She felt like shouting her joy up to the stars. She wanted to run her fingers along the planes of his face, along the shiny length of his scars. She wanted to memorize every angle, every curve. She wanted to ease the pain inside his body and the pain inside his heart until there was room for nothing but joy.
Priscilla tugged at the leash, straining toward the warmth of the house.
“I don't want to go back inside,” Maddy said. “I could stay out here forever.”
Another kiss. He was a man of few words.
“Breakfast tomorrow,” he said. “Julie's at eight-thirty.”
“I have the radio interview in the afternoon.”
“I'll drive you.”
“What about O'Malley's? You have a bar to run.”
“Let Claire worry about it.”
She raised up on her toes and kissed him soundly. “Claire might have something to say about that.”
He said something wicked and very flattering, and she laughed despite herself. Priscilla threw back her head and started to yowl.
“You'd better get her inside,” Aidan said. “She's turning into a pupsicle.”
They had been outside for less than thirty minutes, and in that time everything had changed. They made their way up to the back door with Priscilla neatly tucked under Aidan's left arm. They held hands until they reached the porch landing, where, by unspoken consent, they reluctantly broke apart. They wanted to keep their secret just a little bit longer.
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THEY NEEDN'T HAVE bothered.
Rose registered the change in the atmosphere the second they strolled oh-so-casually into the kitchen. She had suspected an attraction between them during dinner, but the looks on their faces (and the stars in their eyes) as they shrugged out of their coats and dried Priscilla's paws were unmistakable.
And unless she missed her guess, wasn't that a smudge of Maddy's apricot lipstick at the left corner of Aidan's mouth?
She glanced toward Lucy, who was fixing herself a cup of decaf. Lucy's head was slightly turned away, but even at that angle, Rose could see a definite smile on her sister's face.
How self-consciously casual Maddy and Aidan were being. How sweetly obvious. And they hadn't a clue that their every gesture, every unreturned glance, every withheld sigh told the story in letters two feet high.
It brought it all rushing back to Rose. All of the wildly improbable dreams, the staggering highs and crushing lows, the feeling that you could spread your wings and fly because you loved and were loved in return.
She had never seen that look in her daughter's eyes before, not even when she was living with Tom and expecting their child. With Tom, Maddy had often looked unsure of herself, like a child wearing her mother's clothing. Like a visitor in her own home.
Maddy had always been a pretty woman, but her prettiness had been muted, as if she were afraid to let herself shine the way she was meant to. Ah, but tonight! Tonight she glowed with unmistakable happiness, the special beauty of a woman who was finally coming into her own.
Aidan O'Malley was a good man and a great father. Kelly was the kind of girl who made you believe there was hope for the future, and there was little doubt in Rose's mind that Aidan was mainly responsible. Yes, he was rough around the edges, and yes, he had cut a wide swath through the ladies of Paradise Point. There were those who might say Rose had her own rough edges . . . as well as an interesting past. But Aidan was kindhearted and loyal and fair, three attributes you rarely found in a man that good-looking.
Or one who had known as much heartache.
She studied his face from across the room. What did he see when he looked at Maddy? Did he see her fierce intelligence? Her quick temper? Her loneliness? Her devotion to Hannah? Did he have any idea how deeply she had been hurt when Tom ended their relationship or how long she grieved for what might have been?
If only she could sit him down at the kitchen table and tell him everything he needed to know to make her daughter happy.
Too bad she hadn't a clue.
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Good Samaritan Hospital
“I know it's late,” Kelly said to the nurse guarding Grandma Irene's room, “but I just have to see her.”
“Honey, it's not the time that's the problem. How much do you know about Mrs. O'Malley's condition?”
“I know she's in a coma,” Kelly said, “and I know her chances aren't good.”
“She probably won't even know you're here.”
“But she might. I did a lot of reading about comas, and some people hear everything that's going on around them.”
“I'll let you sit with her for a few minutes,” the nurse said, “but don't be disappointed when you don't get a response.”
Grandma Irene looked so small and frail that tears filled Kelly's eyes and she had to blink very fast in order to find her way to the chair next to the bed. The old woman's eyes were closed. Her lids were paper thin and crisscrossed with fine blue veins. An ugly purple bruise dominated her left cheek. She looked so terribly old, as if the slightest breeze would carry her away like fallen leaves.
Kelly glanced at the clock hanging over the bed. Seth was downstairs in the parking lot. He didn't like hospitals. She'd had to drag him in when his own sister had her first baby. She didn't want to keep him waiting forever out there.
“Grandma, it's Kelly. I don't know if you can hear me or not . . . I mean, I'm not sure if I'm just talking to myself, but there's something I really have to tell you. Remember that teapot you had in the lobby of the old O'Malley's? That fancy Russian one with all the curlicues on the spout? Well, you won't believe what I found on the Internet. . . .”
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THERE WAS SOMETHING unfathomable about Nicky's death, something so deeply unknowable that Irene was never truly able to make sense of it. The thought of her beloved son mowed down on some faraway beach, his blood staining the sand beneath him, blue eyes staring sightlessly up at the skyâit was more than her mother's heart could deal with.
The nightmares began soon after. The blood-soaked ground, the screams of terror. But it wasn't her son on a Normandy beach, it was his father, her Kolya, her love, on the frozen ground, blood spilling everywhere, his beautiful eyes staring up at the moonless sky.
Michael O'Malley grieved with Irene. He was a good man with a big heart, and he had loved Nicholas the same as he loved the child of his blood. He longed to gather Irene in his arms and weep with her, but she remained, as always, beyond his reach. How she wished things could be different. Michael's longing tore at her heart, but there was nothing she could do to change things. The deep and abiding love he deserved wasn't hers to give and never would be.
As the months after Nicky's death passed, and then the years, Michael began to fear she was going to leave him and that fear settled deep inside his heart and wouldn't be dislodged. He lavished her with time and attention, but still she remained locked away in her grief, so distant that her second son, Michael Jr., was all but invisible to her.
Michael continued to search for the key to her heart, the one thing he alone could give to her that nobody else on earth could. He was the one who kept her secrets, the only one who looked at her and saw Irina and not the woman she had become.
And that was when he found the samovar.
One of his suppliers told him about a bankruptcy sale being held up in Brooklyn, a fine old restaurant that hadn't been able to make the transition into the post- World War II economy. The owner had fled Russia during the Bolshevik uprising, barely escaping with his life. His restaurant had been an homage to the world he left behind, a world of opulence and privilege, of handsome soldiers in uniform and beautiful women in silk gowns, of jeweled Easter eggs and hot tea in tall glasses.
The samovar had been brought to New York from St. Petersburg in 1918, the year he and Irene married, an ornately decorated and exotic glorified teapot to join the collection of china teapots that were an O'Malley's trademark. He wanted to give her something that represented the home she had left behind, the family and way of life that had been torn from her in the most violent way imaginable.
He gave her the samovar at Christmastime in 1951, and
for the first time in many years Irene was moved to tears. Michael O'Malley had finally found the key to what remained of her heart, but she couldn't break out of her sorrow to tell him.
When Michael died four months later during the Hurricane of '52, Irene was left with profound grief and the terrible knowledge that he had died not knowing that she had finally learned to love him in her fashion.
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MADDY WOKE UP at 3:12 A.M. to the sound of Hannah's bare feet shuffling across the carpet.
“Hey, sweetie,” she said, switching on her bedside light. “What are you doing up?”
“My throat hurts.”
Maddy was instantly wide awake, her full maternal warning system shifting into gear. She reached out her arms. “Come here. Let me see.”
Hannah's skin was cool, thank God, but the slightest bit clammy. A faint sheen of perspiration glistened on her forehead and the palms of her tiny hands.
“Does your tummy hurt?” she asked, drawing the little girl into the bed with her.
“I don't know.”
“Do you feel like you have to throw up?”
“Sort of.” She leaned her head against Maddy's shoulder. “Maybe.”
“But nothing hurts?”
“My head.”
Could be the flu, Maddy thought, or maybe nothing more than the beginnings of a head cold. Still, it didn't hurt to be careful. She swung her legs out of the bed and tucked her little girl in among the fluffy pillows and lovely down comforters. Hannah was one of those lucky children who seemed immune to the various bugs that floated about schools and daycare centers. Knock on wood, Hannah had never experienced anything more than the occasional run-in with sniffles that quickly passed before the day was out.
There was no reason to be so anxious, Maddy scolded herself as she went in search of a thermometer. Absolutely no reason at all.
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“I THINK YOU'RE reading too much into a sore throat,” Rose said a few hours later as she started the morning coffee. “Keep her home from school, but don't cancel your breakfast with Aidan.”
“Your mother's right,” Aunt Lucy chimed in. “No reason you should miss your breakfast. We're here to watch Hannah.”
Maddy knew they meant well, but their advice grated on her nerves. “Hannah never gets sick,” she said for what felt like the tenth time in thirty minutes. “I think it's best if I stayed here and kept an eye on her.”
“Your decision, of course,” Rose said, pouring filtered water into the machine, “but it seems unnecessary to me.”
“I'm not surprised,” Maddy said.
Her mother turned away from the counter and faced her. “And what exactly does that statement mean?”
“It doesn't mean anything in particular.”
“I think it does.”
“Then tell me what you think it means.”
“I'd rather you tell me.”
“Who's on first?” Lucy murmured, then laughed in a vain attempt at defusing the situation before things went too far.
Neither woman acknowledged her comment.
“You weren't exactly June Cleaver,” Maddy pointed out. “I don't remember you ever staying home from work when I was sick.”
“You were a very healthy child.”
“What about when I had chicken pox?” Maddy asked. “Or the tonsillectomy? Where were you then, Rose? Out showing a four-bedroom with two full baths?”
“Employers weren't as understanding about childcare difficulties back then, Madelyn. If you had a job, you were expected to be there no matter what was going on in your personal life. It was a different world, but I always made sure you were with family if I couldn't be there with you.”
“Like when Hannah was born?”
She hadn't meant to say that, but the words had a life of their own and they exploded into the room with the force of a guided missile aimed straight at Rose's heart.
Rose, however, said nothing. She turned back to the coffeemaker and carefully measured freshly ground beans into the filter.
That was Maddy's cue to throw her hands in the air and storm out of the room, all adolescent anger and high dudgeon. But she didn't want to play that game anymore.
“Don't do this, Mom,” she said, hands gripping the edge of the kitchen table. “Don't turn away. Let's talk it through once and for all.”
She was only vaguely aware of Aunt Lucy's retreating footsteps as she slipped out the back door with Priscilla.
Rose remained silent.
“I want to know why,” she persisted, praying her voice wouldn't break under the weight of emotion. “I'm grown now. I can make myself understand why you did things the way you did them when I was a little girl, but I can't for the life of me figure out why you weren't there when Hannah was born.” She moved a step closer and willed Rose to turn around and face her. “I've come up with every possible reason, but not one of them is good enough to explain why you weren't there with me.” She couldn't bring herself to say the last few words.
When I needed you
. “Please tell me, Rose. I want to understand.”
Do you love me enough to turn around and tell me the truth?
But the moment for answers had come and gone.
“It's getting late,” Rose finally said. “If you're not going to breakfast, you'd better phone Aidan and let him know.”