"Maggie, the place is charmless."
"And so is our mother." Before Brianna could retort, Maggie crossed to her and swung an arm around the stiffened shoulders. "You'll make a garden, right outside the door there. We'll have the walls painted or papered or whatever it takes."
"It could be made nice."
"No one's better suited to do that than you. You'll draw out whatever money it takes until the two of you are satisfied."
"It's not fair, Maggie, that you should bear all this expense."
"Fairer than you might think." The time had come, Maggie decided, to speak to Brianna about their mother. "Did you know she used to sing? Professionally?"
"Mother?" The idea was so farfetched, Brianna laughed. "Where did you get a notion like that?"
"It's true. I learned of it by accident, and I've checked to be sure." Reaching into her purse, Maggie pulled out the yellowed clippings. "You can see for yourself, she was even written up a few times."
Speechless, Brianna scanned the newsprint, stared at the faded photo. "She sang in Dublin," she murmured. "She had a living. 'A voice as clear and sweet as church bells on Easter morning,' it says. But how can this be? She's never once spoken of it. Nor Da either."
"I've thought of it quite a lot in the last few days." Turning away, Maggie walked to the window again. "She lost something she wanted, and got something she didn't. All this time she's punished herself, and all of us."
Dazed, Brianna lowered the clipping. "But she never sang at home. Not a note. Ever."
"I'm thinking she couldn't bear to, or considered her refusal penance for her sin. Probably both." A weariness came over Maggie and she struggled to fight it back. "I'm trying to excuse her for it, Brie, to imagine how devastated she must have been when she learned she was pregnant with me. And being what she is, there'd have been nothing for her but marriage."
"It was wrong of her to blame you, Maggie. It always was. That's no less true today."
"Perhaps. Still, it gives me more of an understanding as to why she's never loved me. Never will."
"Have you ..." Carefully Brianna folded the clippings and slipped them into her own purse. "Have you spoken to her of it?"
"I tried to. She won't talk about it. It could have been different." Maggie whirled back, hating the burden of guilt she couldn't shake. "It could have been. If she couldn't have the career she wanted, there could have been music still. Did she have to shut off everything because she couldn't have it all?"
"I don't know the answer. Some people aren't content with less than all."
"It can't be changed," Maggie said firmly. "But we'll give her this, we'll give all of us this."
How quickly money dribbled away, Maggie thought a few days later. It seemed the more you had, the more you needed. But the deed to the house was now in Maeve's name, and the details, the dozens of them that came from establishing a home, were being dealt with, one by one. A pity the details of her own life seemed to hang in limbo. She'd barely spoken to Rogan, she thought as she sulked at her kitchen table. Oh, there'd been messages relayed through his Eileen and Joseph, but he rarely bothered to contact her directly. Or to come back, as he'd said he would. Well, that was fine, she thought. She was busy in any case. There were any number of sketches that were begging to be turned into glass. If she was a bit late getting started this morning, it was only because she'd yet to decide which project to pursue first. It certainly wasn't because she was waiting for the blasted phone to ring. She got up and started to the door when she saw Brianna through the window, the devoted wolfhound at her heels.
"Good. I hoped I'd catch you before you started for the day." Brianna took the basket from her arm as she stepped into the kitchen.
"You did, just. Is it going well?"
"Very." Brisk and efficient, Brianna uncovered the steaming muffins she'd brought along. "Finding Lottie Sullivan's like a gift from God." She smiled, thinking of the retired nurse they'd hired as Maeve's companion. "She's simply wonderful, Maggie. Like part of the family already. Yesterday, when I was working on the front flower beds, Mother was carrying on about how it was too late in the year for planting and how the paint on the outside of the house was the wrong color. And, oh, just being contrary. And Lottie was standing there laughing, disagreeing with everything she said. I swear, the two of them were having the time of their lives."
"I wish I'd seen it." Maggie broke open a muffin. The smell of it, and the picture Brianna had put in her head, almost made up for postponing her morning's work. "You found a treasure there, Brie. Lot-tie'll keep her in line."
"It's more than that. She really enjoys doing it. Every time Mother says something horrid, Lottie just laughs and winks and goes about her business. I never thought I'd say it, Maggie, but I really believe this is going to work."
"Of course it's going to work." Maggie tossed a bit of muffin to the patiently hopeful Con. "Did you ask Murphy if he'd help move her bed and the other things she wants?"
"I didn't have to. Word's out that you've bought her a house near Ennis. I've had a dozen people drop by in the last two weeks, casuallike. Murphy already offered his back and his lorry."
"Then she'll be moved tidily in with Lottie before the next week is up. I've bought us a bottle of champagne, and we're going to drink ourselves drunk when it's done."
Brianna's lips twitched, but her voice was sober. "It's not something to celebrate."
&
nbsp; 'Then I'll just drop in, casual like," Maggie said with a sly grin. "With a bottle of bubbly under me arm."
Though Brianna smiled back, her heart wasn't in it. "Maggie, I tried to talk to her about her singing." She was sorry to see the light go out of her sister's eyes. "I thought I should."
"Of course you did." Losing her appetite for the muffin, Maggie tossed the rest to Con. "Did you have better luck than I?"
"No. She wouldn't talk to me, only got angry." It wasn't worth recounting the verbal blows punch by punch, Brianna thought. To do so would only serve to spread the unhappiness more thickly. "She went off to her room, but she took the clippings with her."
"Well, that's something. Perhaps they'll comfort her." Maggie jolted when the phone rang and scrambled out of her chair so quickly that Brianna gaped. "Hello. Oh, Eileen, is it?" The disappointment in her voice was unmistakable. "Yes, I've the photos you sent for the catalog. They look more than fine. Perhaps I should tell Mr. Sweeney myself that— oh, a meeting. No, that's all right, then, you can tell him I approved of them. You're welcome. Goodbye."
"You answered the phone," Brianna commented.
"Of course I did. It rang, didn't it?"
The waspish tone of her sister's voice had Brianna's brow arching. "Were you expecting a call?"
"No. Why would you think so?"
"Well, the way you went leaping up, like you were after snatching a child from in front of a car."
Oh, had she? Maggie thought. Had she done that? It was humiliating. "I don't like the damn thing ringing my ears off, that's all. I've got to get to work." With that as a fare-thee-well, she stalked out of the kitchen.
It didn't matter a tinker's damn to her whether he called or not, Maggie told herself. Maybe it had been three weeks since he'd gone back to Dublin, maybe she'd only spoken to him twice in all that time, but it hardly mattered to her. She was much too busy to be bothered chattering over the phone, or entertaining him if he came to see her. As he'd bloody well said he would, she added silently, and slammed the shop door behind her. She didn't need Rogan Sweeney's company, or anyone's. She had herself. Maggie picked up her pipe and went to work.
The Connellys' formal dining room would have reminded Maggie of a set she had seen on the glossy soap opera that had been on television the day her father died. Everything gleamed and sparkled and shone. Wine of the very best vintage glimmered gold in the crystal, shooting rainbows into the facets. Candles, slim and white, added to the elegance of light showered down from the five-tiered chandelier. The people surrounding the lace-decked table were every bit as polished as the room. Anne, in sapphire silk and her grandmother's diamonds, was the picture of the gracious hostess. Dennis, flushed from the good meal and better company, beamed at his daughter. Patricia looked particularly lovely, and as delicate as the pastel pink and creamy pearls she wore. Across from her, Rogan sipped at his wine and struggled to keep his mind from wandering west, toward Maggie.
"It's so nice to have a quiet family meal." Anne picked at the miserly portion of pheasant on her plate. The scale had warned her that she'd added two pounds in the last month, and that would never do. "I hope you're not disappointed I didn't invite a party, Rogan."
"Of course not. It's a pleasure, a rare one for me these days, to spend a quiet evening with friends."
"Exactly what I've been telling Dennis," Anne went on. "Why, we've hardly seen you in months. You work much too hard, Rogan."
"A man can't work too hard at something he loves," Dennis put in.
"Ah, you and your man's work." Anne laughed lightly and barely resisted kicking her husband smartly under the table. 'Too much business makes a man tense, I say. Especially if he has no wife to soothe him." Knowing just where this was leading, Patricia did her best to change the subject. "You had a wonderful success with Miss Concannon's showing, Rogan. And I've heard the American Indian art has been very well received."
"Yes, on both counts. The American art is moving to the Cork gallery this week, and Maggie's—Miss Concannon's—moves on to Paris shortly. She's finished some astonishing pieces this past month."
"I've seen a few of them. I believe Joseph covets the globe. The one with all the colors and shapes inside. It's quite fascinating really." Patricia folded her hands in her lap as the dessert course was served. "I wonder how it was done."
"As it happens, I was there when she made it." He remembered the heat, the bleeding colors, the siz zling sparks. "And I still can't explain it to you."
The look in his eyes put Anne on full alert. "Knowing too much about the artistic process can spoil the enjoyment, don't you think? I'm sure it's all routine to Miss Concannon, after all. Patricia, you haven't told us about your little project? How is the day school going?"
"It's coming along nicely, thank you."
"Imagine our little Patricia starting a school." Anne smiled indulgently.
Rogan realized with a guilty start that he hadn't asked Patricia about her pet project in weeks. "Have you found a location, then?"
"Yes, I have. It's a house off Mountjoy Square. The building will require some renovation, of course. I've hired an architect. The grounds are more than suitable, with plenty of space for play areas. I hope to have it ready for children by next spring."