She leaned closer, wrapping her fingers around his clasped hands. “I’m so sorry.”
He lifted his head, and Maggie could clearly see the pain and confusion clouding his midnight eyes. She held his gaze for a moment, hoping her sincerity shone through. He didn’t reach for her. His fingers remained tightly laced together, his elbows propped on his knees. Without warning he lunged, capturing her lips in a kiss so sweet tears blurred her eyes. She batted her lashes, feverishly trying to blink them back.
“I was so ugly to her the last time I—”
Maggie grimaced and leapt into the fray, anxious to head off his wayward self-recriminations. “No, Tom. No. You were so good to her. Everyone saw how good you were with her. Better than she was to you.” She covered his hands with one of hers and squeezed as hard as she could, hoping to instill that cold comfort through sheer force of will. “She loved you so much. She knew you loved her too.”
Tom stared at her hand, unblinking. He swallowed hard, bobbed his head in a slight nod, then cleared his throat. “I love you, Maggie.”
The declaration was made in the same low, steady voice that reminded her about her vitamins, prodded her into drinking her milk, and confessed to opening a second can of Seafood Selections. He didn’t stare deep into her eyes or sweep her feet from the worn tile floor. He simply laid his feelings out for her in clear, uncomplicated terms without fanfare, argument or even a hint of artifice.
“
Shh
,” she crooned and urged him into her embrace before he spotted the tears which filled her eyes.
****
He meant what he said. He loved Maggie McCann, and he told her so. So what if she simply shushed him and pulled him into her arms? It didn’t matter that she didn’t reciprocate. Actually, he preferred it that way. He didn’t want to hear it if she wasn’t feeling it.
He told himself it was enough that she held him tight until his uncle reappeared toting a plastic bag emblazoned with the hospital’s logo and with his mother’s purse and well-worn rosary inside. She went above and beyond, sitting quietly at his side holding his hand while he and George made arrangements, so she obviously had some feelings for him. Aside from whatever feelings she had about carrying his baby. At least, that’s what he told himself.
After all, she stuck by him, quick with a hug, a kiss, or a funny remark just when he needed it. For two days, she blockaded his mother’s front door, intercepting casseroles and putting her own unique spin on the messages the ladies from the Altar and Rosary Society left for him. And if she wasn’t always the most reliable messenger, she more than made up for her shortcomings in other ways.
“She did not say that,” he scoffed.
Maggie shrugged and smoothed the lapel of his jacket. “That’s how I heard it.”
“Mrs.
Kaminsky
, who was my third grade spelling teacher, by the way, did
not
say I have a fine ass.”
She sniffed and gave the skirt of her dress a tug. “Maybe she said she’d see us at the Mass.”
“Uh-huh.” He ran his hand over his tie, eying the crowd of elderly people milling near the entrance to the viewing room. His sister-in-law shepherded his youngest nephew into the room and pointed sternly to a chair. “Have you talked to Tracy?”
“We said hello.”
He grimaced. “I hate this.”
She trailed her fingers down his tie, stroking the silk gently. “I do, too. I hate it for you.”
He caught her hand. “All of it. Ma, the old ladies with their endless parade of cream of mushroom soup and potato chip casseroles….George looks so old…” He trailed off and her fingers tightened around his. He met her gaze directly. “You should talk to Tracy. She didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”
“She’s just good at that,” Sean muttered as he passed by.
Tom shot his brother a quelling look as Sean handed a Styrofoam cup of coffee to their uncle. “Yeah, well, maybe between the three of us we can talk some sense into her.” Turning his back on Sean, he glanced past Maggie’s shoulder as he brushed a kiss to her knuckles. “Go talk to her. I have to flirt with Mrs. McMahon.”
He released the gorgeous redhead he loved and took up with a tiny woman wearing a pale purple cardigan that matched the rinse on her stiff bouffant. The mingled scents of rosewater perfume and eau de funeral carnation made his eyes water. At least, he was blaming the flowers. He didn’t want to admit that the sight of Maggie and Tracy huddled together at the back of the room made him misty. He’d already admitted far too much.
Tom caught his brother staring at the women in their lives. He opened his mouth to hurl a smart remark, but Sean stiffened and took a staggering step back as if he’d been struck by bullets. Instantly protective, Tom’s head swiveled. That’s when he spotted his uncle escorting Daniel Sullivan toward the casket.
He stepped back, his shoulder brushing Sean’s arm in silent reminder of brotherly solidarity. Eyes glued to his father, he kept his mouth clamped shut. Daniel Sullivan was bent like a question mark, the hand gripping an ebony cane knobby and gnarled. It galled him to give the old man the satisfaction of his attention. After all, their father never bothered to give them his.
The sight of him hit Tom like a punch to the gut. Daniel was a portrait of Sean in another twenty-five years. Tom searched his father’s face for signs of himself but barely scrounged a strong resemblance. It hurt to see the man he loathed wearing Sean’s face. The son-of-a-bitch dared to have tears in his eyes when he peered into the gleaming coffin. A rush of protectiveness he hadn’t felt in thirty years drowned him, but his feet felt as if they were encased in cement.
The old man nodded a brief acknowledgement then slowly knelt in front of the coffin. Tom planted his feet wide, guarding his mother’s casket and protecting the little brother who towered over him from this frail stranger. George wedged himself between Sean and Tom and clamped their elbows in a vise-like grip.
“What’s he doing here?” Sean hissed.
His uncle shot them a glance. “He came to say goodbye.” When Tom opened his mouth to speak, George shook his head sternly. “Grow up, damn it. He came to say goodbye. Let him say goodbye, and be done with it.”
He watched as his father crossed himself then pressed his hands into the back of the kneeler, trying to leverage his weight off arthritic knees. He couldn’t stop himself. Years of training took hold, and he stepped forward to help the old man to his feet. It was a reflex. Hell, he’d done the same for a dozen others over the course of the evening.
Daniel straightened his suit coat. “Thank you.”
Two words. His father spoke two words to him after over thirty years of silence, and Tom felt disturbingly grateful. Masking his confusion with cool distance, he nodded.
“You’re welcome.” Chagrined, he struggled to keep his expression neutral as he stepped back and reclaimed his spot between his uncle and brother. “It was good of you to come.”
The old man nodded, his gaze flickering to Sean then traveling over the sea of floral arrangements flanking the casket before landing on Tom once again. “Of course. I’m, uh, I’m very sorry,” Daniel Sullivan murmured before walking away. Again.
****
That night, Tom and Maggie lay spooned in the ancient single bed in his boyhood bedroom. His breath stirred her hair, setting tame red tresses free from the somber restraint she forced on them. “You should have let me take you home.”
She stroked the hair on his arm. “I’m staying with you.”
“This bed’s too small. We’ll never get any sleep here.”
She shook her head and a few more curls frizzed to life. “No sense in going back into the city. The Mass is at ten.”
He ran his hand over the curve of her hip, allowed his fingertips to graze the bare skin of her thigh, and then gathered the hem of her t-shirt in his palm as he worked his way higher. His hand slid to the curve of her belly and pressed a soft kiss to her ear, smiling when she shivered. “Thank you,” he whispered, his voice thick and husky.
Maggie stretched like a cat, pressing every inch of her body against him. “For hogging your bed?”
“For being here with me.”
She covered his hand with hers, holding him snug as she turned her head. “She was our baby’s grandma.”
He couldn’t repress his sad smile. “Poor kid. Now he’s got no one.”
She shifted onto her back and gazed up at him solemnly. “
She’ll
have George and Sean and Tracy.”
He let the change of pronoun slide, happy to shift into the comforting routine of banter. “And
his
cousins,” he added with a nod. “That’s one of the costs of having kids late in life, huh? No grandparents left.”
She fell silent for a moment. “Well…”
The way she drew the word out made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He tightened his arm around her and shook his head slightly, hoping to divert, derail, or demolish the thought before she could articulate it. As usual, Maggie beat him to the punch.
“She
does
still have a grandfather.”
He shook his head more adamantly. “No. He
doesn’t
.”
“Tom—”
“Maggie, no.”
“But—”
“I have not laid eyes on that man since I was ten. No.” She turned her head, and he wagged his harder. “No, no, no.”
“But he came!”
“To her funeral,” Tom growled. “He came to her
funeral
. Where the hell was he when she needed him? Where was he when
I
needed him? Or Sean?” He rolled onto his back and nearly tumbled from the bed. The edge of the mattress cut into his shoulder blade. He planted one foot on the floor to keep from falling. “No,
Mags
, don’t make this more than it is—”
“He was so in love with her,” she whispered into the darkness.
“He had a funny way of showing it.”
Undeterred, she rushed on. “Oh, but he did. You should have seen his face when he walked through the door and saw her picture. It nearly broke my heart.”
“You have a soft heart.”
Maggie rolled onto her side and propped her head up on her hand, scooting to make more room for him. “He looks so much like Sean…When I looked into his eyes I saw Sean’s eyes.” Her voice caught, but she went on in a rush. “Sean still loves Tracy. Your dad still loved your mom. And my heart broke, Tom. My heart broke for all of them,” she whispered. “He missed so much. Not just the life he could have had with your mom, but you, Sean, Tracy and the kids…”
He turned to look at her. “He chose to leave, Maggie. He chose to leave, and he chose not to see us, and he chose nothing. He
chose
to be nothing to us,” he insisted. He exhaled, letting the air slither from his lungs on a hiss. “Now you know why Sean won’t leave Tracy, no matter what happens between them. He will
never
leave his kids.”
“No, of course not.”
Rolling to face her, he snaked his hand under her shirt again, seeking the warmth of her belly. A mixture of pride and stubbornness welled inside him when his fingers molded to the shape of her instantly, curving protectively over his child. His mouth thinned into a firm line. “And you’ll never get rid of me now. You know that, right?”
“I know.”
She nuzzled his nose. Her warm breath whispered across his lips. The hairs on his arm rippled with awareness. He kept his eyes wide open as she coaxed him into a soft kiss. Heat pulsed against his palm. He pulled his hand from her stomach, curling his fingers in an attempt to hang onto the warmth. “Do you?”
Maggie nodded. A smile curved her lips as she lowered her lashes and leaned in to kiss him again. He met her halfway, catching her soft, “I love you too,” and swallowing it whole.
Chapter Eighteen
How dare he sit there like that? How dare he look all…good? If she didn’t love him so damn much, she’d hate him. Lucky for him, she found it difficult to work up the rage necessary to eject him. Maggie wasn’t exactly sure how one went about dislodging a middle-aged man clad only in underwear and half glasses from her couch, but odds were she couldn’t bounce him without spilling the box of Cookie Crisp cereal propped against his hip.
Tom tossed a section of the Sunday
Chicago Tribune
aside and reached for the glass of juice on the end table. She bit back a sigh as long, lean muscle danced beneath smooth skin. It was her own damn fault he looked so good. How was she to know he’d take things so personally?