Shannon's Daughter

by Karen Welch

  With a little shrug, she rested her head on his shoulder. “I’m sorry. I do seem to be all over the place, don’t I? But here’s the thing. When I’m away from you, I see all the problems too clearly. Then when we’re together, it feels so good that I forget what it was I was so worried about.”

  Kendall fell back onto the bed, drawing her down beside him. “Then the answer is obvious. We simply have to be in the same place every possible minute, and before you know it, you’ll be begging me to marry you. Just like that, problem solved.”

  “I wish it were that simple.”

  “And why isn’t it?”

  “You know very well why.”

  “Are we back to that blasted ocean again?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Hm. Not much we can do about that. But I’ll tell you what. In the coming year, I plan to cross that cursed body of water as often as possible.”

  “And how are you going to manage that? You won’t let me pay for your plane tickets.”

  “Take a look in my jacket pocket. Your father gave me a little belated Christmas gift at lunch today.” The lunch, at a restaurant overlooking the water, had included several topics he had no intention of mentioning to Peg, but the gift was one he wanted her to see. When she held up the envelope, he nodded. “Open it. I’m sure you can tell me exactly how much it’s worth.”

  The look on her face said it all. Eyes wide, lips parted, she stared at him over the single sheet of paper. “Dad gave you this?”

  “He did. I hope I was suitably grateful. I assume it’s quite a tidy sum.”

  She pressed her lips together for a moment, apparently calculating. “Not sure in pounds, but in dollars, just over five thousand. And stock in Shannon’s Bank and Trust is on a steady rise.”

  He let out a low whistle. “Your father really likes me, apparently. And wants you to marry me. He handed me that and said ‘this should make it easier for you to court her, my boy’ and winked. Of course, he also said it was a token of his appreciation for taking such fine care of you during that ‘rough patch.’ At first, I considered giving it back, not wanting to appear mercenary, but then I realized he sincerely wanted me to have it. He wants you to be happy. And he seems convinced I’m the man for the job.”

  When she rejoined him, curling at his side, she said almost sadly, “You do make me happy. You always have. It’s making you happy I worry about.”

  “How can you think that would be a problem? Have I ever lodged a complaint?”

  “No, but . . .”

  “No. Period. I have no doubt we’re going to make one another wildly happy all the way into old age. Once you agree to marry me. Until such time as you do, we’ll go on making one another wildly happy whenever we have the chance. Like now.” Rolling her on her back, he took great pains to prove his point. If there was one thing he felt confident of where Peg was concerned, it was his ability to take her mind off everything but the pleasure they found in each other’s arms. Other things might be holding her back from a lifetime commitment, but when it came to passion, Peg never held anything back.

  Kendall would look back over that week in Palm Beach as the fulcrum upon which all of their years together turned. Up until that week, they were friends, lovers, partners in secrecy and players in a private game, managing to keep the world more or less at bay. Beyond that, they were, on both sides of the Atlantic, a newsworthy couple assumed to be bound for matrimony, moving in the public spotlight toward their happily ever after.

  That week began his initiation into the inner workings of Peg’s world. He met and wooed her friends, learned who was connected to whom, how much or how little money they had and where it had come from, where they vacationed and where they’d gone to college, their political leanings and their marital infidelities. Always at ease in society, he felt welcomed and accepted by all. Even Peg seemed pleased with his performance and Michael obviously appreciated his efforts.

  That week also marked the first time Kendall noticed a disagreeable twinge just under his ribs. It would become persistent during the following year, as he flew back and forth at least once a month to stand by Peg’s side at fundraisers, attend concerts and Broadway openings, spend weekends in the Adirondacks and sail off Martha’s Vineyard. He blamed the frequent distress on airplane meals and rich buffet fare, on night after night of lost sleep and the strain of maintaining any sort of discipline in his career while trying to keep the girl he loved happy enough to marry him. To everyone else, he pretended his picky eating habits had to do with his nutrition fetish, that his noticeable weight loss was an effort to stay fit and keep pace with his “girl.” In the back of his mind, he suspected he’d taken on more than he could handle. But it was after all, only for a year or two, and in the end winning the girl would make it all worth a little indigestion.

  London—1961-71

  Chapter Forty-eight

  While Peg was attending the inauguration of the first Irish-Catholic President in Washington, Kendall spent a quiet weekend in Hertford. He needed the time alone to assess his position and lay his plans. By the end of the summer, he would either be leaving one job and taking another, or helping Peg relocate her life to England. They had talked over Christmas, and while she had shied away from a formal announcement, he had flown home with the assurance that they would set a date in the next month or so.

  “You know as soon as we do, neither of us will have any peace. Weddings are awful enough without having to deal with the distance. It might be simpler to have two, one here and one in London. Or we could try what I heard of one couple doing last year. Have two receptions. That way the family wouldn’t feel left out, but I could still have all my friends at the wedding. What do you think?”

  He hadn’t thought much past the moment when Peg had agreed it was time to start looking at the calendar. “I’ll do whatever you what. As long as I get to be the groom, we can have half-a-dozen weddings.”

  “Ugh! One will be bad enough. I intend to keep it as small as possible, but there are so many people we have to invite, it will still be a three-ring circus.” He hadn’t much comfort to offer on that front. Weddings, judging by what he’d seen from his position in supporting roles through the years, were a means to an end. In their case nothing short of a glittering spectacle would be expected.

  He could leave that part of things to Peg, but he was determined to have the final say in his career move. Silverman had indicated continued interest, even sending him a copy of the coming season’s program. He had put the lads on notice to keep their minds open to making a change. Not that they seemed willing. They had all but laughed at him. Something to work on, as well as finally putting it plainly to his mother that marriage, which she was in favor of, would likely involve permanent relocation to New York, which he doubted she’d accept with a smile.

  Then there was his house, as he realized with mild surprise he’d come to think of his grandparents’ home. The thought of parting with it, of strangers moving into its comfortable rooms and tramping through its rambling gardens, lit a slow-burning fire in his gut. Peg has suggested they keep it, perhaps lease it to some carefully chosen tenant. But that would only be prolonging the inevitable. In the end, he tabled the issue for later, once they’d chosen a date and the job in New York was a reality and not just a dangling carrot.

  He admitted to some guilt over leaving the London Phil. They’d become like family, particularly after the contract vs. salary nastiness had been resolved. And the thought of no longer being a member of the Bleaker Quartet was more than he could honestly absorb. A part of his mind actually toyed with the thought of holding on. Commuting wasn’t out of the question, if they scheduled carefully, was it? They’d been making money since their first studio recording was released last year, not a lot, but enough to congratulate themselves on finally achieving one of their earliest dreams. Maybe that was something else he could drag out a bit, in the name of loyalty to the three men who’d had faith in his talent when no one else had
.

  His quandaries lasted long past that weekend. He decided making decisions wasn’t one of his strengths. He liked his life. If only Peg could be conveniently incorporated into things as they stood now, he’d be completely satisfied. That being out of the question, the time had come to act, which proved more difficult than it had seemed when he’d first declared his willingness to make any number of changes if they made a life with Peg possible. The willingness was still there, but the number was daunting and his energy was increasingly threatened by inertia.

  Not that he would admit that to anyone else, and certainly not to Peg. When they sat down, each with their calendars at the ready, in early February, he sounded firmly in control, even to his own ears. If he thought Peg came across a shade too bright, he let it pass. They were on the home stretch now, a little anxiety and a few brittle nerves were to be expected. They agreed on a date to announce their engagement, March 17, St. Patrick’s Day, at a party already conveniently scheduled to raise funds for one of Michael’s favorite causes, something to do with providing instruments for orchestral students.

  “There won’t be a huge crowd, but a lot of Dad’s oldest friends will be here. He thought it would be a nice surprise for them. I suggested we could just put it in the newspapers, but he wants an official announcement with pictures and toasts and that sort of thing.”

  “Sounds like fun. Are we setting the wedding date now, too?”

  “No. I still have to talk to the church. I did manage to convince Dad I’d rather not use St. Patty’s. But we have to get clearance from the diocese to have it someplace else. He’s disappointed that you won’t be converting, but I assured him you’ll sign all the papers.”

  “Is it a big issue? I mean, I suppose I could go through all that, but if it isn’t really necessary. . .”

  “It isn’t. You’re doing enough. And it doesn’t matter at all to me.”

  “You’d tell me if it did?”

  “I would. Now what about your mother? Have you had that talk with her yet?”

  “You mean the one where I tell her I’m immigrating? No. But I will before we make the announcement. Only fair. And then I’ll hop on a plane and let Patrick deal with the initial aftershock.”

  “Dad wanted to invite them to the party. I told him you’d take care of telling them and we’d celebrate when I’m over in April. By then she should have adjusted, shouldn’t she?”

  “One hopes. But back to the wedding, love. Can you at least pin it down to a month? I’ll need to be in New York no later than August. And I shouldn’t be living under the same roof with my bride-to-be. I need to start making arrangements.”

  “September. Late September, I think. Assuming we can get the church. October at the latest. How’s that?”

  “Good. Wonderful. Maybe we can take our honeymoon in Maine? Nice and quiet with all that glorious autumn color.”

  “Sounds lovely. I can’t take too long. I scheduled a series of chamber concerts in November, showcasing some young musicians. But maybe at least ten days.” He heard her flipping pages, no doubt already filled with appointments.

  “Just so you have a little time for your new husband. Can we stop planning long enough for me to say how much I’m looking forward to getting this out of the way and spending the rest of my life with you?”

  “Hm? Oh, I just realized I have to be a bridesmaid in Mary Frances Fitzpatrick’s wedding in October. She finally pinned down Jeff O’Hallaron. Connie’s not all that thrilled, but Jeff will have a good, solid career in Mr. Fitzpatrick’s law firm.”

  “So we’re back to September?”

  “Looks like it. Do you care what time of day?”

  “Not at all. Just tell me when and I promise to be there.”

  “Well I hope so. After all the work that goes into these things, the least the groom can do is show up.” The smile in her voice eased his tension somewhat. He hated making such important decisions without being able to see her expression. Was she as distracted as she sounded, or was he just projecting his own confusion?

  When the call ended with a few moments of commiserating on their mutual need for a long cuddle, Kendall rang off satisfied that slowly but surely, they were approaching the goal. Nothing that monumental could be accomplished simply, although he’d given more than one passing thought to how thoroughly married he’d been to Jenny after a quick trip to Scotland. No use thinking he could join his life to Peg’s without going through all the motions. He knew Peg would be under enormous strain without a mother to help with the arrangements, not that she would know how to let anyone else take charge. Best not to add any of his worries to hers.

  February passed too quickly. He spent far too much time shopping for a ring, having decided his grandmother’s wouldn’t do after seeing a few of the gems Peg’s friends flashed about. He even took Reggie with him when he made the final choice, an emerald cut stone of respectable size set in platinum, enduring his friends disapproving scrutiny.

  “You look done in, old man. Have you been ill?”

  “No. Fit as ever.” He made a point not to press a hand to the nagging ache just above his belt.

  “Why don’t you call the office and let me have a look? I don’t care at all for your color. And don’t think you’re fooling me. You’ve got that pinched look, and it’s not just the cost of that ring that’s paining you.”

  “Just a little upset. I’ll be fine, I’m sure, as soon as all this is behind me. I certainly don’t need to waste your time or mine having you poke about.”

  It did occur to him that a doctor might be in order, but he had no intention of letting Reggie anywhere near him. Not that he wasn’t a good physician, but stripping down in front of his friend and facing the inevitable questions about his history once Reggie saw those old scars was out of the question. At the bottom of his to-do list he made a note to find a physician, just as a precaution, and then promptly let it slide in favor of a new antacid tablet his landlady recommended.

  March began with unrelenting rain, an overly heavy performance schedule and a problem with the roof in Hertford. He actually looked forward to flying to New York to escape it all. After sitting down to lunch with his mother and enduring her martyred response to his announcement, he packed his bags and dashed over to Maeve and Reggie’s for a small dinner party in honor of Adelaide’s birthday. He was nothing, he decided, if not obliging. If he wasn’t such a nice fellow, he’d have gone to bed with a dose of something chalky and a hot water bottle in preparation for his early flight the following day.

  He remembered picking at his salad, thinking the dressing was a bit too sharp, and listening to Maeve brag about little Margaret until he tuned her out in self-defense. Adelaide asked about his trip and he tried for the appropriate twinkle in his eye as he hinted at the planned announcement. He was laughing at Reggie’s rather lame joke about one of Her Majesty’s race horses when the lights seemed to dim and the pain in his side took on the sharpness of a knife thrust, a sensation he’d unfortunately experienced. Standing up seemed logical until he tried, at which point the floor rose up to meet him.

  The next thing he knew, two men in white uniforms were loading him in an ambulance and Adelaide was assuring him she’d telephone Peg. He didn’t have the strength to protest before whatever Reggie had pumped into his arm robbed him of consciousness.

  “Perforated peptic ulcer. Lucky you were at my place when it blew or you’d have been a goner, my friend.” Waking in considerable pain to Reggie glaring down on him with a mix of concern and disapproval, Kendall’s first thought was to wonder how late he was for his flight.

  All he could manage was a raspy, “Airport.”

  “Not today. Not this month, in fact. You had surgery, Kenny, two days ago. And you lost a lot of blood.” Reggie made his point with a nod to the needle in Kendall’s arm. “How are you feeling?”

  “Awful.”

  “About right. How’s the pain.”

  “Awful.” It was proving an easy enough word t
o push past his dry tongue. “Water?”

  “Not yet. Have an ice chip.” Reggie propped a hip against the edge of the bed and offered the dripping sliver of ice. “You gave us quite a scare, you know? Keeling over at the dinner table like that.”

  He closed his eyes against the vague memory. “Sorry.”

  “You should be. If you’d let me know about this sooner, you could have at least avoided surgery. And speaking of that, feel up to filling me in on your history?”

  “Not really.”

  “Allow me to speculate a bit then. I’m guessing at some point you were assaulted with a sharp implement, a smallish knife most likely, and a pretty good surgeon performed a bowel resection to repair the damage. When did this happen, Kenny? I know we lost touch for a while, but surely your mother would have put out the word about something like that?”

  “She didn’t know. Still doesn’t. I was at Oxford. I kept it from her.”

  “Because. . .?”

  “Long story.”

  Reggie reached for the file folder on the bedside table. “As luck would have it, I have a copy of the surgeon’s report right here. I guessed at when and where it must have happened and my secretary is a genius when it comes to locating records.”

  “If you already knew, why ask?”

  “I need you to clear up one little detail for me. It says here the assailant was a woman.”

  He nodded, not liking where this was headed.

  “Girlfriend?”

  “Not exactly.” He wondered what kind of information was in that report.

  “So when it says your wife attacked you, it’s not a clerical error?”

  “No.”

  “You divorced her, I trust.”

  “No. She’s dead.”

  Reggie slammed the file down with uncharacteristic force. “Good God, Kenny! What sort of secrets have you been keeping all these years? I thought we were mates, practically brothers.”