Born in Shame
Page 74

“I’ve seen the doctor. Bloody swine. A couple more weeks, he says, and I’ll be right as rain. Couple more weeks,” she repeated, shutting her eyes. “I nearly murdered him on the spot.”
“No jury in the world—if they were women—would convict you. Here, come on, let’s get you on your feet. The floor’s cold.”
Too weak to argue, Maggie let herself be helped up and guided in toward the bed. “Not the bed. I don’t need the bed. I just want to sit a minute.”
“All right.” Shannon led her to a chair. “Want some tea?”
“Oh.” Desperately relieved the spell was over, Maggie let her head fall back and closed her eyes. “I would. If you could call on the phone there down to the kitchen and ask if they’d mind sending some up, and some toast. Dry. I’d be grateful.”
She sat still, while her system leveled off and the chill faded from her skin. “Well,” she said when Shannon replaced the receiver. “That was pleasant for both of us.”
“A lot worse for you.” Not quite sure Maggie should be left alone yet, Shannon sat on the edge of the bed.
“It was kind of you to help me through it. I appreciate it.”
“It didn’t sound that way when you were swearing at me.”
A grin twisted Maggie’s mouth. “I’ll apologize for that. I hate being . . .” She gestured. “Out of control of things.”
“Me, too. You know, I’ve only been drunk once in my whole life.”
“Once?” The smile turned into a sneer. “And you, Irish as the Rings of Kerry.”
“Nevertheless, while it had its liberating aspects, I found, on hindsight, that it was debilitating. I couldn’t quite hit the control button. And there was the added delight of being sick as a dog on the side of the road on the way home, and the wonder and glory of the morning after. So, I find it more practical to limit my intake.”
“One warms the soul, two warms the brain. Da always said that.”
“So he had his practical side as well.”
“A narrow one. You have his eyes.” She watched Shannon lower them and struggled against her own sense of loss and impatience. “I’m sorry you mind hearing it.”
And so, Shannon discovered, was she. “Both my mother and father had blue eyes. I remember asking her once where she thought I’d gotten my green ones. She looked so sad, for just an instant, then she smiled and said an angel gave them to me.”
“He’d have liked that. And he’d have been glad and grateful that she found a man like your father must have been, to love both of you.” She looked over as the tea was brought in. “There’s two cups,” she said when Shannon rose to go. “If you’d like to have one with me.”
“All right.”
“Would it bother you to tell me how they met—your parents?”
“No.” Shannon took her seat again and discovered it far from bothered her to tell the story. It warmed her. When Maggie burst into laughter at the idea of Colin knocking Amanda into the mud, Shannon joined her.
“I’d like to have met them,” Maggie said at length.
“I think they would have liked meeting you.” A little embarrassed by the sentiment, Shannon rose. “Listen, if you’d like to just kick back and rest, I can take a cab to the photographer.”
“I’m fine now. I’d like to go with you—and see Jack torture you the way he did me when Rogan put me through this last.”
“Thanks.”
“My pleasure. And . . .” She set the tray aside and rose. “I think I’d enjoy spending some time with you.”
“I think I’d enjoy that, too.” Shannon smiled. “I’ll wait for you downstairs.”
She loved Dublin. She loved the waterways, the bridges, the buildings, the crowds. And oh, she loved the shops. Though she was impatient to do more, see more, Shannon held herself back and indulged Maggie in an enormous midday meal.
Unlike her volatile sister, Shannon hadn’t found the photography shoot anything but a pleasant, interesting experience. When she’d pointed that out, Maggie had simply shuddered.
When they left the restaurant, Shannon calculated that they’d broken a record of being in each other’s company without harsh words or snide remarks.
She was soon to discover that she shared at least one trait with Maggie. The woman was a champion shopper—zipping from store to store, measuring, considering, and buying without all the wavering and wobbling that annoyed Shannon in many of her friends.
“No.” Maggie shook her head as Shannon held up a biscuit-colored sweater. “You need color, not neutrals.”
“I like it.” Pouting a little, Shannon turned toward a mirror, spreading the sweater up to her neck. “The material’s gorgeous.”
“It is, and the color makes you look like a week-old corpse.”
“Damn it.” With a half laugh Shannon folded the sweater again. “It does.”
“You want this one.” Maggie handed her one in mossy green. She stepped behind Shannon, narrowing her eyes at their reflections. “Definitely.”
“You’re right. I hate when you’re right.” She draped the sweater over her arm and fingered the sleeve of the blouse Maggie had over hers. “Are you buying that?”
“Why?”
“Because I’m having it if you’re not.”
“Well, I am.” Smug, Maggie gathered up her bags and went to pay for it.
“You’d probably have put it back if I hadn’t said I wanted it,” Shannon complained as they left the shop.
“No, but it certainly adds to the satisfaction of the purchase. There’s a cookery shop nearby. I want to pick up some things for Brie.”
“Fine.” Still sulking over the blouse, Shannon fell into step. “What’s that?”
“A music store,” Maggie said dryly when Shannon stopped to stare at a display window.
“I know that. What’s that?”
“A dulcimer. Hammer dulcimer.”
“It looks more like a piece of art than an instrument.”
“It’s both. That’s a lovely one, too. Murphy made one a few years back just as fine. A beautiful tone it had. His sister Maureen fell in love with it, and he gave it to her.”