Sullivan's Child. Gail Link
knew. Lots and lots of money. Old money. A sizable trust fund that allowed him to do what he wanted, whenever he wanted.
However, she was getting ahead of herself. He said that he wanted to talk. Understandable. Unnerving, but definitely understandable. Maybe he wanted to be sure that she didn’t want something from him. That could be it.
And then again it might not be.
She had to stop torturing herself with worry. She mustn’t allow Tara to see her upset. Her daughter came first, last, always.
So how was she going to tell Tara? What magic words could she use? What could she say to explain?
Cat pulled her car into the parking lot of the school, a smile breaking through her dark mood when she saw her daughter.
Tara ran to her mother’s car, her pretty face beaming with happiness. “Look at what we got from the computer, Mommy.” She handed her mother the printout as soon as she got into the car and received her welcoming hug and kiss, which she reciprocated. “Mrs. Robb talked to us about tracing our roots. Isn’t that funny, like we were plants?”
Cat’s lips curved in a bittersweet smile, the irony almost overwhelming her. Her daughter, being helped to discover more about her family past. “Was it fun?”
Tara nodded her head. “Yeah. I got to read all about Ireland and where the Kildares came from. I’m gonna call Nanny and Pop and tell them to come over so that they can see it too.”
“Not tonight, sweetheart.”
“Why?”
“Your nanny is working late at the clinic tonight and your grandfather is out of town with my cousin Dylan at a conference for police detectives, don’t you remember?”
Tara nodded. “I forgot.”
“That’s okay, sweetie. I’m sure that when they can, they’d both love to see what you found.” This was the opening she needed, however unexpected, to introduce the subject of her child’s father. But should she? What if Rory really wasn’t interested at all in his daughter. Would that be giving Tara more information than she needed? More than she was ready for, especially if her father expressed no interest whatsoever in seeing her, meeting her? Would telling Tara that she had a flesh-and-blood father do more harm than good?
Cat wished that she knew. Wished that she had some real clue.
Until she had, she couldn’t bring herself to tell Tara that her biological father was in town.
Rory stood outside the modest house, taking note in the fading light of the touches that seemed welcoming. Bright clusters of fall flowers surrounded the brick walkway and continued around the base of the house. Adding a touch of class were numerous rosebushes, some reaching up to cling, the others nestled comfortably. Even from where he stood, the air was redolent with the smell. A hanging bird feeder on a nearby maple tree was still attracting customers to sample its tasty goods.
The house itself had an old feel to it, though he guessed it to be fairly new. It didn’t stand there and scream “Notice me” as did many new homes, ostentatious and overdone. Its stone and wood blended into the landscape seamlessly.
Somehow, it seemed right for Cat. Perfect.
Rory climbed the wide stone steps and rang the bell.
Less than a minute later, a porch light flicked on and the oak door, with its stained-glass insert, was opened.
His words were direct, aimed at the woman who stood sentinel. “I’m here to see her.”
Chapter Four
Cat stood in the doorway, blocking his entrance into her home. “She doesn’t know anything about you, Rory.”
One of his black eyebrows arched slightly. “Why am I not surprised?”
She wet her lips. “It wasn’t important.”
He stepped closer, less than inches from her. “Is that so?” he inquired, his voice low and soft. “Having a father isn’t important to a child?”
“Tara doesn’t have a father.”
“Because I didn’t know I had a daughter,” Rory retorted.
“Bull.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he demanded. “And, would you mind if I came inside? I’d rather not discuss my—our personal business in the street.”
“It’s hardly the street,” Cat responded.
“It’s still not private.”
“I don’t want Tara upset.”
“I didn’t come here to do that,” he stated. “I only want to see her. That isn’t really too much to ask, now, is it?”
“I suppose not,” she conceded, then stepped aside and let him enter, shutting the door behind him.
Rory was enveloped by the warmth of the interior of her home, a sharp contrast to Cat’s cool demeanor. He could smell the subtle scent of applejack as he followed her into a small room off the hall that was dominated by an overstuffed floral couch, topped by a sweater-like white throw.
She pulled the pocket door closed and when she did, Cat felt as if all the air had been locked outside the room, forcing her to take a deep breath before she spoke. “You’ve got to promise me that you won’t say anything to upset Tara,” she reiterated. “Or,” she stated plainly, “you can turn around and leave.”
“That’s not my intention, I can assure you.” Rory leaned back into the seat of the couch, enjoying the enveloping feel of comfort, like a welcome hug. It was so different from the formal furniture that he was used to growing up in his parents’ house, and what he had lived with in Ireland. He threw her a glance, placed his hand on the couch, indicating that she should take a seat next to him.
Cat ignored the invitation and remained standing. Right now, sitting so close to him, would be a mistake; it would be too cozy, too intimate, something she couldn’t afford. Instead, she kept the focus where it belonged—on what he was doing there. “And what are your intentions?” she demanded.
“Just to meet her, for now.”
“For now?” she repeated, her tone skeptical.
He quickly rose from the couch, coming closer. “Cat, you can’t expect me to know what I’ll feel or how I’ll react.”
“She’s a child, Rory, and you’re a stranger.”
“Through no fault of my own.”
Cat was stung by his words. “Can you honestly tell me that you would have been thrilled if I’d told you that I was pregnant? ‘Children have no place in my life,”’ she said, repeating the very words he’d said to her.
She waited for a moment. “What? No snappy comeback? No denial?”
“I remember what I said,” he admitted. “But I can’t walk away now that I know.”
“Can’t you?”
“No.”
It wasn’t so much the word as the tone he used when uttering that one word that convinced Cat that he was serious. “Okay.”
“Then I can see her?”
She searched his eyes. “Yes. But only for a few minutes.”
“That’s all?”
“For now.” She turned his words back on him. “Wait here.”
After she left, Rory walked a few paces to the fireplace, stared at the collection of photos on the carved mantel. There was a silver-framed photo of Cat and her folks, taken, he guessed, when she was in college; another of her brother and sister, who looked older than he remembered,