It Burns a Lovely Light (31 page)

"That man adores you." She nudged Farley. "Too bad for me, eh?"

"Oh, honey..."

"What can I say? I have a sickening habit of falling
for unattainable men." Colette kissed her friend once on each cheek and tilted her head toward Henry. "Leave him be. He is already hurting enough, don't you think?"

Claire thrust a small photo album into Farley's hands.

"Something to look at during your long flight," she said. "Don't forget to call collect the second you land, and every Sunday afternoon, and..."

"...any time in-between," interrupted Farley, tucking the album in her backpack. "You don't have to worry about me, Claire. After all, I come from a long line of strong women."

Smiling, Claire pressed the palm of her hand to Farley's
cheek. "Yes, you do. Just promise you'll be careful."

"I will. And
you
promise to keep me posted on Veda Marie's chemo treatments."

Claire's jaw dropped. "How..."

"How else? Our sweet William. He wasn't listening; he just heard."

"I knew it!" Veda Marie appeared from the drawing room and dropped her basket of folded towels on the table. "I swear to
God, no secret is safe in this house."

Laughing through her tears, Farley enfolded both women in her arms.

"I'll miss you every single day," she whispered.

Resa and Dion came in through the mudroom door. Dion carried a triple-layer cake with the words 'Bon Voyage' written in icing.

"Hey," she said, setting down the cake. "Can
we get in on that?"

Long after the rest of the house was in bed, Claire stood alone in the kitchen. She breathed in the lingering scent of lemons, coffee, freshly folded laundry, and firewood. The silence echoed with the refrains of
laughter, sorrow, love, loss and joy. This beautiful, dignified old house had seen them through it all, she thought, opening the mudroom door. Under the chilly blue-white glow of a full moon and the fairylike flicker of the stars,
Claire Sullivan stepped out of her clothes. Wearing only a smile, she grabbed a towel mad-dashed-it down the lawn to the outdoor shower.

"Ladies and gentlemen," said the pilot. "We
have reached a comfortable altitude.

Please feel free to move about the plane."

Farley unbuckled her seat belt and stood.

"Excuse me," she murmured as her backpack grazed
the leg of the woman sitting beside her.

Sitting back down, she dug through her backpack until she found the photo album. Inside the cover was an old black and white photograph of Bridge Manor, with an inscription along the bottom in Claire's messy
handwriting:

The splendor of wandering free is knowing you have a place to come home to.

Farley flipped to a page in the middle. Pauline and Veda Marie in their standard pose: facing sideways, one foot pointed, stomach in. In
the middle stood Claire, boldly facing the camera head-on. Farley ran her finger over the image.

On the last page was the family photo she had taken so many
years ago on the hood of the old Buick. Us four. She smiled, struck by how young her parents were. Jack, the setting sun reflected in his aviator glasses. Pauline, her head on his shoulder, cheeks flushed and hair disheveled. Sweet William and his gleaming silver headgear. And her own face, so full of hope,
squinting against the burn of the lovely light.

The End

Thank you for reading
It Burns a Lovely Light.
I am truly
honored. The initial seed for this book was planted in the early 1990's, when I spent three wonderful years in Pittsburgh working in feature film production. Scenes were often shot in the cavernous, abandoned steel mills and factories in
and around the city. I was fascinated by stories of the city's survival after the demise of its great steel industry - and overwhelmed by the kindness of the people of Pittsburgh. After fifteen years as a writer and producer of radio and
television advertising campaigns and documentaries, I finally put pen to paper.

It Burns a Lovely Light
is a work of fiction. The characters in my book were pulled directly from my imagination and not intended to
represent anyone in particular - with one exception. Jack James' experiences over the Gulf of Tonkin were taken (quite literally) from the recollections of my father, Brigadier General Robert I. McCann.

My deepest gratitude to those who inspired and encouraged me on this journey, reading (and re-reading) draft after draft, providing me with valuable advice, or patiently listening as I obsessed over my novel:

My beautiful sisters, Kelly Maffeo, Maureen McCann, and Stephanie Elia.

John Pennington, Alex Venners, Daisy Venners, Robert I. McCann, Patricia McCann, Becky Parrish, William Woodward, Lara Rota, Christina King,
Elizabeth Lawrence, Ann Macleod, Lorraine Field, Rachel Cartwright, Patrick Jordan, Pietro Schechter, Roberta Franklin,
Charlie Trefzger, Bob Hudson, and Alison Dunavent, from the Art Institute of Pittsburgh.