Born in Shame (4 page)

“Mr. Sweeney is married to Margaret Mary Concannon, the oldest daughter of the late Thomas Concannon, of Clare County, Ireland.”

“Concannon.” Shannon closed her eyes until the need to shudder had passed. “I see.” When she opened her eyes again, they were bitterly amused. “I assume they hired you to find me. I find it odd that there would be an interest after all these years.”

“I was hired, initially, to find your mother, Ms. Bodine. I can tell you that my clients only learned of her, and your existence, last year. The investigation was initiated at that time. However, there was some difficulty in locating Amanda Dougherty. As you may know, she left
her home in New York suddenly and without giving her family indication of her destination.”

“I suppose she might not have known it, as she'd been tossed out of the house for being pregnant.” Pushing her coffee aside, Shannon folded her hands. “What do your clients want?”

“The primary goal was to contact your mother, and to let her know that Mr. Concannon's surviving children had discovered letters she had written to him, and with her permission, to make contact with you.”

“Surviving children. He's dead then.” She rubbed a hand to her temple. “Yes, you told me that already. He's dead. So are they all. Well, you found me, Mr. Hobbs, so your job's done. You can inform your clients that I've been contacted and have no interest in anything further.”

“Your sisters—”

Her eyes went cold. “I don't consider them my sisters.”

Hobbs merely inclined his head. “Mrs. Sweeney and Mrs. Thane may wish to contact you personally.”

“I can't stop them, can I? But you can forward the fact that I'm not interested in reunions with women I don't know. What happened between their father and my mother some twenty-eight years ago doesn't change the status quo. So—” She broke off, eyes sharpening again. “Margaret Mary Concannon, you said? The artist?”

“Yes, she is known for her glass work.”

“That's an understatement,” Shannon murmured. She'd been to one of M. M. Concannon's showings at Worldwide New York herself. And had been considering investing in a piece. The idea was almost laughable. “Well, that's amusing, isn't it? You can tell Margaret Mary Concannon and her sister—”

“Brianna. Brianna Concannon Thane. She runs a B
and B in Clare. You may have heard of her husband as well. He's a successful mystery writer.”

“Grayson Thane?” At Hobbs's nod, Shannon did nearly laugh. “They married well, it seems. Good for them. Tell them they can get on with their lives, as I intend to do.” She rose. “If there's nothing else, Mr. Hobbs?”

“I'm to ask if you'd like to have your mother's letters, and if so, if you would object to my clients making copies for themselves.”

“I don't want them. I don't want anything.” She bit back on a sudden spurt of venom, letting out a sigh as it drained. “What happened is no more their fault than mine. I don't know how they feel about all of this, Mr. Hobbs, and don't care to. If it's curiosity, misplaced guilt, a sense of family obligation, you can tell them to let it go.”

Hobbs rose as well. “From the time, effort, and money they've spent trying to find you, I'd say it was a combination of all three. And perhaps more. But I'll tell them.” He offered a hand, surprising Shannon into taking it. “If you have second thoughts, or any questions come to mind, you can reach me at the number on the card. I'll be flying back to New York tonight.”

His cool tone stung. She couldn't say why. “I have a right to my privacy.”

“You do.” He nodded. “I'll see myself out, Ms. Bodine. Thanks for the time, and the coffee.”

Damn him, was all she could think as he walked calmly out of her kitchen. Damn him for being so dispassionate, so subtly judgmental.

And damn them. Damn Thomas Concannon's daughters for searching her out, asking her to satisfy their curiosity. Offering to satisfy her own.

She didn't want them. Didn't need them. Let them
stay in Ireland with their cozy lives and brilliant husbands. She had her own life, and the pieces of it needed to be picked up quickly.

Wiping at tears she hadn't realized were falling, she stalked over and snatched up the phone book. She flipped through quickly, ran her finger down the page, then dialed.

“Yes, I have a house I need to sell. Immediately.”

 

A week later Shannon was back in New York. She'd priced the house to sell, and hoped it would do so quickly. The money certainly didn't matter. She'd discovered she was a rich woman. Death had given her nearly a half a million dollars in the investments her father had made over the years. Added to her earlier inheritance, she would never have to worry about something as trivial as money again.

She'd only had to become an orphan to earn it.

Still, she was enough Colin Bodine's daughter to know the house had to be sold, and that it would bring in considerable equity. Some of the furnishings she hadn't had the heart to sell or give away were in storage. Surely she could wait a little longer before deciding what to do with every vase and lamp.

Shannon had boxed only a few sentimental favorites to bring back with her to New York. Among them were all of the paintings she'd done for her parents over the years.

Those, she couldn't part with.

Though her supervisor had offered her the rest of the week off, she'd come back to work the day after returning from Columbus. She'd been certain it would help, that work was the answer she needed.

The new account needed to be dealt with. She'd hardly begun to work on it when she'd been called away.
She'd barely had two weeks to become used to her promotion, the new responsibilities and position.

She'd worked most of her adult life for that position, for those responsibilities. She was moving up the ladder now, at the brisk and steady pace she'd planned for herself. The corner office was hers, her week-at-a-glance was tidily filled with meetings and presentations. The CEO himself knew her name, respected her work, and, she knew, had an eye on her for bigger things.

It was everything she'd always wanted, needed, planned for.

How could she have known that nothing in her office seemed to matter. Nothing about it mattered in the least.

Not her drafting table, her tools. Not the major account she'd snagged on the very day she'd received the call from Columbus, and had been forced to turn over to an associate. It simply didn't matter. The promotion she'd broken her back to secure seemed so removed from her just then. Just as the life she'd led, with all its tidiness and careful planning, seemed to have belonged to someone else all along.

She found herself staring at the painting of her father sleeping in the garden. It was still propped against the wall rather than hung. For reasons she couldn't understand, she simply didn't want it in her office after all.

“Shannon?” The woman who poked her head in the door was attractive, dressed impeccably. Lily was her assistant, a casual friend among what Shannon was beginning to realize was a lifetime of casual friends. “I thought you might want a break.”

“I haven't been doing anything I need a break from.”

“Hey.” Lily stepped in, crossing over to her desk to give Shannon's shoulders a brisk rub. “Give yourself a little time. You've only been back a few days.”

“I shouldn't have bothered.” In an irritable move she pushed back from the desk. “I'm not producing anything.”

“You're going through a rough patch.”

“Yeah.”

“Why don't I cancel your afternoon meetings?”

“I have to get back to work sometime.” She stared out the window, at the view of New York she'd dreamed would one day be hers. “But cancel the lunch with Tod. I'm not in the mood to be social.”

Lily pursed her lips and made a note of it. “Trouble in paradise?”

“Let's just say I'm thinking that relationship isn't productive, either—and there's too much backlog for lunch dates.”

“Your call.”

“Yes, it is.” Shannon turned back. “I haven't really thanked you for handling so much of my work while I was gone. I've looked some things over and wanted to tell you that you did a terrific job.”

“That's what they pay me for.” Lily flipped a page in her book. “The Mincko job needs some finishing touches, and nothing's satisfied the suits at Rightway. Tilghmanton thinks you can. He sent down a memo this morning asking you to look over the drafts and come up with something new—by the end of the week.”

“Good.” She nodded and pushed up to her desk again. “A challenge like that might be just what I need. Let's see Rightway first, Lily. You can fill me in on Mincko later.”

“You got it.” Lily headed for the door. “Oh, I should tell you. Rightway wants something traditional, but different, subtle, but bold, sexy but restrained.”

“Of course they do. I'll get my magic wand out of my briefcase.”

“Good to have you back, Shannon.”

When the door closed, Shannon let out a deep breath. It was good to be back, wasn't it.

It had to be.

 

Rain was pelting the streets. After a miserable ten-hour day that had concluded in a showdown with a man she'd tried to convince herself she'd been in love with, Shannon watched it from the cab window on the way back to her apartment.

Maybe she'd been right to go back to work so quickly. The routine, the demands and concentration had helped shake some of the grief. At least temporarily. She needed routine, she reminded herself. She needed the outrageous schedule that had earned her her position at Ry-Tilghmanton.

Her job, the career she'd carved out, was all she had now. There wasn't even the illusion of a satisfying relationship to fill a corner of her life.

But she'd been right to break things off with Tod. They'd been no more than attractive props for each other. And life, she'd just discovered, was too short for foolish choices.

She paid off the cab at the corner, dashed toward her building with a quick smile for the doorman. Out of habit she picked up her mail, flipping through the envelopes as she rode the elevator to her floor.

The one from Ireland stopped her cold.

On an oath she shoved it to the bottom, unlocking her door, tossing all the mail on a table. Though her heart was thudding, she followed ingrained habit. She hung her coat, slipped out of her shoes, poured herself her usual glass of wine. When she was seated at the little table by the window that looked out over Madison Avenue, she settled down to read her mail.

It took only moments before she gave in and tore open the letter from Brianna Concannon Thane.

Dear Shannon,

I'm so terribly sorry about your mother's death. You'll be grieving still, and I doubt if any words I have will ease your heart. From the letters she wrote to my father, I know she was a loving and special woman, and I'm sorry I never had the chance to meet her, and tell her for myself.

You've met with Rogan's man, Mr. Hobbs. From his report I understand that you were aware of the relationship between your mother and my father. I think this might cause you some hurt, and I'm sorry for it. I also think you may not appreciate hearing from me. But I had to write to you, at least once.

Your father, your mother's husband, surely loved you very much. I don't wish to interfere with those emotions or those memories, which I'm sure are precious to you. I wish only to offer you a chance to know this other part of your family, and your heritage. My father was not a simple man, but he was a good one, and never did he forget your mother. I found her letters to him long after his death, still wrapped in the ribbon he'd tied around them.

I'd like to share him with you, or if that isn't what you want, to offer you a chance to see the Ireland where you were conceived. If you could find it in your heart, I would very much like you to come and stay with me and mine awhile. If nothing else, the countryside here is a good place for easing grief.

You owe me nothing, Shannon. And perhaps you think I owe you nothing as well. But if you loved your mother, as I did my father, you know we owe them. Perhaps by becoming friends, if not sisters, we'll have
given them back something of what they gave up for us.

The invitation is open. If ever you wish to come, you'll be welcome.

Yours truly,
Brianna

 

Shannon read it twice. Then, when she had tossed it aside, picked it up and read it again. Was the woman really so simple, so unselfish, so willing to open heart and home?

She didn't want Brianna's heart, or her home, Shannon told herself.

And yet. And yet . . . Was she going to deny even to herself that she'd been considering just this? A trip to Ireland. A look into the past. She toyed with the idea of going over without contacting any of the Concannons.

Because she was afraid? she wondered. Yes, maybe, because she was afraid. But also because she didn't want any pressure, any questions, any demands.

The woman who had written the letter had promised none of those. And had offered a great deal more.

Maybe I'll take her up on it, Shannon thought.

And maybe I won't.

Chapter
Four

“I don't know why you're fussing so much,” Maggie complained. “You'd think you were preparing for royalty.”

“I want her to be comfortable.” Brianna centered the vase of tulips on the dresser, changed her mind, and took it to the flute-edged table by the window. “She's coming all this way to meet us. I want her to feel at home.”

“As far as I can see, you've cleaned the place from top to bottom twice, brought in enough flowers for five weddings, and baked so many cakes and tarts it would take an army to eat them all.” As she spoke, Maggie walked
over, twitching the lace curtain aside and staring out over the hills. “You're setting yourself up for a disappointment, Brie.”

“And you're determined to get no pleasure out of her coming.”

“Her letter accepting your invitation wasn't filled with excitement and pleasure, was it now?”

Brianna stopped fluffing bed pillows she'd already fluffed and studied her sister's rigid back. “She's the odd one out, Maggie. We've always had each other, and will still when she's gone again. Added to that she lost her mother not a month ago. I wouldn't have expected some flowery response. I'm happy enough she's decided to come at all.”

“She told Rogan's man she didn't want anything to do with us.”

“Ah, and you've never in your life said something you reconsidered later.”

That brought a smile tugging at Maggie's lips. “Not that I can recall, at the moment.” When she turned back, the smile remained. “How much time do we have before we pick her up at the airport?”

“A bit. I need to nurse Kayla first, and I want to change.” She blew out a breath at Maggie's expression. “I'm not going to meet the sister I've not yet set eyes on in my apron and dusty pants.”

“Well, I'm not changing.” Maggie shrugged her shoulders inside the oversized cotton shirt she'd tucked into old jeans.

“Suit yourself,” Brianna said lightly as she started out of the room. “But you might want to comb that rat's nest on your head.”

Though Maggie curled her lip, she took a glance at herself in the mirror above the dresser. An apt
description, she thought with some amusement as she noted her bright red curls were snarled and tousled.

“I've been working,” she called out, quickening her pace to catch up with Brianna at the bottom of the steps. “My pipes don't care if my hair's tidy or not. It's not like I have to see people day and night like you do.”

“And it's grateful those people are that you don't. Fix yourself a bit of a sandwich or something, Margaret Mary,” she added as she breezed into the kitchen. “You're looking peaked.”

“I am not.” Grumbling but hungry, Maggie headed for the bread drawer. “I'm looking pregnant.”

Brianna froze in midstride. “What? Oh, Maggie.”

“And it's your fault if I am,” Maggie muttered, brows knitted as she sliced through the fresh brown bread.

Laughing, Brianna swung over to give her sister a hard hug. “Well, now, that's an intriguing statement, and one I'm sure medical authorities worldwide would be interested in.”

Maggie tilted her head, and there was humor in her eyes. “Who just had a baby, I ask you? And who had me holding that beautiful little girl barely minutes after she was born so that I went a bit crazy in the head?”

“You're not upset, really, that you might be having another baby?” Brianna stepped back, worrying her lip. “Rogan's pleased, isn't he?”

“I haven't told him yet. I'm a ways from being sure. But I feel it.” Instinctively she pressed a hand to her stomach. “And no, I'm not upset, I'm only teasing you. I'm hoping.” She gave Brianna a quick pat on the cheek and went back to her sandwich building. “I was queasy this morning.”

“Oh.” Tears sprang to Brianna's eyes. “That's wonderful.”

With a grunt Maggie went to the refrigerator. “I'm
just loony enough to agree with you. Don't say anything yet, even to Gray, until I'm sure of it.”

“I won't—if you'll have that sandwich sitting down and drink some tea with it.”

“Not a bad deal. Go on, feed my niece, change your clothes, or we'll be late to the airport picking up the queen.”

Brianna started to snap back, drew a deep breath instead, and slipped through the door that adjoined her rooms with the kitchen.

Those rooms had been expanded since her marriage the year before. The second floor of the main house, and the converted attic, were for the guests who came and went in Blackthorn Cottage. But here, off the kitchen, was for family.

The little parlor and bedroom had been enough when it had only been Brianna. Now a second bedroom, a bright, sunwashed nursery had been added on, with its wide double windows facing the hills and overlooking the young flowering almond Murphy had planted for her on the day Kayla was born.

Above the crib, catching pretty glints of sunlight, was the mobile, the glass menagerie Maggie had made, with its unicorns and winged horses and mermaids. Beneath the dance, staring up at the lights and movements, the baby stirred.

“There's my love,” Brianna murmured. And the rush still came, the flood of emotions and wonder. Her child. At last, her child. “Are you watching the lights, darling? So pretty they are, and so clever is your aunt Maggie.”

She gathered Kayla up, drawing in the scent, absorbing the feel of baby. “You're going to meet another aunt today. Your aunt Shannon from America. Won't that be grand?”

With the baby curled in one arm, Brianna unbuttoned
her blouse as she settled in the rocker. She glanced once at the ceiling, smiling, knowing Gray was above in his studio. Writing, she thought, of murder and mayhem.

“There you are,” she cooed, thrilling as Kayla's mouth rooted, then suckled at her breast. “And when you're all fed and changed, you'll be good for your da while I'm gone, just a little while. You've grown so already. It's only a month, you know. A month today.”

Gray watched them from the doorway, overwhelmed and humbled. No one could have told him, no one could have explained how it would feel to see his wife, his child. To have a wife and child. Kayla's fist rested on the curve of her mother's breast, ivory against ivory. The sun played gently on their hair, nearly identical shade for shade. They watched each other, linked in a way he could only imagine.

Then Brianna glanced up, smiled. “I thought you were working.”

“I heard you on the intercom.” He gestured to the small monitor. He'd insisted they put them throughout the house. He crossed to them, crouched beside the rocker. “My ladies are so beautiful.”

With a light laugh Brianna leaned forward. “Kiss me, Grayson.”

He did, lingering over it, then shifted to brush his lips over Kayla's head. “She's hungry.”

“Has her father's appetite.” Which turned her thoughts to more practical matters. “I left you some cold meat, and the bread's fresh this morning. If there's time, I'll fix you something before I go.”

“Don't worry about it. And if any of the guests come back from their ramblings before you do, I'll put out the scones and make tea.”

“You're becoming a fine hotelier, Grayson. Still, I don't want you to interrupt your work.”

“The work's going fine.”

“I can tell that. You're not scowling, and I haven't heard you pacing the floor upstairs for days.”

“There's a murder-suicide,” he said with a wink. “Or what appears to be. It's cheered me up.” Idly he traced a finger over her breast, just above his daughter's head. Since his eyes were on Brianna's he had the satisfaction of seeing the quick jolt of pleasure reflected in her eyes. “When I make love with you again, Brianna, it's going to be like the first time.”

She let out an unsteady breath. “I don't think it's fair to seduce me when I'm nursing our daughter.”

“It's fair to seduce you anytime.” He held up his hand, letting the sunlight glint off the gold of his wedding ring. “We're married.”

“Put your glands on hold, Grayson Thane,” Maggie called out from the next room. “We've less than twenty minutes before we have to leave for the airport.”

“Spoilsport,” he muttered, but grinned as he rose. “I suppose I'll have two of your sisters hounding me now.”

 

But Gray was the last thing on Shannon's mind. She could see Ireland below from the window of the plane, the green of its fields, the black of its cliffs. It was beautiful, awesomely so, and oddly familiar.

She was already wishing she hadn't come.

No turning back, she reminded herself. Foolish to even consider it. It might have been true that she'd made the decision to come on impulse, influenced by the drag of her own guilt and grief, and the simple understanding in Brianna's letter. But she'd followed the impulse through, taking a leave of absence from her job, closing up her apartment, and boarding a plane for a three-thousand mile journey that was minutes away from being complete.

She'd stopped asking herself what she expected to find, or what she wanted to accomplish. She didn't have the answers. All she knew was that she'd needed to come. To see, perhaps, what her mother had once seen. The doubts plagued her—worry that she was being disloyal to the only father she'd ever known, fears that she would suddenly find herself surrounded by relatives she had no desire to acknowledge.

With a shake of her head, she took her compact from her purse. She'd been clear enough in her letter, Shannon reminded herself as she tried to freshen her makeup. She'd edited and revised the text three times before she'd been satisfied enough to mail a response to Brianna. It had been polite, slightly cool, and unemotional.

And that was exactly how she intended to go on.

She tried not to wince when the wheels touched down. There was still time, she assured herself, to work on her composure. Years of traveling with her parents had made her familiar with the routine of disembarking, customs, passports. She moved through it on automatic while she calmed her mind.

Confident now, assured that she once again felt slightly aloof to the circumstances, she joined the crowd moving toward the main terminal.

She didn't expect the jolt of recognition. The absolute certainty that the two women waiting with all the others were the Concannons. She could have told herself it was the coloring, the clear creamy skin, the green eyes, the red hair. They shared some features, though the taller of the two had a softer look, and her hair was more gold while the other was pure flame.

But it wasn't the coloring, or the family resemblance that had her zeroing in on only two when there were so many people weeping and laughing and hurrying to
embrace. It was a deep visceral knowledge that was surprisingly painful.

She had only an instant to sum them up, the taller, neat as a pin in a simple blue dress, the other oddly chic in a baggy shirt and tattered jeans. And she saw her recognition returned, with a glowing smile by one, a cool, measured stare by the other.

“Shannon. Shannon Bodine.” Without hesitation or plan, Brianna hurried forward and kissed Shannon lightly on the cheek. “Welcome to Ireland. I'm Brianna.”

“How do you do?” Shannon was grateful her hands were gripped on the luggage cart. But Brianna was already neatly brushing her aside to take the cart herself.

“This is Maggie. We're so glad you've come.”

“You'll want to get out of the crowd, I imagine.” Reserving judgment on the aloof woman in the expensive slacks and jacket, Maggie inclined her head. “It's a long trip across the water.”

“I'm used to traveling.”

“It's always exciting, isn't it?” Though her nerves were jumping, Brianna talked easily as she pushed the cart. “Maggie's done a great deal more than I have of seeing places. Every time I get on a plane I feel as though I'm someone else. Was it a pleasant trip for you?”

“It was quiet.”

A little desperate now as it seemed she would never draw more than one short declarative sentence from Shannon at a time, Brianna began to talk of the weather—it was fine—and the length of the trip to the cottage—mercifully short. On either side of her Shannon and Maggie eyed each other with mutual distrust.

“We'll have a meal for you,” Brianna went on as they loaded Shannon's luggage in the car. “Or you can rest a bit first if you're tired.”

“I don't want to put you to any trouble,” Shannon said, so definitely that Maggie snorted.

“Going to trouble is what Brie does best. You'll take the front,” she added coolly. “As the guest.”

Quite the bitch, Shannon decided, and jerked up her chin, much as Maggie had a habit of doing, as she slid into the passenger seat.

Brianna set her teeth. She was used, much too used to family discord. But it still hurt. “You've never been to Ireland, then, Shannon?”