Pursued by the Rogue (The Fairy Tales of New York Book 1) (12 page)

‡

F
riday morning dawned
gray and gloomy for Finn. He’d spent the night on his brother Ty’s houseboat in Brooklyn, rambling drunkenly for the most part about gray-eyed women and lost souls. Miscarriage had come into it. Ty had listened and said little and at some point must have poured him into the forward bunk, thrown a blanket over him and hopefully got some sleep before having to get up and go to work.

Ty was an attorney for the Legal Aid society. A goddamn knight in battered armor, using words of law instead of a sword. Finn loved his upright, law-abiding brother so much, and never more than when he saw the box of aspirin sitting next to a glass of water on the kitchen bench.

Big brothers were awesome.

Finn took three tablets, washed them down with water and had the fastest shower ever before heading back to the pub. His father and Faith would be opening up soon. He could ask Faith if she really had locked his violin up in the safe last night in order to stop him playing yet another mournful Irish dirge.

God, he hoped so.

“Well, son,” said his pop as soon as he saw him, and clapped his hand down hard on the curve where Finn’s shoulder met his neck for good measure. “I may not have a customer left after last night, but I enjoyed it. Your sister wants to talk to you.”

“I’ll bet. Does she know where my violin is? Do you?”

His father smirked. “She’s in the taproom.”

Great. Just great. The cave of doom.

“You
screwed
my
friend
,” said Faith, swapping out good reason for bad language at the same time she tapped a new beer barrel. “Ten years ago, and you never said a word!”

Finn sighed. Maybe he was due this, but he’d had good reason at the time. Or so he’d thought.

“If Dawn had wanted you to know, I figure she’d have told you,” he muttered.

“And she
did
.” Faith’s voice had risen. “Last night after your
spectacularly
self-indulgent performance reduced her to tears.

Ouch. Low blow.

Although maybe, just possibly, she had a point.

He’d had a point to make too, and he’d made it the best way he knew how. No words could encompass what he’d felt after Dawn had told him about the child that never was. There were no words.

It had to be music.

“Did she say anything afterwards?” he asked. “Why did she go?”

“You mean it isn’t
fucking obvious
? She’s in love with you, Finn.”

His temper and Faith’s were never a good match. Usually they took turns.

Carefully, deliberately, he took a step back. “Dawn say that to you?”

Faith suddenly found the beer barrel fascinating. “Not in so many words, but I know her. And I know you. You’re both miserable. I did some reading up on Huntington’s disease and it’s awful. I can see that. I can see how you might want to protect yourself from that, but”

“What?” Finn stared at the top of his sister’s head as she fiddled with the keg. “Protect me from
what
?”

“Dawn’s Huntington’s. That she thinks she has.”

Faith finally deigned to stop screwing about with the beer barrel and look at him. Whatever she saw made her suddenly turn pale. “You don’t know.”

“
I have not one single goddamn clue what you’re talking about
,” he roared. “How much clearer do you want me to get?”

*

“Okay,” she said
faintly. “Okay. So, ah, Dawn’s father has this disease called Huntington’s.”

“And Dawn has it too?”

“She thinks so.”

Certain things began clicking into place. Dawn’s relationship restrictions. The way she chased her research ambitions as if there was no tomorrow. The way she gave him everything during lovemaking and then got up and stepped back. Nothing special. Don’t look at me for too long.

You won’t like what you find, she’d said.

“She finds out today.” His sister’s eyes grew apologetic. “I spent the morning worrying for her and cursing my selfish, fair-weather brother but I should have known. I
know
you. I know you both. God. She didn’t tell you.”

No need to keep reminding him. “Did she say where she finds out? Will she find out at work?”

“I don’t know.” Faith shook her head and corkscrew curls went bobbing. “All I know is that she said she finds out at two o’clock.”

It was well past eleven am now.

He reached for his phone.

Two minutes later he all but threw it across the taproom.

“She’s not answering,” Faith said gently. “Zel, Mercy, me. We’ve all tried to call. She’s not at work. We tried there too.”

“Have you tried her at home?”

His sister looked desolate. “I don’t even know where she lives.”

He did. And maybe, just maybe, she’d be there.

He needed to get to her. To make her see, once and for all, that she didn’t have to walk though life alone. What else did he need in order to get through to her? Patience? Understanding? And almighty dose of calm? Did Dawn need another friend there? “Coming?”

Faith’s eyes filled with tears, even as she shook her head. “Pretty sure she’s not going to want two panicking Sullivans at her side. One’s probably enough. Go.”

“You’ll call me if you hear from her? Or if you find out where she is?”

Faith nodded. “Mercy’s busy phoning every gene mapping medical specialist in Manhattan. I mean, how many can there be, right? Go. Keep me posted too.”

He started towards the door and stopped abruptly. He backtracked and spared a kiss for his sister’s forehead. “I love you. I’m sorry I swore at you.”

“Go.”

‡

F
inn made it
to Soho in record time and jammed his finger to Dawn’s intercom with enough force to make him wince. When he heard a voice say hello he closed his eyes in pure relief.

“It’s Finn. Let me in.”

“It’s Finn,” the voice said. Not Dawn, then, and the connection went silent but the door buzzed open and he figured that for good enough. When he knocked on Dawn’s actual apartment door one elevator ride and six floors later, he managed to do so with a little less urgency and a whole lot more politeness because somewhere in the whirl of his brain he remembered the presence of mothers and figured that what with all that was going down, Dawn’s mother might be somewhere around.

The door opened and a woman stood there. An older woman with eyes the same color as Dawn’s. “Mrs. Turner?” he said, feeling all of seventeen years old again. “I’m Finbar Sullivan.” At least he’d had enough sense to introduce himself. “Is Dawn around?”

“She’s not here right now.” There was another woman behind the first one. More gray eyes, these ones tinged with blue. Which one was her mother and which one the aunt?

“Would you like to come in?” the second woman said.

“No, I—no. I just need to find her.”

The door opened wider. The first woman’s fine features took on an implacable set. “Come in, Finbar.”

He went in.

“This is my sister, Meg Dawson,” she said, gesturing towards the other woman. “I’m Vivian, Dawn’s mother. As you surmised.”

Yes, yes. Points for him. “Do you know where she is?”

“Yes.” He could see where Dawn got her cool assurance from. “Coffee?”

“No, I—”

“Vivi, stop torturing him.”

Yes
. He was all for that plan. “I only just found out about the Huntington’s and the test,” he said. “I need to see her. Now. Before she finds out.”

“Young man.” Dawn’s mother was implacable. “My daughter let you go for a reason. If she has this disease she’s in for a rough time, and so are the people who love her. Take it from someone who knows. Being with someone who has Huntington’s is not for the fainthearted.”

That was the second time this morning that someone had questioned his feelings for Dawn.

“I am
not
faint of heart.” He had fortitude and determination enough for both of them. “I’ve been reading on the way here in the cab. She’s still got time.
We’ve
still got time.”

“To do what?” Dawn’s mother asked quietly.

“To make life beautiful and meaningful and full of memories we can grow old with. It’s not too late for Dawn and me. She’s only twenty-seven. We’ve got time.”

Dawn’s mother seemed to crumple, just a little bit.

“Vivian,” her sister said softly, coming closer to stand by Dawn’s mother and gently touch her on the arm. “Do you really want Dawn to do to him what you did to her? Pushed her away in the mistaken thought that she’d be happier away from it all? Because I’m telling you from the sidelines, that didn’t work out so well. Not for anyone. Give him the address.”

“There’s a referral letter on the desk in Dawn’s study. The address is at the top of it,” Vivian said quietly. “Will you get it for me please, Meg?”

Meg retreated in the direction of Dawn’s bedroom. Finn watched until he could no longer see her and then ran a hand through his hair and wondered whether it had seen a comb this morning. He didn’t think so. Desperate, hungover and untidy. Not a good look to bring to an introductory meeting with Dawn’s mother.

He took a deep and steadying breath, turned his attention back towards the woman who was currently studying him like a bug under a microscope, and he waited for some new hammer to fall.

It was that kind of morning.

“Dawn hasn’t told me much about you. How you met. What you do,” Vivian Turner began.

“We met ten years ago through my sister. I’m a musician.” He gave her the abbreviated version.

“Are you a good musician?”

“I like to think so.” Although after last night … “I’m not short of work. Or money, if that’s what you’re thinking. I have a good reputation.”

“If you stick by my Dawn and she has Huntington’s, your career’s going to suffer. Your priorities will change. Are you ready for that?”

“Not yet,” he said stubbornly. “But I will be.”

She smiled a little at that.

“For fifteen years I lived the dream. The man I loved at my side, both of us teaching and making a difference to children’s lives. It was fulfilling work and they were bright blue days packed with laughter and a daughter with sunshine in her smile. I was so blessed.”

Finn waited and said nothing. Prayed for Dawn’s aunt to hurry up.

“And then my husband got sick, and we sent Dawn away hoping to spare her and instead we turned her into a woman who trusts no one for fear of being sent away or left behind. Abandoned, by those she loves. These days, Dawn makes sure to leave first. She hurt you for a reason, Finbar. She gave you a way out.”

Finn felt his lips tighten.

“You don’t know what you might be in for.
She
knows. Better than you do. If I were
your
mother I’d tell you to run.”

“My mother’s dead,” he offered flatly. “You see I
do
know something about love and loss. And that’s not the advice she would have given.”

Kathleen Sullivan had known better than anyone that when Finn’s mind was made up, it was made up.

“My daughter’s going to try and push you away. She pushes everyone away.”

“I know that, Mrs. Turner.”

“Don’t let her.”