Sullivan's Child. Gail Link
seen George since he was transferred to the D.A.’s office in Philly during the summer. Paul has such an erratic schedule at the hospital, and since I’m a mother with a young child I doubt we’ll be seeing much of one another in the future.”
“No sparks?’ Mary Alice asked.
Cat paused before she answered, choosing her words carefully. “They’re both nice guys, I enjoyed going out with them, and I like them. But it will never be anything more.”
“That’s too bad,” the older woman stated. “I know that your mom and brother will be disappointed, seeing how they both set you up with their colleagues.”
Cat smiled. “Mom and Brendan both want me to be happy, and neither like to take no for an answer, which is why I humored them. And it’s been a long time since I’d gone out on a date.”
“But they weren’t him.”
Cat stopped her dusting. “Him who?”
“Tara’s father.”
“He doesn’t enter into this at all.”
“You’re certain?”
“Yes.”
“Well—” Mary Alice paused, giving Cat a knowing glance “—I’m not so sure about that.”
“I am,” Cat insisted.
Mary Alice wisely let the subject drop. “But it still doesn’t answer who sent you the flowers.”
“Maybe a customer.”
“Extravagant gesture for a customer.”
“Remember Mrs. O’Malley who brought me back that lovely Aran Isle sweater when she went to Ireland last year?”
“That’s different, Cat. You paid her for it.”
Cat ignored her friend’s comment. “Or it could have been Mr. Boyle. You know he doesn’t get out anymore since his accident, and I send him his favorite magazines and a new book each month.”
Mary Alice shook her head and lowered her voice as a customer walked into the shop. “It’s not from a grateful customer, I’ll wager. More like a lover, or a man who hopes to be, I’m thinking.”
“Well, being as I don’t have one right now or plans in the immediate future, that’s not likely,” Cat responded, greeting the new arrival with a friendly smile.
“And whose fault is that?”
Cat shot her assistant a dark look, then relaxed as she saw the grin on Mary Alice’s face. She rolled her eyes and then turned back to her customer. “May I help you find something, ma’am?” she asked.
“Yes,” the woman replied. “I’m looking for that new biography on Lady Gregory. There was a review in this past Sunday’s Inquirer.”
Cat glanced up from her desk where she was working on sorting out several special orders for customers as a cold finger of apprehension touched her spine. She couldn’t identify the source, yet it was there, like a blast of cool air.
Couldn’t or wouldn’t identify? she wondered.
Rory.
Rory, her brain echoed in a remembered litany of passion and pain. Why is it that every time I think I’m almost over you there is always something there to remind me?
Because, she answered herself, as long as she had Tara there would always be a reminder. Daily. Constant. In a look, or in the way Tara tilted her head. Then there was that smile. Her father’s smile.
Damn you, Rory, Cat thought. Damn you for my greatest pleasure and my deepest hell. Damn you once more for making me remember all the moments we spent together.
Had he sent the flowers?
And if he had, for what purpose? To confuse and confound her? To let her know she was in his thoughts?
He could do that in person if he wanted.
Would she be ready?
Cat reluctantly admitted that she would never be quite ready, still maybe it would be for the best. Get it over with, quick and clean. Simple. She had survived his leaving; she would survive his coming back again. Besides, she had nothing in common with him anyway.
Except a child, came the sadly sweet thought. A beautiful little girl created out of the love they had shared.
Correction, her inner voice added, out of the love she had for him. But that love was over. In the past. The fire was dead. Ashes were all that remained. And wasn’t it better that way? Being consumed by the flames was no way to live. Charred fragments of her heart had survived once. Now it was cloaked in self-induced asbestos to keep it safe. Maybe someday she would love again. A nice, sweet, gentle love. The kind that was comfortable and secure. Nothing that heated the blood or scorched the soul.
Been there, she thought. Done that. Don’t plan on making that mistake ever again.
Her glance fell to the silver-framed photograph that rested on her desk, sharing space with piles of papers, a computer and books. It was of her and Tara, smiling broadly to the camera. Taken at her daughter’s last birthday party.
He’d missed them all. All the cakes, the presents, the laughter, and most especially the fun of seeing the wonder and excitement of a birthday through a child’s eyes.
But it couldn’t be helped. Or regretted.
The intercom on her phone buzzed, giving Cat a good excuse to put her mind on something else.
Rory sat in his leased car in the parking lot of Cat’s bookstore, remembering the first time he’d come here. Flush with success at the rave notices his initial effort had produced, he’d been excited to do his first real book signing and thrilled to finally meet the woman who’d sent such a glowing review to his publisher. He recalled the shock that first hit him as he walked through the door of The Silver Harp—he’d been expecting a much older woman to be the owner. Instead, she’d been closer to his own age, he discovered, twenty-five to his thirty.
And lovely beyond compare. A dew-dappled apricot rose with a hint of a blush. That’s the flower he associated with her. The flower he’d sent today.
She was smart. Funny. More than able to meet him halfway. A woman who stirred him on so many levels. A woman of passion, honesty and conviction.
He watched as several people walked in and out, some with small bags, a few with large.
So what was he waiting for? He wasn’t going to get a damn thing accomplished by sitting in his car and staring at the continual flow of customers.
Rory got out and locked the car with a click of his key ring. A few steps took him to the door of the stone building, where he turned the brass handle and stepped inside.
She’d made a few changes in the interim years. Soft strains of Celtic music now played in the background. A subtle fragrance hung in the air, light and spicy, making him think of golden autumn days and crisp fall nights, of colors he associated with Cat. A wooden display on a nearby bare pine table held store newsletters. Rory picked one up and perused it. Poetry readings, book signings, storytelling hour for children, an upcoming Irish step-dancing demonstration. Something for everyone.
“Hi. May I help you?”
Rory turned his head at the sound of the female voice.
“Oh my, it’s Professor Sullivan, isn’t it?” Mary Alice said, her eyes widening in surprise.
Rory smiled. “I’m flattered that you remembered me.”
“Let’s say that you made an impression that doesn’t soon fade,” Mary Alice responded wryly.
“Really?” he responded with a lift of one black eyebrow. “How very sweet of you to say that.”
“I’d only be speaking