Nell (21 page)

He wondered if she would recognize him and what would happen then. Pride wanted her to see him as he was, a man of position who'd come from nothing. Practically speaking, it would be a disaster. He was Francis Maguire, alias Danny Browne, an escaped felon wanted for murder. Reason told him she would have no choice but to report him to the authorities. But something else, a sixth sense perhaps and more than a hint of personal experience, reminded him that Jillian Fitzgerald had not always behaved predictably.

Once, long ago, she'd lied for him, braved her father's wrath to take his side and kiss his mouth. Could a person change so much in twenty years? Across the table, his eyes met the cool, level ones of Avery Graham's widow, and his chest tightened. She was beautiful and polite and nothing at all like the girl he remembered. Nodding briefly, he opened his notebook. “Shall we begin?” he asked.

They met much later, by accident, coming out of the facilities. Danny would have passed by with the barest of acknowledgments, but Jillian stopped him with her words.

“How is Colette?”

“Well, thank you.”

“Is the surgery still scheduled for Thursday?”

Danny ran his fingers through his hair impatiently. Fancy her remembering that. “It is.”

“Will you be there?”

“Of course, Mrs. Graham. She is my wife, after all.” His scornful look was meant to wither, but she disregarded it completely.

Jillian kept her eyes on his face. He was making this harder by being difficult. She'd hoped, after this morning when she agreed with nearly every point of his position, that she would see something close to approval in his eyes. “I promised her I'd be there. Do you mind?”

“Why should I? It's Colette's surgery. She can invite the whole bloody world for all I care.”

“Thank you,” Jillian said formally, and moved away, more shaken than she appeared. Why hadn't he recognized her? Had she changed so much that there was nothing left of the Jilly Fitzgerald he'd known? Or perhaps it was something altogether different. Perhaps she had never meant as much to him as he had to her.

Driving home to Avery's town house on Lisburn Road that evening, she couldn't help wondering about the relationship between Frankie and Colette. They appeared to be an odd match, the woman old and used up before her time, Frankie fit, youthful, handsome enough for the cinema. How had they met, she wondered, and what was Colette like before the handicap had sapped her looks and energy?

She turned into the garage, gathered her briefcase, and fumbled for her keys in case Mrs. Wilson, her housekeeper, had stepped out. To her relief, the door opened before she turned the lock, and the smell of roasting meat wafted to her nose.

“Welcome home, Mrs. Graham.” Jane Wilson relieved Jillian of her case and ushered her inside. “I've a good meal cooking,” the woman said. “Would you care for tea or something stronger?”

“I've a long night ahead,” answered Jillian. “Tea will be fine.”

“I hope your day was a pleasant one.”

Jillian walked wearily up the stairs. “It was certainly interesting. Has Casey arrived yet?”

“She called earlier. You're not to wait up. She may drive up in the morning rather than take a chance on the weather tonight.”

Jillian's brow wrinkled. The sky was perfectly clear, and Casey had a reliable automobile. It wasn't like her to worry about the weather. “Did she say anything else?”

“No, Mrs. Graham, but she did sound a bit preoccupied. Very unlike Casey, if you know what I mean.”

What could Casey be up to? Jillian considered the possibilities. Was she seeing someone? And if she was, why wouldn't she say so? More than likely, Avery was responsible. He had been a loving and proud father but not particularly receptive to any of the young men his daughter brought home. His attitude had given Jillian considerable worry. She was determined that Casey would live a normal life, which included, among other things, a husband and children.

Smoothing the lines from her forehead, she walked into the bathroom. Casey was twenty years old, nearly an adult. There was no reason she couldn't stay overnight in the country.

Slipping off her shoes, Jillian turned on the tap and watched the tub fill. After discarding her clothes in a heap on the floor, she poured bath salts under the flow, watched them foam, and stepped in, sinking down until the water reached her chin. The day had been informative but exhausting. There was so much she didn't know about politics. History was her specialty, Tudor history specifically. Except for what she read in the news, she had little knowledge of Irish politics after the sixteenth century.

Frankie Maguire certainly knew his history, as did David Temple. The two were well matched in intellect, although Temple was university-educated and Frankie was— She frowned. Frankie's background after he'd left Kilvara was another subject she knew little about. She would take care of that lapse tonight and tomorrow. Out of consideration for Colette's surgery, and to bring herself up to date on the issues, Jillian had requested and been unanimously granted a recess until the following Monday.

Without looking in the mirror, Jillian pulled on leggings and a sweater before twisting her hair back into a knot at the back of her head. A knock sounded at the door. Jillian opened it and stepped back to allow Mrs. Wilson to bring in her dinner tray.

“Don't stay up too late, Mrs. Graham,” the older woman cautioned her, taking in the delicate shadows beneath her eyes. “Nothing stays in a mind that isn't well rested.”

Jillian smiled. Jane Wilson, a lifelong employee of the Fitzgeralds, had been admonishing her for years. “Are you telling me I'm not in my best looks, Mrs. Wilson?” she teased.

“Of course not,” the woman protested. It would take a great deal more than lack of sleep to diminish Jillian's beauty. The severe styles she chose would have rendered a less classically lovely woman unfit to be seen outside the bedroom. The sleek do she preferred emphasized the purity of her jaw, the sharp, clean edge of her cheekbones, and the symmetry of her features. Not that she would have voiced her thoughts. Jillian had never been one to appreciate her own appearance or anyone else who made too much of it. “Ring if you need something,” Mrs. Wilson said before exiting the room. “I'll be watching the telly in my suite.”

After carrying her food to the table, Jillian arranged her papers, sat down on the couch in front of a crackling fire, and began to read. Four hours later, she stared into the glowing embers of the dying fire and cursed the Labour Party leader, Thomas Putnam, and the ignorance of a country whose educators and leaders believed that by leaving out the entire perspective of nearly fifty percent of the population, the “Catholic problem” would simply fade away.

There was no possible solution to the political nightmare in Northern Ireland that would appear reasonable to loyalists and equitable for nationalists. The horrific part of it was that she was now committed. Her face was on the front page of every newspaper in the western world, and the marching season, that orange-sashed, bowler-hatted, swaggering mentality that was no longer accepted anywhere in the United Kingdom outside Ulster, was a mere three weeks away. God help her. She alone had the power to order the marches stopped, if only someone would listen to her.

Frankie was in his wife's room, holding her hand, when Jillian arrived at the Royal Victoria the morning of Colette's surgery. Their heads were very close, and they were speaking softly to each other. The tenderness on Frankie's face and the unreserved love on Colette's raised a lump in Jillian's throat, and she turned away toward the waiting room, leaving them alone in their shared grief. Ashamed of her speculation about their relationship the night before, she wondered, not for the first time, if she hadn't thrown away something very precious in her arrangement with Avery.

The waiting room was empty except for a small dark-haired boy. From behind the station window, a nurse attempted to reason with him. “Your da will be back soon, and he'll take you. I can't leave my position.”

Jillian sat down and reached for a magazine, flipping through the pages disinterestedly. The child became more and more restless as the minutes passed, squirming in his seat, walking back and forth from the nurse's station to the hall, where he would stare down the long corridor before coming back and leaning dejectedly against the chair.

She abandoned her magazine and summoned a smile. He couldn't be more than five. “Hello,” she said softly.

He stared at her with round blue eyes. “Hello,” he returned.

“My name is Jilly. What's yours?”

“Connor.”

“Are you waiting for someone, Connor?”

“My da,” the child confided. “He's with my mother. I'm not allowed to go in. But it's been a long time.”

“I see.” Jillian appeared to think. “I'm waiting for someone, too. Perhaps we can wait together.”

The lad brightened and came closer. “I've got t' go to the loo,” he said in a loud whisper, “but it's far away, and there's no one t' take me.”

This she could do. Jillian stood and held out her hand. “I'll take you.”

Gratefully, Connor slipped his hand into her larger one. A thought occurred to him. “I don't know where it is,” he said.

Jillian swallowed a chuckle. “We'll find it.”

Her confident manner appeased the child, and he followed her trustingly to the door.

The nurse stuck her head out the window. “What shall I tell his father when he comes back for him?”

Jillian brushed back a strand of hair that had fallen across her forehead. “Tell him that Jillian Graham took his son to the loo.”

The nurse blinked in surprise. Mrs. Graham was a frequent visitor to the Royal Victoria, but she had never seen her in leggings and an oversized shirt with her hair scraped back from her face, secured with an elastic band.

Jillian waited outside the men's room for Connor. Within minutes, he came through the door, a look of relief on his face. “Did you wash your hands?” she asked.

Nodding, he held them up for her inspection. Jillian knelt down to examine them and smiled her approval. “There's a vending machine in the corner,” she said. “Would you like some chocolate?”

“Aye, but it takes thirty pence, and I haven't any.”

“I'll take care of that,” Jillian said, reaching into her bag for her coin purse to remove two coins.

Connor was sipping the steaming chocolate and maintaining a steady flow of conversation when his father came back to claim him.

Frankie stopped short when he saw the woman beside his son. He'd forgotten all about Jillian's request to be present during Colette's surgery until they'd wheeled his wife through the double doors to the operating room. That she was actually there when he was sure he had discouraged her both surprised and annoyed him. “You're a bit late, aren't you? They've already taken her in.”

Swift anger colored Jillian's cheeks, but she answered him coolly. “Actually, I'm not. I arrived earlier, but it looked as if I would be intruding.” She tousled the hair on Connor's head. “Then I found him and decided I was needed here.”

Frankie flushed at the implication he had neglected his son. “I asked the nurse to watch him,” he said defensively.

“I didn't mean to criticize, Mr. Browne,” replied Jillian. “When the woman couldn't leave her post, I stepped in.” She hesitated.

“Go on.”

“Perhaps it would have been better to leave him with someone at home.”

Frankie ran his hand through his hair distractedly. “I told him he couldn't see her, but he insisted on coming.”

“There's no harm done,” said Jillian quickly. “We've managed quite well. How long will the surgery take?”

Shrugging, Frankie sat down and lifted his son to his lap, his arms naturally enfolding the small body. “Four hours, maybe five if there are complications.” Absently, he kissed the top of Connor's head. “We've been through this before, haven't we, mate? It will all come about.”

Solemnly, Connor nodded. “Will Mam walk this time?”

Jillian bit her lip and watched Frankie force a smile and attempt an answer. “Nothing's for certain, lad. You know that. Everyone's working hard to see that she does.”

He nodded, yawned, and leaned his head back against his father's chest.

“Are you hungry, Connor?” Jillian asked. “You must be ready for a snack by now. Why don't we go and see if there's anything to eat in the café?”

Connor lifted his freckled face to his father's. “Can I, Da?”

“We'll all go,” said Frankie, rising from his chair and holding his hand out to the small boy. “We'll call Tim when we're finished.”

“Who's Tim?” Jillian asked when they were seated across from each other in the booth.

Frankie lifted an inquiring eyebrow. “Tim's our oldest son. Didn't Colette mention him?”

“Not by name.”

“He's twenty years old,” piped up Connor, “and I'm six.”

Jillian blinked. The age difference wasn't possible. Frankie Maguire had escaped from Long Kesh prison shortly after his twentieth birthday. That was seventeen years ago. “Do you have other children?” she asked.

“No,” said Frankie shortly, “just the two. Colette was widowed when we met. Tim is her son from her first marriage.”

For some reason, it was important to him that she know their circumstances. To say that Frankie was confused and closing down on a bit of truth would be an understatement. Jillian Fitzgerald, sitting across from him in gray leggings and boots, with a shirt so large it looked as if it belonged to a man and her hair hanging in sunny wisps around her cosmetic-free face, was a far cry from the woman who'd entered the doors of Stormont on Monday before last. That woman had been intimidating in her elegance. He wouldn't have been able to talk to that woman, much less wait with her, sharing his anguished fears.

That woman would not have touched her napkin to her tongue and dabbed the pudding away from the sides of a small boy's mouth. She would not have reached out to squeeze his hand when the nurse came to tell him Colette's surgery had to be extended. That woman would not have interpreted the message on the surgeon's face, would not have scribbled her address and phone number on the back of an envelope or stuffed it into his shirt pocket. She would not have scooped Connor up in her arms and told him she was taking him home until his da could come for him.

That woman was Jillian Graham, acting minister for Northern Ireland. This was someone else entirely. This was Jilly Fitzgerald, the girl he'd trusted in the most defining moment of his youth, the woman who came to his rescue, now, at the lowest point in his life.

Jillian dispensed with formality and picked up a Walt Disney film on the way home. She asked Mrs. Wilson to change the menu and serve hamburgers and chips on trays in the sitting room.

Casey had arrived earlier that day. She raised her eyebrows but did not demur when her mother suggested a game of Monopoly. Finally, when Connor's eyes drooped, Jillian removed his clothing, buttoned him into one of Casey's flannel shirts, and, deciding against leaving him alone in one of the remote guest rooms, tucked him into a corner of the enormous couch. She looked down at him for a long time after he slept.

“Now will you tell me what's happening?” asked her daughter in a hushed voice.

Jillian took her arm and led her to a chair near the fire, across from her own. She sat forward, her hands clasped in her lap. “Do you remember the woman I told you about at the hospital?”

Casey nodded.

“I didn't know until last week, but Danny Browne is her husband, and this is their son.”

The girl's mouth dropped open.

“I went to the hospital this morning,” Jillian continued. “Her surgery didn't go well. Mr. Browne had the boy with him. There was no one else to take him, so I brought him home with me,” she finished, rushing to end the story. It sounded preposterous, even to her own ears.

Casey stared at her mother. “You've got Danny Browne's son sleeping on our couch? Danny Browne, the nationalist negotiator? Mum, whatever were you thinking?”

Jillian drew back, offended. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“What will happen when someone finds out? Isn't this a flagrant conflict of interests?”

For the first time since Casey had officially become her own, Jillian was appalled at her thinking. “I don't give a bloody damn what anyone thinks,” she said, outraged. “This is a six-year-old child who had no one to care for him. If someone wishes to make something more of it, let him.”

“I didn't say you've done anything wrong, Mum,” Casey said. “I just think you should be prepared in case the press makes an issue of it. Think of what you'll say.”

Jillian's anger evaporated, replaced by an amused exasperation. “Where was I when you surpassed me in maturity?”

“It comes from living with you,” said Casey. “You're mature enough, Mum. Bringing home a needy little boy is far more typical of you than agreeing to assume Father's position. I can't imagine why Mr. Putnam insisted that you do this.”

Jillian heard the edge beneath the words. “You're worried about me, aren't you?” she asked in astonishment.

“The media isn't very nice,” replied Casey slowly. “I know you don't read the tabloids, but they ran some dreadful things about Father. I don't want that to happen to you.”

“What things?” Jillian held her breath.

Casey shook her head, stood, and headed for the stairs. “I'm not in the mood. I'll see you in the morning.”

“Casey.”

“Yes?” She stood poised at the foot of the stairs.

“Is there anything you'd like to talk about?”

The girl's forehead wrinkled. “No. Why?”

“You seem troubled about something, and you're a day late.”

Casey smiled and shook her head. “I can handle my life, Mum. If it gets to be too much, you'll be the first to know.”

Jillian sighed and crossed the room to stand near the window. For a long time, she stared into the deepening dusk. The night would be cold. Already, frost had gripped the grass, silvering the rich green of the lawn. Where was Frankie, and why didn't he call? She crossed the room to look down on the sleeping boy and smiled. He looked very like Casey with his dark lashes and fair skin. She looked more closely. They really were similar. Perhaps it was nothing. Perhaps all children had that soft roundness of cheek, defined heavy eyelids, and squared-off, obstinate chin.

Jillian sighed and moved away. He should have called. The child stirred, searched for his thumb, and settled back contentedly. Her heart broke. No matter what had happened, he really should have called.

***

Somehow, between the surgeon's explanation of what went wrong and his condolences for Colette's passing, Frankie remembered that Jillian had taken Connor. He never knew how he found the elegant mansion on Lisburn Road. Somehow, the car he'd borrowed early that morning found its own direction, down Grosvenor and Donegall roads to Queen's University, below the fork where Lisburn and Malone split. On a hunch, he turned left toward the larger, more expensive houses and, before he became completely muddled, ended up on the street outside a number that matched the one on the envelope where Jillian had scribbled her address.

Headlights on, he sat in front of the ornate gate, wondering how in bloody hell he was going to get through. As if in response to some signal, the gates opened. Frankie depressed the clutch, threw the stick into gear, and drove down the circular driveway.

Jillian stood in the open doorway, backlit by the warm glow of dimmed lights. Her hair was loose around her collar and very gold in the lamplight. Slowly, Frankie climbed the brick steps until he reached her. She tilted her head back to see his face, and, somehow, she knew. She touched his arm. His eyes darkened, and without a word between them, his pain flowed through her like a current.

She drew him inside, pushed his unresisting body down into an easy chair, and poured him a liberal glass of Irish whiskey. He drank it down in a single gulp. She poured him another and, when that was gone, waited for him to request a third. He didn't. Apparently, the grown-up Frankie Maguire was not prone to excesses. For some reason, it pleased her. The chair was oversized. She sat down, squeezing her frame into the space beside him.

“Will you tell me what happened?” she asked softly.

“Her blood pressure went down, and her heart stopped. They couldn't revive her.” His voice was raspy and scraping, as if he hadn't used it in a long time. “I've never really been without her,” he said helplessly. “I don't know where to begin. There's the funeral and Connor—”

“Connor can stay here for now,” Jillian said quickly. “Tomorrow is soon enough to worry about the rest of it.”

“Poor wee lad,” he said brokenly, dropping his head into his hands. “How will I tell him?”

Jillian's heart ached for him. She slipped her arm around his shoulders and eased his head down, cradling it against her breast. “You'll find a way,” she whispered, rocking him back and forth as if he were a child. “Children are stronger than you think. Don't worry, Danny. You'll be there to guide him through this. Tonight is your time to mourn.”