last time, and thought it was like closing a door. Not locking it, not pretending it wasn’t there, just closing it and moving into another room.
No, like moving out of a house where you’d never felt quite right, and hoping the next one fit.
And at this time the next day, they’d be on their way to the airport. They’d fly through the night to another world. And, for the first time in so long she couldn’t remember, she wouldn’t have to answer to anyone but herself. No schedule, no lesson plans, no alarm set for work.
What the hell was she going to do with herself?
Find out, she thought. And turned her wrist over. Gut up and find out.
She pulled out her phone when it rang.
“Hi, Sally.”
“Breen, my treasure. I have to ask you for an enormous favor. I know you’re busy.”
“Really not. Everything’s done.”
“That makes me feel less guilty. I’m in a bind. Could you give me a few hours tonight? I’ve had three servers call in. Some sort of stomach bug, and I’m short-staffed.”
“Sure. No problem.”
“Bless your heart. I had to ask Marco, too. I’m so sorry, but—”
“Don’t be. It’ll be nice to see everybody before we leave. What time do you want me?”
“Can you make it by six?”
“Sure. I’m about to get on the bus home now. I’ll obsessively check my travel list, again, change, and be there with Marco at six.”
“I owe you both, big. Love you, girl.”
“Love you back.”
And good, Breen thought as she got on the bus. It would keep her mind off air travel, airport security, crashing into the Atlantic, driving on the wrong side of the road, and every other worry she’d conjured up over the last weeks.