“I didn’t tell you because it turned out to be no great matter. She was outside, went out on her own while I was upstairs tidying rooms. Lost her footing, it seems. She bruised her hip, jarred her shoulder.”
“You called Dr. Hogan?”
“Of course I did. He said there was nothing to worry about. She’d lost her balance was all. And if she got more exercise, ate better and all the rest, she’d be stronger.”
“Who didn’t know that?” Damn the woman, Maggie thought. And damn the constant and incessant guilt that lived in her own heart. “And it’s back to bed she went, I’ll wager. And has stayed there ever since.”
Brianna’s lips twitched into a wry smile. “I haven’t been able to budge her. She claims she has an inner-ear deficiency and wants to go into Cork to a specialist.”
“Hah!” Maggie tossed back her head and glared at the sky. “It’s typical. Never have I known anyone with more complaints than Maeve Concannon. And she’s got you on a string, my girl.” She jabbed a finger at Brianna.
“I won’t deny it, but I haven’t the heart to cut it.”
“I do.” Maggie stood, brushed at her knees. “The answer’s money, Brie. It’s what she’s always wanted. God knows she made his life a misery because he couldn’t hang on to it.” In a gesture of protection, Maggie laid a hand on her father’s headstone.
“That’s true, and he made hers a misery as well. Two people less suited I’ve never seen. Marriages aren’t always made in heaven, or in hell. Sometimes they’re just stuck in purgatory.”
“And sometimes people are too foolish or too righteous to walk away.” The hand on the headstone stroked once, then dropped away. “I prefer fools to martyrs. Put the money by, Brie. There’ll be more coming soon. I’ll see to that in Dublin.”
“Will you see her before you go?”
“I will,” Maggie said grimly.
“I think you’ll enjoy her.” Rogan dipped into the clotted cream for his scone and smiled at his grandmother. “She’s an interesting woman.”
“Interesting.” Christine Rogan Sweeney lifted one sharp white brow. She knew her grandson well, could interpret every nuance of tone and expression. On the subject of Maggie Concannon, however, he was cryptic. “In what way?”
He wasn’t sure of that himself and stalled for time by stirring his tea. “She’s a brilliant artist; her vision is extraordinary. Yet she lives alone in a little cottage in Clare, and the decor is anything but aesthetically unique. She’s passionate about her work, but reluctant to show it. She’s by turns charming and rude—and both seem to be true to her nature.”
“A contradictory woman.”
“Very.” He settled back, a man completely content in the gracious parlor, Sèvres cup in his hand, and his head resting against the brocade cushion of a Queen Anne chair. A fire burned quietly in the grate. The flowers and the scones were fresh.
He enjoyed these occasional teas with his grandmother as much as she did. The peace and order of her home were soothing, as was she with her perpetual dignity and softly faded beauty.
He knew she was seventy-three and took personal pride in the fact that she looked ten years younger. Her skin was pale as alabaster. Lined, yes, but the marks of age only added to the serenity of her face. Her eyes were brilliantly blue, her hair as soft and white as a first snowfall.
She had a sharp mind, unquestionable taste, a generous heart and a dry, sometimes biting wit. She was, as Rogan had often told her, his ideal woman.
It was a sentiment that flattered Christine as much as it concerned her.
He had failed her in only one way. That was to find a personal contentment that equalled his professional one.
“How are preparations for the show going?” she asked.
“Very well. It would be easier if our artist of the moment answered her damn phone.” He brushed that irritation away. “The pieces that have been shipped in are wonderful. You’ll have to come by the gallery and see for yourself.”
“I may do that.” But she was more interested in the artist than in the art. “Did you say she was a young woman?”
“Hmmm?”
“Maggie Concannon. Did you mention she was young?”
“Oh, middle twenties, I’d expect. Young, certainly, for the scope of her work.”
Lord, it was like drawing teeth. “And flashy would you say? Like—what was her name—Miranda Whitfield-Fry, the one who did metal sculpture and wore all the heavy jewelry and colored scarves?”
“She’s nothing like Miranda.” Thank Christ. He remembered with a shudder how relentlessly, and embarrassingly, the woman had pursued him. “Maggie’s more the boots and cotton shirt type. Her hair looks like she had a whack at it with kitchen shears.”
“Unattractive then.”
“No, very attractive—but in an unusual sense.”
“Mannish?”
“No.” He recalled, uncomfortably, the vicious sexual tug, the sensual scent of her, the feel of that quick, involuntary tremble under his hand. “Far from it.”
Ah. Christine thought. She would definitely make time to meet the woman who put that scowl on Rogan’s face. “She intrigues you.”
“Certainly, I wouldn’t have signed her otherwise.” He caught Christine’s look and raised a brow in an identical manner. “It’s business, Grandmother. Just business.”
“Of course.” Smiling to herself, she poured him more tea. “Tell me what else you’ve been up to.”
Rogan arrived at the gallery at eight A.M. the next morning. He’d enjoyed an evening at the theater, and a late supper with a sometimes companion. As always, he’d found Patricia charming and delightful. The widow of an old friend, she was, to his mind, more of a distant cousin than a date. They’d discussed the Eugene O’Neill play over salmon and champagne and had parted with a platonic kiss at just after midnight.
And he hadn’t slept a wink.
It hadn’t been Patricia’s light laugh or her subtle perfume that had kept him tossing.
Maggie Concannon, he thought. Naturally the woman was in the forefront of his mind, since most of his time and effort was focused on her upcoming show. It was hardly any wonder that he was thinking of her—particularly since it was all but impossible to speak to her.