Sullivan's Child. Gail Link
things.
Getting a grip on her stunned emotions, Caitlyn turned around and faced the curious glance of her six-year-old daughter.
The little girl’s eyes were wide. She stared at the mess her mother had made on the floor, her dark blue eyes outlined by a fringe of sooty lashes. Everything, including her stubborn chin, was a softer replica of her father.
Rory’s daughter. A child he knew nothing about.
Cat bent down, picked up the pieces of the broken mug, a souvenir of a touring Broadway show, and threw them into the trash can.
Placing Tara in one of the sturdy maple chairs that flanked the kitchen table, Cat hunkered down on her knees before the child, gently stroking the soft, wavy, long black hair. A sprinkle of fine golden freckles dusted her daughter’s nose, as they did hers.
A faint smile played over Cat’s lips. Tara was not totally her father’s clone. There was a lot of her in her daughter. Cat repeated her question.
The little girl spoke up quickly. “At school today.”
“What?” Cat’s eyes widened in shock. The term was one she’d never expected to hear being bandied about at an elementary-school class, even if it was one for gifted students. “Who said it?”
“Tessa’s mommy.” Tara’s face tightened in concentration before she resumed. “Tessa left her favorite book behind, and I went out to give it to her before she got in the car. I heard her mommy say to Stephen’s mommy that Tessa’s daddy was a ‘real bastard.’ What did she mean?” Tara asked, her eyes wide with inquiry.
Relief eased Cat’s tense muscles. The woman hadn’t been referring to Tara. Mrs. Saunders was obviously going through another rough patch with her ex-husband, and Tara had overheard the tirade.
“Tessa’s mother was angry with Tessa’s father, and she called him a name,” Cat replied, her tone soothing.
Tara, undaunted, wouldn’t allow this to rest until her inquisitiveness was satisfied. “But what does it mean? Should I get my dictionary and look it up?”
The realization that she wasn’t going to escape Tara’s probing forced Cat’s hand. “It’s a grown-up term.” Then, knowing she couldn’t stall any longer, Cat added, “Tessa’s mother used it to mean a not very nice person. Do you understand?”
The little girl nodded her head, the simple explanation accepted. Wrapping her soft arms around her mother’s neck, Tara planted a smacking kiss on Cat’s cheek.
“Can I go and play now?”
Cat returned the kiss, happy that Tara seemed satisfied with the definition she’d given her. “Scoot,” she said, and the little girl eagerly complied.
Cat stood up, watching as Tara dashed out of the room. This was too close a call for her liking. So far Tara hadn’t really asked too many questions about her lack of a father, probably because she had several stable male influences in her life, among them her grandfather and her uncle, who stepped in when needed. And, the world being what it was, there were several other children she knew being raised in single-parent homes.
But still, the day would come when her daughter would demand to know the truth. A truth she had a right to know. Cat only hoped that Tara would understand her reasons for keeping it hidden.
And what would she say to her daughter when that day came? There would never be time or words enough to fully prepare. How could she ever make her child understand her motives? How could she tell her daughter that she’d been a fool for love? Would Tara ever comprehend? Or forgive?
Cat straightened her slim shoulders and poured herself a fresh cup of coffee. She sipped it slowly, savoring the warmth of the hot liquid as it flowed through her on this unexpectedly crisp, early-September day.
Restless, she decided to check and see if the mail had come yet, as it usually arrived early on Saturday.
Pulling on a navy cardigan sweater over her long-sleeved white oxford shirt to ward off the chill, Cat walked in silent concentration to the mailbox at the end of her driveway. She paused to watch a pair of scampering red squirrels, who dashed up and down one of the large evergreens, chasing away a twice-as-big gray squirrel in the process. She stood for a minute and observed the songbirds that crowded the hanging bird feeder, all eager to eat.
If only life could be as simple, she thought as she gathered the mail and then reentered the house.
But it wasn’t and never would be.
Cat dropped the pile of mail onto the kitchen table. Among the assorted bills, catalogs and magazines was a formal-looking envelope bearing the imprint of her alma mater, Cedar Hill University.
She put down her coffee cup and grabbed a knife from the nearby drawer, slit open the envelope and quickly scanned the contents. Color drained from her face. Hoping that she had read the invitation wrong, Cat carefully reread it.
No, she hadn’t made a mistake; the invitation was all too clear, all too real. It was a request for her presence at a reception to be given in two weeks to welcome the newest member of the Cedar Hill faculty, who would be heading up the newly created Department of Celtic Studies.
Cat dropped to the kitchen chair, the note clutched in her hand, the impact of the words hitting her like a body blow. He was coming back, back after all these years.
Sweet saints in heaven, she thought, her other hand over her mouth as if to stifle a gasp. Why now?
She forced herself to take a deep breath. Of course she couldn’t go to the welcome party. It was impossible.
Smoothing out the crushed vellum sheet, her index finger traced the fancy calligraphied letters of his name. Suddenly, Cat began to tremble; tears formed in her green eyes.
It was only a name. What harm could come from a name?
But, her heart countered, there was a man behind the name, a man to be reckoned with.
Feelings that were buried under layers of pain and heartache, which she thought she’d put behind her in the past where they belonged, rose unexpectedly to the surface, clogging her memory.
And what about her daughter?
A rising tide of fear shot through Cat. Had he somehow discovered that their brief love affair had produced a child?
So what if he had? she thought, taking a sip of the now-cooling coffee. Tara was her daughter, hers alone. She’d borne her, raised her, loved her—been all the parent the little girl had ever needed. Seen Tara through upset stomachs and scraped knees. Been there for her through bad dreams and rainy afternoons. Read countless stories and answered thousands of “whys.”
Besides, Cat was no longer the vulnerable young woman that she had been, easily swept away by the dashing Rory Sullivan’s abundant charm and good looks. It wouldn’t work a second time. Her heart was secure, impervious to its former follies. Time and distance had repaired the cracks, cauterized the wounds.
Or had they?
Rising, she grabbed the wall phone and tapped out the RSVP number, quickly conveying her sincere regrets that she wouldn’t be able to attend.
Cat hung up the phone and leaned against the counter, her head bowed. She remained that way for several minutes before raising her head and wiping away the traces of tears that wet her cheeks. She couldn’t afford to waste time on the past; she had a business to run, a life of her own to lead. And, most importantly, it wouldn’t do for Tara to find her like this. Her daughter came before everything, including regrets.
Sleep was impossible that night.
Cat tossed and turned, unable to find the comfort and peace that she craved. She should be too tired to be awake. It had been a busy day at the bookstore, with a large shipment of inventory to unpack and put away. Her muscles ached, yearning for the restorative power of total rest.
However, her mind had other plans.
Cat