Born in Fire (36 page)

He let out a breath, stared into his glass. “I suppose you think I’m being a fool.”

“No, I don’t—exactly.” She smiled when his eyes lifted to hers. “A man can be expected to be a bit jittery when his granny takes on a boyfriend.”

Rogan winced. She laughed.

“Why not let her be happy? If it eases your mind, I’ll look the situation over when they stop here.”

“That’s something at least.” He touched his glass to hers, and they tossed the whiskey back together. “I have to go.”

“You’ve hardly been here. Why don’t you come to the pub with me and we’ll have a meal together. Or”—she slipped her arms around him—“we’ll stay here and go hungry.”

No, he thought as he lowered his mouth to hers. They wouldn’t be hungry for long.

“I can’t stay.” He set the empty glass aside to take her by her shoulders. “If I did we’d only end up in bed. That wouldn’t solve anything.”

“There doesn’t have to be anything to solve. Why must you make it complicated? We’re good together.”

“We are.” He framed her face in his hands. “Very good together. That’s only one of the reasons I want to spend my life with you. No, don’t draw away. Nothing you told me changes what we can have. Once you realize that, you’ll come to me. I can wait.”

“You’ll just go, then stay away again? So, it’s marriage or nothing?”

“It’s marriage.” He kissed her again. “And everything. I’ll be in Limerick for almost a week. The office knows where to reach me.”

“I won’t call.”

He traced a thumb over her lips. “But you’ll want to. That’s enough for now.”

Chapter Nineteen

“Y
OU’RE being pigheaded, Maggie.’’

“You know, I’m tired of having that particular word applied to me.” With goggles protecting her eyes, Maggie experimented with lamp work. For nearly a week everything she’d free-blown had dissatisfied her. For a change of pace she had set up a half-dozen torches, three clamped to each side of a bench, and was heating a tube of glass in the cross fire.

“Well, if it’s applied to you often enough, it may be true,” Brianna shot back. “It’s family. You can spare one evening for family.’’

“It isn’t a matter of time.” She meant this, though for some reason, Maggie felt time was breathing down her neck like a snarling dog. “Why should I subject myself to having dinner with her?” Carefully, brows knit, she began to pull and rotate the softened glass. “I can tell you I have no appetite for it. Nor will she.’’

“’Tisn’t just Mother who’ll be coming. Uncle Niall and Mrs. Sweeney will be there. And Lottie, of course, It would be rude of you not to come.’’

“I’ve been told I’m that, as well as pigheaded.” As with everything else she’d touched over the last few days, the glass refused to follow the vision in her head. The vision itself blurred, infuriating her as much as it frightened her. Pure obstinancy kept her working.

“You haven’t seen Uncle Niall since Da’s wake. And he’s bringing Rogan’s grandmother, for heaven’s sake. You told me you liked her very much.”

“I do.” Damn it, what was wrong with her hands? What was wrong with her heart? She fused one rod to the other, burned it off, returned, burned it off. “Perhaps one of the reasons I don’t want to be there is so she’ll not be subjected to one of our happy family meals.”

The sarcasm was as hot as one of Maggie’s points of flame. Brianna faced it down with ice. “It wouldn’t cost you much to put aside your feelings for one night. If Uncle Niall and Mrs. Sweeney are going out of their way to visit us before going on to Galway, we’ll welcome them. All of us.”

“Stop badgering me, will you? You’re pecking away at me like a damn duck. Can’t you see I’m working?”

“You hardly do anything else, so it’s necessary to interrupt you if I want a word. They’ll be here shortly, Maggie, and I’ll not make excuses for you.” In a gesture similar to her sister’s habitual stance, Brianna folded her arms. “I’ll stand right here and keep pecking until you do what’s expected of you.”

“All right, all right. Jesus. I’ll come to the damn dinner.”

Brianna smiled serenely. She’d never expected less. “At half seven. I’m serving my guests earlier so we’ll have a private family meal.”

“And oh, what a jolly time that will be.”

“It’ll go well enough if you promise to hold that nasty tongue of yours. I’m only asking for the smallest of efforts.”

“I’ll smile, I’ll be polite. I won’t eat with me fingers.” With a bitter sigh, Maggie shoved up her goggles and held the figure on the end of the tube out of the flames.

“What have you done there?” Curious, Brianna stepped closer.

“Gone mad.”

“It’s pretty. Is it a unicorn?”

“Aye, a unicorn—only needs a touch of gold on the horn to make it complete.” She laughed, turning the mythical figure in the air. “It’s a joke, Brie, a poor one. On me. It’ll be swans next, I’m sure. Or those little dogs with puffs for tails.” She set her work aside, briskly turned off her torches. “Well, that’s that, I suppose. I’ll hardly do anything worthwhile today, so I’ll be along to your dinner party. God help you.”

“Why don’t you rest awhile, Maggie? You look awfully tired.”

“Perhaps I will, after I crate up a few pieces.” She tossed the goggles aside, rubbed her hands over her face. She was tired, Maggie realized. Outrageously so. “You needn’t worry, Brie, you’ll not have to send out the dogs for me. I’ve said I’ll be there.”

“I’m grateful.” Brianna reached down to squeeze her sister’s hand. “I have to go back, make certain everything’s in place. Half seven, Maggie.”

“I know.”

She waved her sister out. To keep her mind on practical matters, she took one of the crates she’d made and packed it with padding. After spreading bubble wrap over a table, she turned to the shelves at the back of the shop. There was only one piece there, the last she’d completed before Rogan’s visit.

Tall and sturdy, the trunk speared up, then curved, flooding down in slim, graceful limbs that almost seemed to sway. It would stand, she thought, like the willow that had inspired it. And it would bend, yielding, even as it remained true to itself. The color was a deep, pure blue that flooded up from the base and paled gently to the delicate tips.

She wrapped it carefully, for it was more than a sculpture. This was the last work she’d been able to draw successfully from her heart. Nothing she had attempted since then had gelled. Day after day she had labored only to remelt and remelt. Day after day she came closer to releasing the panic that jittered inside her.

His fault, she told herself as she secured the top of the crate. His fault for tempting her with fame and fortune, for exposing her vanity to such a stunning and fast success. Now she was blocked, dried up. As hollow as the tube she’d fashioned into a unicorn.

He’d made her want too much. Want him too much. Then he had walked away and let her see, brutally, what it was like to have nothing.

She wouldn’t give up, nor would she give in. Maggie promised herself she would have her pride at least. While her furnace roared mockingly she sat in her chair, felt the familiarity of its shape.

It was only that she’d been working too hard, surely. She’d been pushing herself to do better and better work with each piece. The pressure of holding on to success had blocked her, that was all. She couldn’t suppress the idea that as the tour moved on from Paris it would be found wanting. That
she
would be found wanting.

That she would never again pick up the pipe just for herself, just for the pleasure of it. Rogan had changed all that. He had, as she’d told him he would, changed her.

And how was it, she thought, closing her eyes, how could it be that a man could make you love him by going away?

“You’ve done well for yourself, haven’t you, darling?” Niall, stuffed into one of his bright-hued suits like a happy sausage, beamed at Brianna. “I always said you were a clever lass. Takes after me dear sister, does Brianna, Chrissy.”

“You have a lovely home.” Christine accepted the glass Brianna offered. “And your gardens are simply breathtaking.”

“Thank you. They give me pleasure.”

“Rogan told me how he enjoyed his brief stay here.” Christine sighed, content with the warmth of the fire and the glow of the lamp. “I can see why.”

“She’s got the touch.” Niall gave Brianna a bone-crushing squeeze around the shoulders. “In the blood, you know. Blood runs true.”

“So it seems. I knew your grandmother quite well.”

“Chrissy was underfoot all the time.” Niall winked. “Thought I didn’t notice her. Shy was what I was.”

“You never had a shy moment in your life,” Christine said with a laugh. “You thought I was a nuisance.”

“If I did, I’ve changed me mind.” He leaned over and under Brianna’s curious eye, kissed Christine firmly on the mouth.

“It took you more than fifty years.”

“Seems like yesterday.”

“Well…” Disconcerted, Brianna cleared her throat. “I suppose I should check on…I believe that’s Mother and Lottie,” she continued when raised voices boomed down the hallway.

“You drive like a blind woman,” Maeve complained. “I’ll walk back to Ennis before I get into that car with you again.”

“If you can do better, you should drive yourself. Then you’d have a sense of independence.” Obviously unconcerned, Lottie strolled into the parlor, unwrapping a thick scarf from around her neck. “It’s a chilly night,” she announced, rosy-cheeked and smiling.

“And you dragging me out in it’ll put me in bed for a week.”

“Mother.” Shoulders braced against embarrassment, Brianna helped Maeve off with her coat. “I’d like you to meet Mrs. Sweeney. Mrs. Sweeney, this is my mother, Maeve Concannon, and our friend Lottie Sullivan.”

“I’m delighted to meet you both.” Christine rose to offer her hand to both women. “I was a friend of your mother’s, Mrs. Concannon. We were girls together in Galway. I was Christine Rogan then.”

“She spoke of you,” Maeve said shortly. “I’m pleased to meet you.” Her gaze shifted to her uncle, narrowed. “Well, Uncle Niall, is it? You haven’t graced us with your presence for many a day.”

“It warms my heart to see you, Maeve.” He enveloped her in an embrace, patting her stiff back with a beefy hand. “I hope the years have been kind to you.”

“Why would they?” The moment she was freed, Maeve sat in a chair by the fire. “This fire’s drawing poorly, Brianna.”

It wasn’t, but Brianna walked over to make minute adjustments to the flue.

“Stop fussing,” Niall ordered with a casual wave of his hand. “It’s drawing fine. We all know Maeve lives to complain.”

“Doesn’t she, now?” Lottie spoke pleasantly while she pulled her knitting needles from the basket she’d brought along. “I pay no mind to it myself. But that comes from raising four children, I suppose.”

Unsure what step to take, Christine focused on Lottie. “What lovely wool, Mrs. Sullivan.”

“Thank you. I’m partial to it myself. Had you a nice trip from Dublin, then?”

“A lovely one, yes. I’d forgotten how beautiful this part of the country was.”

“Nothing but fields and cows,” Maeve tossed out, annoyed that the conversation was circling out of her control. “It’s fine to live in Dublin and pass through on a fine autumn day. Come winter, you wouldn’t think it so lovely.” She might have continued the theme, but Maggie came in.

“Why, it’s Uncle Niall, big as life.” With a laugh, she went into his arms.

“Little Maggie Mae, all grown up.”

“As I’ve been for some time.” She stepped back, laughed again. “Well, you’ve lost nearly all of it now.” She rubbed an affectionate hand over his head.

“It was such a fine head, you see, the good Lord saw no need to cover it with hair. I’ve heard about how well you’re doing, darling. I’m proud of you.”

“Mrs. Sweeney’s telling you that so she can brag upon her grandson. It’s lovely seeing you,” Maggie said to Christine. “I hope you won’t let this one run you ragged in Galway.”

“I find I can keep up. I was hoping, if it’s not inconvenient to you, that I could have a look at your glass house tomorrow before we go.”

“Sure I’d be glad to show you. Hello, Lottie, are you well?”

“Fit as a fiddle.” Her needles clacked musically. “I was hoping you’d come by the house and tell us about your trip to France.”

This statement drew an audible sniff from Maeve. Schooling her features, Maggie turned. “Mother.”

“Margaret Mary. You’ve been busy with your own doings, as usual, I see.”

“I have.”

“Brianna finds time to come by twice a week to see that I have all I need.”

Maggie nodded. “Then it isn’t necessary for me to do the same.”

“I’ll serve dinner now, if everyone’s ready,” Brianna cut in.

“I’m always ready for a meal,” Niall kept Christine’s hand in his, using his free one to give Maggie’s shoulder a squeeze as they went into the dining room.

There was linen on the table, and fresh flowers, with the warmth of candles flickering on the sideboard. The food was beautifully prepared and plentiful. It should have been a pleasant, congenial evening. But, of course, it wasn’t.

Maeve picked at her foot. The lighter the mood at the table became, the darker grew her own. She envied Christine her fine, well-cut dress, the gleam of pearls around her throat, the quiet, expensive scent that drifted from her skin. And the skin itself, soft and pampered by wealth.

Her mother’s friend, Maeve thought. Her childhood playmate, class to class. The life Christine Sweeney had led should have been hers, she thought. Would have been hers, but for one mistake. But for Maggie.

She could have wept from the rage of it, from the shame of it. From the helpless loss of it.

All around her the conversation bubbled like some expensive wine, frothy and foolish talk about flowers and old times, about Paris and Dublin. About children.

“How lovely for you to have such a large family,” Christine was saying to Lottie. “I was always sorry that Michael and I couldn’t have more children. Though we doted on our son, then on Rogan.”

“A son,” Maeve muttered. “A son doesn’t forget his mother.”

“It’s true, it’s a special bond.” Christine smiled, hoping to soften the harshness around Maeve’s mouth. “But I confess, I always wanted a daughter of my own. You’re blessed with two, Mrs. Concannon.”