She'd have to sell the house, she thought. And the furniture. There were papers to go through.
She hadn't told her mother she loved her.
With that weighing on her heart, she fell into an exhausted sleep.
Afternoon naps always left Shannon groggy. She took them only when ill, and she was rarely ill. The house was quiet when she climbed out of bed again. A glance at the clock told her she'd slept less than an hour, but she was stiff and muddled despite the brevity.
She would make coffee, she told herself, and then she would sit down and plan how best to handle all of her mother's things, and the house she'd loved.
The doorbell rang before she'd reached the base of the stairs. She could only pray it wasn't some wellmeaning neighbor come to offer help or company. She wanted neither at the moment.
But it was a stranger at the door. The man was of medium height, with a slight pouch showing under his dark suit. His hair was graying, his eyes sharp. She had an odd and uncomfortable sensation when those eyes stayed focused on her face.
"I'm looking for Amanda Dougherty Bodine."
"This is the Bodine residence," Shannon returned, trying to peg him. Salesman? She didn't think so. "I'm her daughter. What is it you want?"
Nothing changed on his face, but Shannon sensed his attention sharpening. "A few minutes of Mrs. Bodine's time, if it's convenient. I'm John Hobbs."
"I'm sorry, Mr. Hobbs, it's not convenient. I buried my mother this morning, so if you'll excuse me-"
"I'm sorry." His hand went to the door, holding it open when Shannon would have closed it. "I've just arrived in town from New York. I hadn't heard about your
mother's death." Hobbs had to rethink and regroup quickly. He'd gotten too close to simply walk away now. "Are you Shannon Bodine?"
"That's right. Just what do you want, Mr. Hobbs?"
"Your time," he said pleasantly enough, "when it's more convenient for you. I'd like to make an appointment to meet with you in a few days."
Shannon pushed back the hair tumbled from her nap. "I'll be going back to New York in a few days."
"I'll be happy to meet with you there."
Her eyes narrowed as she tried to shake off the disorientation from her nap. "Did my mother know you, Mr. Hobbs?"
"No, she didn't, Ms. Bodine."
"Then I don't think we have anything to discuss. Now please, excuse me."
"I have information which I have been authorized, by my clients, to discuss with Mrs. Amanda Dougherty Bodine." Hobbs simply kept his hand on the door, taking Shannon's measure as he held it open.
"Clients?" Despite herself, Shannon was intrigued. "Does this concern my father?"
Hobbs's hesitation was brief, but she caught it. And her heart began to drum. "It concerns your family, yes. If we could make an appointment to meet, I'll inform my clients of Mrs. Bodine's death."
"Who are your clients, Mr. Hobbs? No, don't tell me it's confidential," she snapped. "You come to my door on the day of my mother's funeral looking for her to discuss something that concerns my family. I'm my only family now, Mr. Hobbs, so your information obviously concerns me. Who are your clients?"
"I need to make a phone call-from my car. Would you mind waiting a few moments?"
"All right," she agreed, more on impulse than with a sense of patience. "I'll wait."
But she closed the door when he walked toward the dark sedan at the curb. She had a feeling she was going to need that coffee.
It didn't take him long. The bell rang again when she was taking her first sip. Carrying the mug with her, she went back to answer.
"Ms. Bodine, my client has authorized me to handle this matter at my own discretion." Reaching into his pocket, he took out a business card, offered it.
"Doubleday Investigations," she read. "New York." Shannon lifted a brow. "You're a long way from home, Mr, Hobbs."
"My business keeps me on the road quite a bit. This particular case has kept me there. I'd like to come in, Ms. Bodine. Or if you'd be more comfortable, I could meet you wherever you like."
She had an urge to close the door in his face. Not that she was afraid of him physically. The cowardice came from something deeper, and because she recognized it, she ignored it.
"Come in. I've just made coffee."
"I appreciate it." As was his habit, long ingrained, Hobbs scanned the house as he followed Shannon, took in the subtle wealth, the quiet good taste. Everything he'd learned about the Bodines in the last few months was reflected in the house. They were-had been-a nice, closely knit upper-income family without pretensions.
"This is a difficult time for you, Ms. Bodine," Hobbs began when he took the chair at the table Shannon gestured toward. "I hope I won't add to it."
"My mother died two days ago, Mr. Hobbs. I don't think you can make it more difficult than it already is. Cream, sugar?"
"Just black, thanks." He studied her as she prepared his coffee. Self-possessed, he mused. That would make his job easier. "Was your mother ill, Ms. Bodine?"
"It was cancer," she said shortly.
No sympathy wanted, he judged, and offered none. "I represent Rogan Sweeney," Hobbs began, "his wife and her family."
"Rogan Sweeney?" Cautious, Shannon joined him at the table. "I know the name, of course. Worldwide Galleries has a branch in New York. They're based in..." She trailed off, setting down her mug before her hands could shake. Ireland, she thought. In Ireland.
"You know, then." Hobbs read the knowledge in her eyes. That, too, would make his job easier. "My clients were concerned that the circumstances might be unknown to you."
Determined not to falter, Shannon lifted her cup again. "What does Rogan Sweeney have to do with me?"
"Mr. Sweeney is married to Margaret Mary Concannon, the oldest daughter of the late Thomas Concannon, of Clare County, Ireland."
"Concannon." Shannon closed her eyes until the need to shudder had passed. "I see." When she opened her eyes again, they were bitterly amused. "I assume they hired you to find me. I find it odd that there would be an interest after all these years."
"I was hired, initially, to find your mother, Ms. Bodine. I can tell you that my clients only learned of her, and your existence, last year. The investigation was initiated at that time. However, there was some difficulty in locating Amanda Dougherty. As you may know, she left her home in New York suddenly and without giving her family indication of her destination."
"I suppose she might not have known it, as she'd been tossed out of the house for being pregnant." Pushing her coffee aside, Shannon folded her hands. "What do your clients want?"
"The primary goal was to contact your mother, and to let her know that Mr. Concannon's surviving children had discovered letters she had written to him, and with her permission, to make contact with you."
"Surviving children. He's dead then." She rubbed a hand to her temple. "Yes, you told me that already. He's dead. So are they all. Well, you found me, Mr. Hobbs, so your job's done. You can inform your clients that I've been contacted and have no interest in anything further."
"Your sisters-"
Her eyes went cold. "I don't consider them my sisters."
Hobbs merely inclined his head. "Mrs. Sweeney and Mrs. Thane may wish to contact you personally."
"I can't stop them, can I? But you can forward the fact that I'm not interested in reunions with women I don't know. What happened between their father and my mother some twenty-eight years ago doesn't change the status quo. So-" She broke off, eyes sharpening again. "Margaret Mary Concannon, you said? The artist?"
"Yes, she is known for her glass work."
"That's an understatement," Shannon murmured. She'd been to one of M. M. Concannon's showings at Worldwide New York herself. And had been considering investing in a piece. The idea was almost laughable. "Well, that's amusing, isn't it? You can tell Margaret Mary Concannon and her sister-"
"Brianna. Brianna Concannon Thane. She runs a B and B in Clare. You may have heard of her husband
as well. He's a successful mystery writer."
"Grayson Thane?" At Hobbs's nod, Shannon did nearly laugh. "They married well, it seems. Good for them. Tell them they can get on with their lives, as I intend to do." She rose. "If there's nothing else, Mr. Hobbs?"
"I'm to ask if you'd like to have your mother's letters, and if so, if you would object to my clients making copies for themselves."
"I don't want them. I don't want anything." She bit back on a sudden spurt of venom, letting out a sigh as it drained. "What happened is no more their fault than mine. I don't know how they feel about all of this, Mr. Hobbs, and don't care to. If it's curiosity, misplaced guilt, a sense of family obligation, you can tell them to let it go."
Hobbs rose as well. "From the time, effort, and money they've spent trying to find you, I'd say it was a combination of all three. And perhaps more. But I'll tell them." He offered a hand, surprising Shannon into taking it. "If you have second thoughts, or any questions come to mind, you can reach me at the number on the card. I'll be flying back to New York tonight."
His cool tone stung. She couldn't say why. "I have a right to my privacy."
"You do." He nodded. "I'll see myself out, Ms. Bodine. Thanks for the time, and the coffee."
Damn him, was all she could think as he walked calmly out of her kitchen. Damn him for being so dispassionate, so subtly judgmental.
And damn them. Damn Thomas Concannon's daughters for searching her out, asking her to satisfy their curiosity. Offering to satisfy her own.
She didn't want them. Didn't need them. Let them stay in Ireland with their cozy lives and brilliant husbands. She had her own life, and the pieces of it needed to be picked up quickly.
Wiping at tears she hadn't realized were falling, she stalked over and snatched up the phone book. She flipped through quickly, ran her finger down the page, then dialed.
"Yes, I have a house I need to sell. Immediately."
A week later Shannon was back in New York. She'd priced the house to sell, and hoped it would do so quickly. The money certainly didn't matter. She'd discovered she was a rich woman. Death had given her nearly a half a million dollars in the investments her father had made over the years. Added to her earlier inheritance, she would never have to worry about something as trivial as money again.
She'd only had to become an orphan to earn it.
Still, she was enough Colin Bodine's daughter to know the house had to be sold, and that it would bring in considerable equity. Some of the furnishings she hadn't had the heart to sell or give away were in storage. Surely she could wait a little longer before deciding what to do with every vase and lamp.
Shannon had boxed only a few sentimental favorites to bring back with her to New York. Among them were all of the paintings she'd done for her parents over the years.
Those, she couldn't part with.
Though her supervisor had offered her the rest of the week off, she'd come back to work the day after returning from Columbus. She'd been certain it would help, that work was the answer she needed.
The new account needed to be dealt with. She'd hardly begun to work on it when she'd been called away.
She'd barely had two weeks to become used to her promotion, the new responsibilities and position.
She'd worked most of her adult life for that position, for those responsibilities. She was moving up the ladder now, at the brisk and steady pace she'd planned for herself. The corner office was hers, her week-at-a-glance was tidily filled with meetings and presentations. The CEO himself knew her name, respected her work, and, she knew, had an eye on her for bigger things.
It was everything she'd always wanted, needed, planned for.
How could she have known that nothing in her office seemed to matter. Nothing about it mattered in the least.
Not her drafting table, her tools. Not the major account she'd snagged on the very day she'd received the call from Columbus, and had been forced to turn over to an associate. It simply didn't matter. The promotion she'd broken her back to secure seemed so removed from her just then. Just as the life she'd led, with all its tidiness and careful planning, seemed to have belonged to someone else all along.
She found herself staring at the painting of her father sleeping in the garden. It was still propped against the wall rather than hung. For reasons she couldn't understand, she simply didn't want it in her office after all.
"Shannon?" The woman who poked her head in the door was attractive, dressed impeccably. Lily was her assistant, a casual friend among what Shannon was beginning to realize was a lifetime of casual friends. "I thought you might want a break."
"I haven't been doing anything I need a break from."
"Hey." Lily stepped in, crossing over to her desk to give Shannon's shoulders a brisk rub. "Give yourself a little time. You've only been back a few days."
"I shouldn't have bothered." In an irritable move she pushed back from the desk. "I'm not producing anything."
"You're going through a rough patch."
"Yeah."
"Why don't I cancel your afternoon meetings?"
"I have to get back to work sometime." She stared out the window, at the view of New York she'd dreamed would one day be hers. "But cancel the lunch with Tod. I'm not in the mood to be social."
Lily pursed her lips and made a note of it. "Trouble in paradise?"
"Let's just say I'm thinking that relationship isn't productive, either-and there's too much backlog for lunch dates."
"Your call."
"Yes, it is." Shannon turned back. "I haven't really thanked you for handling so much of my work while I was gone. I've looked some things over and wanted to tell you that you did a terrific job."
"That's what they pay me for." Lily flipped a page in her book. "The Mincko job needs some finishing touches, and nothing's satisfied the suits at Rightway. Tilghmanton thinks you can. He sent down a memo this morning asking you to look over the drafts and come up with something new-by the end of the week."
"Good." She nodded and pushed up to her desk again. "A challenge like that might be just what I need. Let's see Rightway first, Lily. You can fill me in on Mincko later."
"You got it." Lily headed for the door. "Oh, I should tell you. Rightway wants something traditional, but different, subtle, but bold, sexy but restrained."
"Of course they do. I'll get my magic wand out of my briefcase."
"Good to have you back, Shannon." When the door closed, Shannon let out a deep breath. It was good to be back, wasn't it. It had to be.
Rain was pelting the streets. After a miserable tenhour day that had concluded in a showdown with a man she'd tried to convince herself she'd been in love with, Shannon watched it from the cab window on the way back to her apartment.
Maybe she'd been right to go back to work so quickly. The routine, the demands and concentration had helped shake some of the grief. At least temporarily. She needed routine, she reminded herself. She needed the outrageous schedule that had earned her her position at Ry-Tilghmanton.
Her job, the career she'd carved out, was all she had now. There wasn't even the illusion of a satisfying relationship to fill a corner of her life.
But she'd been right to break things off with Tod. They'd been no more than attractive props for each other. And life, she'd just discovered, was too short for foolish choices.
She paid off the cab at the corner, dashed toward her building with a quick smile for the doorman. Out of habit she picked up her mail, flipping through the envelopes as she rode the elevator to her floor.
The one from Ireland stopped her cold,
On an oath she shoved it to the bottom, unlocking her door, tossing all the mail on a table. Though her heart was thudding, she followed ingrained habit. She hung her coat, slipped out of her shoes, poured herself her usual glass of wine. When she was seated at the little table by the window that looked out over Madison Avenue, she settled down to read her mail.
It took only moments before she gave in and tore op
en the letter from Brianna Concannon Thane.
Dear Shannon,
I'm so terribly sorry about your mother's death. You'll be grieving still, and I doubt if any words I have will ease your heart. From the letters she wrote to my father, I know she was a loving and special woman, and I'm sorry I never had the chance to meet her, and tell her for myself.
You've met with Rogan's man, Mr. Hobbs. From his report I understand that you were aware of the relationship between your mother and my father. I think this might cause you some hurt, and I'm sorry for it. I also think you may not appreciate hearing from me. But I had to write to you, at least once.
Your father, your mother's husband, surely loved you very much. I don't wish to interfere with those emotions or those memories, which I'm sure are precious to you. I wish only to offer you a chance to know this other part of your family, and your heritage. My father was not a simple man, but he was a good one, and never did he forget your mother. I found her letters to him long after his death, still wrapped in the ribbon he'd tied around them.
I'd like to share him with you, or if that isn't what you want, to offer you a chance to see the Ireland where you were conceived. If you could find it in your heart, I would very much like you to come and stay with me and mine awhile. If nothing else, the countryside here is a good place for easing grief.
You owe me nothing, Shannon. And perhaps you think I owe you nothing as well. But if you loved your mother, as I did my father, you know we owe them. Perhaps by becoming friends, if not sisters, we'll have
given them back something of what they gave up for us.
The invitation is open. If ever you wish to come, you'll be welcome.
Yours truly,
Brianna
Shannon read it twice. Then, when she had tossed it aside, picked it up and read it again. Was the woman really so simple, so unselfish, so willing to open heart and home?
She didn't want Brianna's heart, or her home, Shannon told herself.
And yet. And yet... Was she going to deny even to herself that she'd been considering just this? A trip to Ireland. A look into the past. She toyed with the idea of going over without contacting any of the Concannons.
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