"Lovely work."
"Mmm. An experiment that turned out well. I combined opaque and transparent glass." She yawned again, broadly. "Then tin-fumed it."
"Tin-fumed? Never mind," he said when he saw that she was about to launch into a complicated explanation. "I wouldn't understand what you were talking about, anyway. Chemistry was never my forte. I'll just be pleased with the finished product."
"You're supposed to say it's fascinating, just as I am."
He glanced back at her and his lips twitched. "Been reading your reviews, have you? God help us now. Why don't you go get some rest? We'll talk later. I'll take you to dinner."
"You didn't come all this way to take me to dinner."
"I'd enjoy it just the same."
There was something different about him, she decided. Some subtle change somewhere deep in those gorgeous eyes of his. Whatever it was, he had it under control. A couple of hours with her ought to fix that, Maggie concluded, and smiled at him.
"We'll go in the house, have some tea and a bite to eat. You can tell me why you've come."
"To see you, for one thing."
Something in his tone told her to sharpen her work-dulled wits. "Well, you've seen me."
"So I have." He picked up his briefcase and opened the door. "I could use that tea."
"Good, you can brew it." She shot a look over her shoulder as she stepped outside. "If you know how."
"I believe I do. Your garden looks lovely."
"Brie's tended it while I was gone. What's this?" She tapped a foot against a cardboard box at her back door.
"A few things I brought with me. Your shoes for one. You left them in the parlor."
He handed her the briefcase and hauled the box into the kitchen. After dumping it on the table, he looked around the kitchen.
"Where's the tea?"
"In the cupboard above the stove."
While he went to work she slit the box open. Moments later she was sitting down, holding her belly as she laughed.
"Trust you never to forget a thing. Rogan, if I won't answer the phone, why should I listen to a silly answering machine?"
"Because I'll murder you if you don't."
"There's that." She rose again and pulled out a wall calendar. "French Impressionists," she murmured, studying the pictures above each month. "Well, at least it's pretty."
"Use it," he said simply, and set the kettle to boil. "And the machine, and this." He reached into the box himself and pulled out a long velvet case. Without ceremony he flipped it open and took out a slim gold watch, its amber face circled by diamonds.
"God, I can't wear that. It's a lady's watch. I'll forget I have it on and shower with it."
"It's waterproof."
"I'll break it."
"Then I'll get you another." He took her arm, began to unbutton the cuff of her shirt. "What the hell is this?" he demanded when he hit the bandage. "What have you done?"
"It's a burn." She was still staring at the watch and didn't see the fury light in his eyes. "I got a bit careless."
"Damn it, Maggie. You've no right to be careless. None at all. Am I to be worried about you setting yourself afire now?"
"Don't be ridiculous. You'd think I severed my hand." She would have pulled her hand away, but his grip tightened. "Rogan, for pity sake, a glass artist gets a burn now and again. It's not fatal."
"Of course not," he said stiffly. He forced back the anger he was feeling at her carelessness and clasped the watch on her wrist. "I don't like to hear you've been careless." He let her hand go, slipped his own in his pockets. "It's not serious, then?"
"No." She watched him warily when he went to answer the kettle's shrill. "Shall I make us a sandwich?"
"As you like."
"You didn't say how long you'd be staying."
"I'll go back tonight. I wanted to speak with you in person rather than try to reach you by phone." In control again, he finished making the tea and brought the pot to the table. "I've brought the clippings you asked my grandmother about."
"Oh, the clippings." Maggie stared at his briefcase. "Yes, that was good other. I'll read them later." When she was alone.
"All right. And there was something else I wanted to give you. In person."
"Something else." She sliced through a loaf of Brianna's bread. "It's a day for presents."
This wouldn't qualify as a present." Rogan opened his briefcase and took out an envelope. "You may want to open this now."
"All right, then." She dusted off her hands, tore open the envelope. She had to grab the back of a chair to keep her balance as she read the amount on the check. "Mary, mother of God."
"We sold every piece we'd priced." More than satisfied by her reaction, he watched her sink into the chair. "I would say the showing was quite successful."
"Every piece," she echoed. "For so much."
She thought of the moon, of dreams, of changes. Weak, she laid her head on the table.
"I can't breathe. My lungs have collapsed." Indeed, she could hardly talk. "I can't get my breath."
"Sure you can." He went behind her, massaged her shoulders. "Just in and out. Give yourself a minute to let it take hold."
"It's almost two hundred thousand pounds."
"Very nearly. With the interest we'll generate from touring your work, and offering only a portion of it to the market, we'll increase the price." The strangled sound she made caused him to laugh. "In and out, Maggie love. Just push the air out and bring it in again. I'll arrange for shipping for those pieces you've finished. We'll set the tour for the fall, because you've so much completed already. You may want to take some time off to enjoy yourself. Have a holiday."
"A holiday." She sat up again. "I can't think about that yet. I can't think at all."
"You've time." He patted her head, then moved around her to pour the tea. "You'll have dinner with me tonight, to celebrate?"
"Aye," she murmured. "I don't know what to say, Rogan. I never really believed it would ... I just didn't believe it." She pressed her hands to her mouth. For a moment he was afraid she would begin to sob, but it was laughter, wild and jubilant, that burst out other mouth. "I'm rich! I'm a rich woman, Rogan Sweeney." She popped out of the chair to kiss him, then whirled away. "Oh, I know it's a drop in the bucket to you, but to me-to me, it's freedom. The chains are broken, whether she wants them to be or not."
"What are you talking about?"
She shook her head, thinking of Brianna. "Dreams, Rogan, wonderful dreams. Oh, I have to tell her. Right away." She snatched up the check and impulsively stuffed it in her back pocket. "You'll stay, please. Have your tea, make some food. Make use of the phone you're so fond of. Whatever you like."
"Where are you going?"
"I won't be long." There were wings on her feet as she whirled back and kissed him again. Her lips missed his in her hurry and caught his chin. "Don't go." With that she was racing out of the door and across the fields.
She was puffing like a steam engine by the time she scrambled over the stone fence that bordered Brianna's land. But then, she'd been out of breath before she'd begun the race. She barely missed trampling her sister's pansies-a sin she would have paid for dearly-and skidded on the narrow stone path that wound through the velvety flowers.
She drew in air to shout, but didn't waste it as she spotted Brianna in the little path of green beyond the garden, hanging linen on the line.
Clothespins in her mouth, wet sheets in her hands, Brianna stared across the nodding columbines and daisies while Maggie pressed her hands to her thudding heart. Saying nothing, Brianna snapped the sheet expertly and began to clip it to the line.
There was hurt in her sister's face still, Maggie observed. And anger. All chilled lightly with Brianna's special blend of pride and control. The wolf-hound gave a happy bark and started forward, only to stop short at Brianna's quiet order. He settled, with what could only be a look of regret at Maggie, back at his mistress's feet. She took another sheet from the bas
ket beside her, flicked it and clipped it neatly to dry. "Hello, Maggie."
So the wind blew cold from this quarter, Maggie mused, and tucked her hands into her back pockets. "Hello, Brianna. You've guests?"
"Aye. We're full at the moment. An American couple, an English family and a young man from Belgium."
"A virtual United Nations." She sniffed elaborately.
"You've pies baking."
'They're baked and cooling on the windowsill." Because she hated confrontations of any kind, Brianna kept her eyes on her work as she spoke. "I thought about what you said, Maggie, and I want to say I'm sorry. I should have been there for you. I should have found a way."
"Why didn't you?"
Brianna let out a quick breath, her only sign of agitation. "You never make it easy, do you?"
"No."
"I have obligations-not only to her," she said before Maggie could speak. "But to this place. You're not the only one with ambitions, or with dreams."
The heated words that burned on Maggie's tongue cooled, then slid away. She turned to study the back of the house. The paint was fresh and white; the windows, open to the summer afternoon, were glistening. Lace curtains billowed, romantic as a bridal veil. Flowers crowded the ground and poured out of pots and tin buckets.
"You've done fine work here, Brianna. Gran would have approved."
"But you don't."
"You're wrong." In an apology of her own, she laid a hand on her sister's arm. "I don't claim I understand how you do it, or why you want to, but that's not for me to say. If this place is your dream, Brie, you've made it shine. I'm sorry I shouted at you."
"Oh, I'm used to that." Despite her resigned tone, it was clear that she had thawed. "If you'll wait till I've finished here, I'll put on some tea. I've a bit of trifle to go with it."
Maggie's empty stomach responded eagerly, but she shook her head. "I haven't time for it. I left Rogan back at the cottage."
"Left him? You should have brought him along with you. You can't leave a guest kicking his heels that way."
"He's not a guest, he's . . . well, I don't know what we'd call him, but that doesn't matter. I want to show you something."
Though her sense of propriety was offended, Brianna took out the last pillowslip. "All right, show me. Then get back to Rogan. If you've no food in the house, bring him here. The man's come all the way from Dublin after all, and-"
"Will you stop worrying about Sweeney?" Maggie cut in impatiently, and pulled the check out of her pocket. "And look at this?"
One hand on the line, Brianna glanced at the paper. Her mouth dropped open and the clothespin fell out to plop on the ground. The pillowslip floated after it.
"What is it?"
"It's a check, are you blind? A big, fat, beautiful check. He sold all of it, Brie. All he'd set out to sell."
"For so much?" Brianna could only gape at all the zeros. "For so much? How can that be?"
"I'm a genius." Maggie grabbed Brianna's shoulders and whirled her around. "Don't you read my reviews? I have untapped depths of creativity." Laughing, she dragged Brianna into a lively hornpipe. "Oh, and there's something more about my soul and my sexuality. I haven't memorized it all yet."
"Maggie, wait. My head's spinning."
"Let it spin. We're rich, don't you see?" They tumbled to the ground together, Maggie shrieking with laughter and Con jumping in frantic circles around them. "I can buy that glass lathe I've been wanting, and you can have that new stove you've been pretending you don't need. And we'll have a holiday. Anywhere in the world, anywhere a'tall. I'll have a new bed." She plopped back on the grass to wrestle with Con. "And you can add a whole wing onto Blackthorn if you've a mind to."
"I can't take it in. I just can't take it in."
"We'll find a house." Pushing herself up again, Maggie hooked an arm around Con's neck. "Whatever kind she wants. And hire someone to fetch and carry for her."
Brianna shut her eyes and fought back the first guilty flare of elation. "She might not want-"
"It will be what she wants. Listen to me." Maggie grabbed Brianna's hands and squeezed. "She'll go, Brie. And she'll be well taken care of. She'll have whatever pleases her. Tomorrow we'll go into Ennis and talk to Pat O'Shea. He sells houses. We'll set her up as grandly as we can, and as quickly. I promised Da I'd do my best by both of you, and that's what I'm going to do."
"Have you no consideration?" Maeve stood on the garden path, a shawl around her shoulders despite the warmth of the sun. The dress beneath it was starched and pressed-by Brianna's hand, Maggie had no doubt. "Out here shouting and shrieking while a body's trying to rest." She pulled the shawl closer and jabbed a finger at her younger daughter. "Get up off the ground. What's wrong with you? Behaving like a hoyden, and you with guests in the house."
Brianna rose stiffly, brushed at her slacks. "It's a fine day. Perhaps you'd like to sit in the sun."
"I might as well. Call off that vicious dog."
"Sit, Con." Protectively, Brianna laid a hand on the dog's head. "Can I bring you some tea?"
"Yes, and brew it properly this rime." Maeve shuffled to the chair and table Brianna had set up beside the garden. "That boy, that Belgian, he's clattered up the stairs twice today. You'll have to tell him to mind the racket. It's what comes when parents let their children traipse all over the country."
"I'll have the tea in a moment. Maggie, will you stay?"
"Not for tea. But I'll have a word with Mother." She sent her sister a steely look to prevent any argument. "Can you be ready to drive into Ennis by ten tomorrow. Brie?"
"I-yes, I'll be ready."
"What's this?" Maeve demanded as Brie walked toward the kitchen door. "What are the two of you planning?"
"Your future." Maggie took the chair beside her mother's, kicked out her legs. She'd wanted to go about it differently. After what she'd begun to learn, she'd hoped she and her mother could find a meeting ground somewhere beyond the old hurts. But already the old angers and guilts were working in her. Remembering last night's moon and her thoughts about lost dreams, she spoke quietly. "We're after buying you a house."
Maeve made a sound of disgust and plucked at the fringe of her shawl. "Nonsense. I'm content here, with Brianna to look after me."
"I'm sure you are, but it's about to end. Oh, I'll hire you a companion. You needn't worry that you'll have to learn to do for yourself. But you won't be using Brie any longer."
"Brianna understands the responsibilities of a child to her mother."
"More than," Maggie agreed. "She's done everything in her power to make you content. Mother. It hasn't been enough, and maybe I've begun to understand that."
"You understand nothing."
"Perhaps, but I'd like to understand." She took a deep breath. Though she couldn't reach out to her mother, physically or emotionally, her voice softened. "I truly would. I'm sorry for what you gave up. I learned of the singing only-"
"You won't speak of it." Maeve's voice was frigid. Her already pale skin whitened further with the shock of a pain she'd never forgotten, never forgiven. "You will never speak of that time."
"I wanted only to say I'm sorry."
"I don't want your sorrow." With her mouth tight, Maeve looked aside. She couldn't bear to have the past tossed in her face, to be pitied because she had sinned and lost what had mattered most to her. "You will not speak of it to me again."
"All right." Maggie leaned forward until Maeve's gaze settled on her. "I'll say this. You blame me for what you lost, and maybe that comforts you somehow. I can't wish myself unborn. But I'll do what I can. You'll have a house, a good one, and a respectable, competent woman to see to your needs, someone I hope can be a friend to you as well as a companion. This I'll do for Da, and for Brie. And for you."
"You've done nothing for me in your life but cause me misery."
So there would be no softening, Maggie realized. No meeting on new ground. "So you've told me, time and again. We'll find a place close enough so that
Brie can visit you, for she'll feel she should. And I'll furnish the place as well, however you like. You'll have a monthly allowance-for food, for clothes, for whatever it is you need. But I swear before God you'll be out of his house and into your own before a month is up."
"Pipe dreams." Her tone was blunt and dismissive, but Maggie sensed a little frisson of fear beneath. "Like your father, you are full of empty dreams and foolish schemes."
"Not empty, and not foolish." Again, Maggie drew the check out of her pocket. This time she had the satisfaction of seeing her mother's eyes go wide and blank. "Aye, it's real, and it's mine. I earned it. I earned it because Da had the faith in me to let me learn, to let me try."
Maeve's eyes flicked to Maggie's, calculating. "What he gave you belonged to me as well."
"The money for Venice, for schooling and for the roof over my head, that's true. What else he gave me had nothing to do with you. And you'll get your share of this." Maggie tucked the check away again. "Then I'll owe you nothing."
"You owe me your life," Maeve spat.
"Mine meant little enough to you. I may know why that is, but it doesn't change how it makes me feel inside. Understand me, you'll go without complaint, without making your last days with Brianna a misery for her."
"I'll not go at all." Maeve dug in her pocket for a lace-edged hanky. "A mother needs the comfort of her child."
"You've no more love for Brianna than you do for me. We both know it. Mother. She might believe differently, but here, now, let's at least be honest.
You've played on her heart, it's true, and God knows she's deserving of any love you have in that cold heart of yours." After a long breath, she pulled out the trump card she'd been holding for five years. "Would you have me tell her why Rory McAvery went off to America and broke her heart?"
Maeve's hands gave a quick little jerk. "I don't know what you're talking about?"
"Oh, but you do. You took him aside when you saw he was getting serious in his courting. And you told him that you couldn't in good conscience let him give his heart to your daughter. Not when she'd given her body to another. You convinced him, and he was only a boy, after all, that she'd been sleeping with Murphy."
Books by Nora Roberts Page 67