Читать книгу Sullivan's Child - Gail Link - Страница 11

Finally, he was, he believed, back where he truly belonged.

After almost seven years of voluntary exile in Ireland, Rory Sullivan had returned to the States. Returned not to the elegant four-story town house on the Upper East Side of New York City where he was born and raised and which he now owned, but instead to Cedar Hill, the small town in southeastern Pennsylvania where he had taught college. Back to a fresh start at a new life. Back to a place overflowing with memories.

He held one such in his hand, a slim volume of poetry. It was an old book, privately published and quite rare, bound in leather and stamped in gold, a find from an estate sale; it was a unique birthday gift he had cherished doubly because of the person who had given it to him. Contained inside the pages were poems of love and longing, of heartbreak and happiness, the work of an Irish woman in the late nineteenth century, simply titled To My Beloved.

He gently opened the book, read the inscription that he’d read hundreds of times before: Always and forever, Cat.

The irony of that phrase haunted him. Just because you left a place, or a person, didn’t mean they left you. Some memories were burned too deep to ever depart; they remained in your mind, constant reminders of what was.

What was, what is, what would always be for him—the woman whose memory he’d tried to ignore. A recollection he’d tried—but found impossible—to suppress. A woman that he tried his damnedest to erase from the deepest recesses of his mind and found she was unforgettable. The passion he tried to so hard to bury where he thought it belonged—in the over-and-done-with category—was ultimately unquenchable.

She was still there. In his heart. In his mind. In his past. A living ghost that had attached itself to him with ethereal chains stronger than any forged with steel.

One day several months ago, while surfing the Internet in his Dublin apartment, he’d stumbled upon her name quite by accident. He’d been checking a list of specialty Irish bookstores in the States, trying to locate an out-of-print research book. It was available in two places, one of which turned out to be hers. Cat’s bookstore had its own Web site, and it included a recent article from a local newspaper on her thriving business, along with a current photo that showed a beautiful woman who looked barely older than some of his undergraduate students. Even through the filter of a monitor screen her hair still gleamed that particular shade of reddish brown. A color he could never forget—gold-dusted cinnamon. He didn’t need a closer inspection to recall the exact shade of her eyes; their color was imprinted in his memory. Green. The green of a ripe lime in summer.

Once, while searching through an antiques shop in the Irish capital, he’d found two items that mirrored that shade. A lady’s antique-gold brooch that held a stunning emerald in the center and a pair of matching gentleman’s Edwardian cuff links, which he wore tonight with his tuxedo. He’d bought both items on the spot, unable to resist, because they reminded him of her.

Was there someone special in her life now? he wondered. Someone who’d replaced him in her heart, her mind, her bed? The article had given no personal details.

Who was he kidding? Rory thought. Of course there had to be someone else. He’d been gone a long time. Too long to believe he’d find her waiting patiently for a man who’d walked out on her.

And why should she? He’d foolishly slammed the door on their relationship. Forced her to make a choice.

And she had.

A choice he’d had to live with.

Until now.

Had she ever regretted that decision? Had she ever wished that she’d chosen a life with him instead of her business? Did she ever spare a random thought for what if?

Rory raked a hand through his fashionably cut dark hair, then loosened the black tie he wore and poured himself a whiskey, neat, from the Waterford decanter that rested on a small butler’s table in the living room of his rented condo. The strong taste was a sharp contrast to the two glasses of champagne he’d consumed at his welcome party, thrown in his honor tonight by university colleagues. A party he’d hoped she would have attended.

But she hadn’t. Throughout the night he’d watched and waited, in vain. Cat never showed, even after he’d made sure that she was invited.

Payback time?

No, the Cat he remembered wouldn’t have blown him off for petty reasons. That wasn’t her style.

Then why didn’t she attend?

Maybe she had better things to do, he mused as he prowled about the room. Better places to be. Or perhaps she didn’t want any part in this prodigal’s return.

That thought left a particularly bad taste in his mouth, so he poured himself another whiskey to wash it away.

Had he made a colossal mistake coming back here? Several other colleges and universities had wanted him to teach at their campuses. Had wooed him with fabulous promises and tempting offers.

But they lacked proximity to what he was seeking.

His friends and fellow professors in Ireland asked him to reconsider when he’d informed them he was leaving. Stay where you belong, they urged. Settle down with one woman and raise a family, a proper Irish family. Past time, they argued, that he had a wife and children.

But he couldn’t. Much as he loved Dublin and the country of his ancestors, it wasn’t truly home.

Home really was, Rory had found out in the ensuing years, where the heart resided. And his had been left behind, in the soft hands of one Miss Caitlyn Kildare. The time had come to see if it could be reclaimed, or if it was lost forever.

Reaching into his inside jacket pocket, Rory withdrew his wallet. He flipped it open, stared at the photo encased in soft plastic inside. It was an old picture, a worn, faded snapshot that showed signs of handling. A woman’s face.

Drawing it from its protective haven, Rory smoothed out the edges, his fingers caressing the picture.

Back then nothing had come between him and his ambition. He hadn’t needed anyone or anything in his life distracting him from his goal.

Or so he’d thought. Love was a name people gave to sugarcoat the intensity of physical desire. Love gave permission to act on those desires, to indulge without guilt. It was pleasant, but in most cases temporary. Enjoyable while it lasted, but nothing to take seriously.

That’s what he’d told himself.

He naively, or stupidly, believed that when he left Caitlyn for the life he wanted in Ireland she would eventually disappear from his thoughts, that his desire for her would evaporate with the distance and the years that separated them.

Rory’s mouth quirked into a mocking grin as he removed the tie and unfastened several buttons on his pleated white tuxedo shirt. Easy to think. Harder to accomplish.

Even with an ocean dividing them, she was constantly with him. He discovered that he carried her within his heart, and his heart refused to allow the memories to die. Instead, it constantly fed him slices of remembrances, doled out carefully at times when he least expected them. In the solitude of his apartment in Dublin, he found himself reaching for her at night, only to find empty space in his bed. Working on a manuscript, he would raise his head, ready to tell her something, to share a fact or an idea, to get her reaction. Only emptiness met his sweeping look. Silence and memories. Echoes of a time past.

Once he’d even attempted to eradicate the specter of her by sleeping with another woman. Deliberately, he’d chosen a woman who reminded him of Cat. A green-eyed, red-haired woman. So what if her eyes lacked the glowing polish of emeralds shot with sunlight? What did it matter if her hair didn’t possess the fire or scent of Cat’s? Lemon-scented, burnished flame belonged to Cat alone.

His experiment was a horrible failure. It wasn’t the woman’s fault, he admitted to himself. She had no way of knowing that she was only a substitute for the real thing, a copy that never quite measured up to the original.

With hindsight, Rory could admit that he’d put his body into the act of sex, but not his heart. His performance may have been instinctively accurate and consummately skilled, yet it lacked a certain fire, a brilliance that transcended the simple and made it sublime. It lacked what he’d had with Cat. Conviction. Rightness. Beauty.

Rory reflected on how much easier it was to analyze that now. Love was the missing ingredient, the special spice that elevated the giving of pleasure to the mingling of souls. It had taken him precious time to recognize and accept that fact.

But was it too late? Too late to return and recapture what he’d thrown away all those years ago? He stared at the face in the photograph, at the deep, delightful smile and the welcoming eyes.

Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe second chances did exist.

Always and forever.

He was damn sure going to give it a try. After all, he had nothing to lose. Nothing that he hadn’t already lost once before.

Rory smiled as he returned the photo to his wallet. If there was one thing he was good at, it was getting what he wanted when he set his mind to it.

And Caitlyn Kildare was what he wanted.

No doubts.

No hesitations.

No questions.

So, he wasn’t going to let a little thing like a no-show at his party deter him from pursuing his quarry. He’d come too far and waited too long.

Besides, he thought as he climbed the winding stairs that led up to his bedroom, tomorrow was soon enough to begin his campaign.

“A dozen roses in a Waterford vase. Someone’s sure got extravagant taste,” Mary Alice commented after the florist’s delivery van departed. She bent and sniffed the bouquet, which adorned the checkout counter. “Hmm,” she murmured, “a lovely scent.” She straightened and threw a questioning glance in Cat’s direction. “So, who are they from? The lawyer or the doctor?”

“Neither.”

“Someone new then?”

Cat shrugged. “I haven’t a clue.”

“No note?”

“None whatsoever.”

“Then how do you know that one of them didn’t send it?”

Cat moved from behind the counter and whisked the feather duster over a small spin-around display of postcards. “There’s no reason for either one to send me flowers,” she explained to her assistant. “I haven’t 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 the truth.”

“Does Caitlyn Kildare still own this place?”

“She sure does.”

“Is she by any chance here today?”

“Yes.”

“Then would you tell her that I’d like to see her.”

Mary Alice nodded her head. “Just you wait right here, and I’ll go and let her know that you’ve come to say hello. There’s freshly brewed tea and coffee if you’d like something to drink.” With a wave of her hand she indicated a sturdy pine sideboard upon which sat a coffeemaker and next to it a carafe of hot water. “There’s a few things to nibble on if you’d like, too. Personally, I’d try the shortbread. One taste and you swear you’ve died and been reborn.”

“That good?”

“Better than almost anything,” she insisted.

Rory almost laughed at that declaration. He’d tasted a few things in his time that would have put the shortbread treat to shame, he was sure. One of them had been Cat’s skin. Smooth as cream. And her mouth, sweet as honey.

His body stirred achingly with the sensory pictures his mind painted. Images grown sharper. Clearer. Especially now that he allowed himself to see them freely. Artists had a term for that which resurfaced after being buried under layers of paint—pentimento. The discovery of the treasure beneath the surface, beneath the obvious.

As for coffee or tea, he didn’t need further stimulation. Thinking about Cat was stimulating enough. Much more than enough.

Mary Alice slipped into the back room and closed the door behind her.

Cat glanced up from her computer screen when her assistant entered.

“You’ve got a visitor,” the older woman announced in a soft voice.

A sudden chill ran along Cat’s spine. She asked the question to which she had already guessed the answer. “Who?”

“Rory Sullivan.”

Cat momentarily shifted her eyes to the picture of her daughter, then forced them away as she saved the document that she was working on and closed down the machine.

“Do you want me to show him in here?”

“No,” Cat replied quickly. “Would you mind telling him that I’ll be out in a few minutes?”

“Sure.”

As Mary Alice turned to go, Cat spoke again. “Has he…” She was going to say “changed,” but opted against finishing the question. She would know soon enough herself. “Never mind.”

Mary Alice left and Cat stood up, walked a few feet to the bathroom, flicked on the light and checked her face in the mirror. She filled a small paper cup with cold water from the tap and swallowed it. Most of her lipstick was gone so she reached into the pocket of her skirt and ran the tube of plain lip gloss across her mouth.

All ready.

Who was she kidding? she thought. Certainly not herself. She was far from ready. Miles away from okay. Light-years from calm. But she had to do this, now. Bite the bullet. Face the music. And all the other clichés she could think of.

All the intervening years melted away, and the past rose up from behind the shuttered wall of her memory, released and living, standing before her when she walked onto the sales floor.

Across the width of the room, as if he could feel her presence, Rory turned and their eyes met.

If Cat thought he was handsome before, she marveled at how much the years had improved his features. Mature, polished, elegant, he was all that, but harder, Cat noted. There was a toughness, a steely strength underlying the facile good looks, obviously dormant when she knew him. Now there was no denying the beautiful arrogance of his face or his eyes. Those enticing Kerry-blue eyes. Just like the old song. Smiling Irish eyes that could, and did, steal your heart away. But in the stealing he had managed to break hers into a thousand pieces, smashing it as ruthlessly as he could, the fragments resembling the remnants of a piece of expensive crystal. Glued back together, it was serviceable but never completely the same.

It only took him seconds to reach her, seconds to throw her world off kilter. “Hello, Cat.”