“But my arms.” She yanked against a black and white polka-dotted scarf. “He’s got me tied down.”
Quickly, Sully used his pocket knife to cut her free. She pushed away from the bed and let out a whimper, like a wounded dog.
“Bernie.” He put an arm over her shoulders and she pressed her face to his chest. Better to keep her from eyeing the ghoulish sight.
The gun had fallen from Curtis’s hand and skittered across the floor. It was out of reach of the perp, but then Sully knew he got off a good shot and Curtis was still. The bullet hole in the back of his head was small, but it was enough.
“You sure you’re okay?” he asked his daughter tenderly. “He didn’t hurt you, did he?”
“He was going to shoot me,” her voice quavered. “And he said he killed Tony. Do you think it’s true, Daddy?”
“Oh, dear God ...” Sully let out a breath. “We’ll find out.”
“Grandpa?” Grace called from the bedroom doorway. “Grandpa? Is it okay to come in?”
“Stay right there. We’re coming out.” He led Bernadette away from the dead man and ushered both girls into the living room. Better to let the crime scene be and keep Grace from having to see the body.
“You did good, Gracie,” he said. “Calling me, keeping quiet. You did real good. I’m proud of you, darlin’. I’m proud of both of you.” Of course, by the time Gracie had called he’d been on his way, but she had filled him in on the situation, helped him with the logistics. If he had come barreling in the front door, Curtis would have shot and fled.
As he put his gun in his holster, he saw that Grace was patting Bernie’s back, trying to console her quivering aunt. Wise for her years, Gracie. Just like her father.
Choking back the ball of emotion and strain in his throat, he put his arms around the two girls. As the whining sirens grew louder and lights flashed over the windows, he hugged them close and thanked the good Lord he could be here to protect them both.
One shot ... one shot could have changed everything.
Thank God he’d gotten that shot off first.
Epilogue
Easter Sunday, one year later
Sunrise over the Atlantic.
Bernie linked her arm through Keesh’s as pink and orange light washed into the purple sky over the ocean.
“Easter sunrise.” She shivered against the ocean breeze as the sky around them opened up with light. Beyond the waves that crashed below them and swept back to the sea, a diamond of light winked on the horizon.
One flash of light expanded into a rising sliver on the water, so bright that Bernie had to look away toward the colorful clouds.
“Beautiful.” Keesh reached over and rubbed her upper arm; then, as if needing to be closer, he moved behind her and linked his arms around her, making adjustments for her round belly.
She settled against him, her backbone, her strength. “Thanks for getting up at the crack of dawn.”
“It’s our last day at the beach, and I’ve never seen the sun rise over the Atlantic.” His palm caressed her abdomen. “Besides, we need to get used to losing sleep. In two months we’ll have a screaming baby in the house, keeping us up all night with crying and feedings and dirty diapers. What have you gotten me into, woman?”
“I can’t wait.”
So much had changed since last Easter, when family emotions were so raw that Bernie had not been able to go to the house at all. Mary Kate had been mired in the funeral arrangements for Tony, and Bernie had been steeped in fear and guilt, so traumatized that she wasn’t able to return to her apartment. She had stayed away from the family back then, holing up at Keesh’s place. And though Keesh was glad to have her close, he had insisted that she get help. “You can’t hide from your family forever,” he had said. Wise old Keesh. She had thought she was hiding from the world, but he’d been right. She’d had some family issues to work through.
Now a year later, the Sullivans were able to assemble as a family once again, but there had been some major changes.
James had retired from the NYPD and taken a teaching job at a private high school in Queens.
On Christmas Day, Sarah had given birth to Michael Brendan Sullivan, a beautiful healthy boy who had his mother’s eyes and his father’s mischievous smile.
Bernie and Keesh had gotten a marriage license and done the deed at the Queens Courthouse with Mary Kate as their witness. They wanted to be together no matter what their parents thought, though they need not have worried. After the incident, Keesh’s parents, Ara and Salat Kerobyan, had come to recognize Bernie’s courage and love for their son. Sully, too, had realized that Keesh was far from a terrorist, even if his first name was Rashid. In fact, Sully was learning a few Armenian words to use with the grandchild who was on the way.
Sully still reigned over the dining room table for protracted conversation after Sunday dinners, but Bernie could no longer participate. The world of cops and criminals no longer made her heart race with excitement.
It had been Grace’s idea to have a family reunion of sorts so they could spread Brendan’s ashes on the beach. Mary Kate and Sarah had found “Paradise,” a palatial beach house that they could rent for Easter week here in North Carolina’s Outer Banks. Even Sully left his beloved New York for the twelve-hour drive to the skinny chain of coastal towns. Of course, it was off-season, which translated to cold, but the weather had held enough for them to have a memorial service on the beach for Brendan yesterday.
With Beach Boys’ music playing, Sarah had waded in up to her knees and scattered his ashes in the surf. “So that he can surf forever,” Grace had said.
Mary Kate had swung her wide in the sand as they’d danced to “I Get Around.” Everyone had danced—even Sully, with his bad back. Maisey and Grace had continuously written their dad’s name with a stick in the hard-packed sand. Conner had banged out accompaniment on overturned plastic beach pails. Keesh and James had tended hot dogs on a makeshift beach grill. Peg had dispensed hot apple cider from a large Thermos. Brendan would have enjoyed his send-off.
They had gone around the big circle of family, sharing stories about Brendan. No one had cried, but there’d been heartfelt smiles and plenty of laughter.
What a difference a year could make.
Now Bernie had to pull tight to zip Keesh’s big jacket over her belly. Nothing of her own fit her these days. When they got back to New York she would brace herself and visit one of those overpriced boutiques for pregnant women.
She had lost her taste for the law, and she would never again be able to sit through a cop story at her parents’ dining room table. But she had found Keesh and together they were finding their way to a new life.
Not to mention the tiny new life that would find its way to them in two months. The pregnancy had come along at the right time, just when Bernie had been ready to let go of the guilt and the second-guessing, the doubts and the empty shadows of death. Time to look forward instead of behind her.
With Keesh behind her and a new life inside her, she looked ahead to the swelling light and allowed herself a glimmer of hope. Maybe she could still change the world. Her life had been redefined, but her heart still beat to do the right thing and help people who needed it. People like Peyton Curtis.
This was probably the reason she had never discussed Peyton’s death with Sully. Her heart had been broken and yes, she had been hurt by evil in the world. But her broken heart still beat for justice, and as long as it kept pumping in her chest, she would keep trying. She couldn’t stop trying.
Please turn the page
for a special conversation with
Rosalind Noonan.
Q: The novel is very New York, but it’s not the glitzy Manhattan we tend to see in films. How did you come to know Queens?
A: I lived in Queens for twenty-four years, which is the longest I’ve ever stayed in one place, so the land of loud-talking and quick-thinking is a big part of my background now. When I moved to Flushing back in the 1980s, I was
excited to be in New York City, close to the fast pace of Manhattan. Over the years I learned that the outer boroughs of New York can be as small-town and provincial as any town in America. Many people dig their roots in and patronize the same barber or bakery year after year, generation after generation. My husband grew up in Queens, and our first home together was seven blocks from the house he grew up in. His brother bought a house on the block behind their parents’ home, and built a connecting gate in their backyards. That small neighborhood feeling in a big city surprised me.
Another characteristic of many longtime Queens residents that surprised me was the fierce loyalty to their borough and their city. Some of my friends had no aspirations to move to a larger apartment or look for a better job outside the city because they couldn’t imagine life beyond their neighborhood. My husband recalls growing up in Bayside, when he and his friends rode bicycles around town within boundaries set by their parents. “We knew not to go beyond Springfield Boulevard on one side, Northern Boulevard on the other.” He compares it to those maps used by fifteenth-century explorers, in which sea monsters and devastating cliffs marked the borders of the Atlantic Ocean. If a kid went beyond the borders of Bayside, he was likely to drop off the edge of the world.
The more people I meet from neighborhoods of New York City, the more local loyalties I encounter. One of my friends almost ended his marriage when his wife insisted he move from Queens to Brooklyn. Another friend keeps insisting that Brooklyn is the new Manhattan, while the rest of us roll our eyes. But whatever the borough, whether you root for the Yankees or the Mets or the Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York is an amazing combination of culture within its divine neighborhoods. As David Dinkins said, New York City is a “gorgeous mosaic,” and I am grateful to have been a small stone in the mural for a few years.
Q: How did you research the district attorney’s office for the scenes showing Bernie and Keesh at work?
A: My sister Denise is an attorney, and though she works in a different area of the law, it’s been interesting hearing her anecdotes from the workplace. Also, a friend in New York City who started his career with the Manhattan District Attorney’s Office was very generous with his recollections. Both the Queens and Manhattan DA’s offices have excellent websites. Sometimes I marvel at how research time has been enhanced by the Internet.
Q: Much of the novel weaves through the fringes of the law en forcement community. Do you have friends or family who are cops in New York City?
A: My husband, Mike, served in the New York City Police Department for more than twenty years. When we met, I was actually dating another cop—a friend of Mike’s, who also happened to have blue eyes. For the first few years of our relationship, Mike teased me by calling me a “blue-eyed cop groupie,” which bugged me because I was definitely attracted to people based on who they were and how they acted. Really, when we were first dating, the cop thing was a huge drawback. Imagine your boyfriend working weekends, Thanksgiving, and Christmas. But we worked around the bad schedule, which did get better. And maybe there is something about his blue eyes ...
Q: Are any of the stories in the novel lifted from your husband’s experiences in the NYPD ?
A: The anecdote about Brendan and his partner intervening to save two children from an abusive parent came directly from Mike’s experiences as a cop. It was one of the few cases where he appeared in court, and it gave him a sense of closure to see the case through to its end. Given the circumstances, the removal of these kids to foster care was a good thing, though a hollow victory, given the trauma a kid goes through when he or she is plucked from their home.
Beyond that, Mike’s attitude and street language infuse every “cop incident” in the book. I stole from some of the stories Mike would tell at the end of a shift. When you’re married to a cop, the “How was your day?” question is a volatile one. He would get home from work and tell me about some of the jobs he handled, often barely believing that people could do such bizarre things: the naked man walking down the center of a busy street wielding a machete ... the lady who called the police to report that her cat kept pooping in the tub ... the man who killed his wife but worried that his books would be overdue when the police arrested him while on his way to the library.
Other times, he was still reeling from a tragic circumstance that he couldn’t fix. My husband has a helping nature, and it bothered him when he couldn’t reach out to help someone. I remember one job that haunted him: a fluke in the weather brought torrents of rain down—something crazy like three inches in an hour—and there was flash-flooding in low-lying areas. Two teens were in a car that got swept into a sudden pond of water. The girl went for help, probably thinking she was a good swimmer. She didn’t realize that there were downed power lines in the area, and the water was electrified. Seeing her struggling in the water, her boyfriend left the car and was also electrocuted. That incident hit my husband hard, and I use it as an example of how a police officer has to handle incidents and get the job done even when it’s killing him or her inside.
Q: Did you ever consider becoming a police officer?
A: Are you kidding me? When I’m home alone, I’m afraid to open a closed shower curtain for fear that something wicked lurks in the tub. With my imagination, I need to stay out of law enforcement. But it’s great to have a direct connection through my husband.
A READING GROUP GUIDE
THE DAUGHTER SHE USED TO BE
Rosalind Noonan
ABOUT THIS GUIDE
The suggested questions are included to enhance
your group’s reading of Rosalind Noonan’s
The Daughter She Used to Be.
DISCUSSION QUESTIONS
1. At the beginning of the book, Bernie mentioned how she used to enjoy mashed potatoes, but her taste for them had faded. Do you think it’s really potatoes she doesn’t like, or is she thinking of something else that has lost luster in her life?
2. Were you surprised that, in a family that valued police work, Bernadette and her sisters did not become cops? What barriers, both inside and outside their family, stood in their way?
3. Do you think Sully was a good father to his children? What would you say was his major flaw as a parent? What was his major strength?
4. What do you think motivated Tony Marino to destroy Peyton Curtis’s walking stick?
5. Sometimes children or people with dementia speak without the filtering system that keeps the rest of society from voicing their thoughts. Did you think Granny Mary was lucid when she told Mary Kate that her husband, Tony Marino, should have been killed instead of Brendan?
6. Was Yvonne Curtis wrong to help her son? What would you have done in her position?
7. Was Bernie correct in thinking that her brother Brendan was against the death penalty? How do you think most cops feel about capital punishment?
8. When Bernie took up the cause to defend her brother’s suspected killer, she knew her decision would not be well-received by her family. Who would have been harmed if she’d stepped away from Peyton Curtis’s case?
9. Why did Peyton Curtis want to return to prison at the beginning of the novel? If he hadn’t walked into Sully’s coffee shop that day, what do you think his future would have entailed?
10. Why was it important to Curtis that Bernie know that Tony Marino was responsible for his rampage? Would you say that Peyton Curtis is victim or prey?
11. What is the significance of the final scene occurring on Easter Sunday?
12. Discuss the themes of redemption and transformation as they relate to the novel.
Acknowledgments
Although writing is a solitary profession, it takes a village to publish a book well, and I am grateful to the Kensington community for their work in everything from copyediting to art to subrights. My editor, John Scognamiglio, is a steadfast supporter, long-distance friend, and reliable touchstone for stories.
Tory Groshong and Julia Rayne find mistakes that have slipped through the cracks,
and I am grateful for their diligent attention and sharp red pencils.
To the reading groups I have spoken with and those who’ve invited me into their homes in Oregon, North Carolina, Maryland, and New York, I am eternally grateful. Thank you for keeping the flame burning for authors like me.
My agent, Robin Rue, was the one who found the emotional pulse of this novel. I owe her big-time, but she’ll probably settle for a walk on the beach.
Love and best wishes go to the Queens Seidels, who taught my kids how to play street ball and who hosted many a family gathering. You guys are inspiring, but I don’t think I gave away any of the “family business.”
Thanks to my friends who support me 24/7: Susan, Nancy, Shannon, and Wendy. It’s great to know you’ve got my back.
To my big, colorful, rambunctious family, thanks for talking my books up in your various geographic locations. Please don’t look for yourselves in these pages. It’s fiction.
My husband, Mike, is the best police expert a writer could hope for. With his twenty-some years with the NYPD, two master’s degrees, and a voracious appetite for the New York Times, he’s got my questions covered. Cop shows and films pay big bucks for a consultant like you; I’m so lucky.
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2011 by Rosalind Noonan
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