Sullivan's Child. Gail Link

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СКАЧАТЬ She couldn’t identify the source, yet it was there, like a blast of cool air.

      Couldn’t or wouldn’t identify? she wondered.

      Rory.

      Rory, her brain echoed in a remembered litany of passion and pain. Why is it that every time I think I’m almost over you there is always something there to remind me?

      Because, she answered herself, as long as she had Tara there would always be a reminder. Daily. Constant. In a look, or in the way Tara tilted her head. Then there was that smile. Her father’s smile.

      Damn you, Rory, Cat thought. Damn you for my greatest pleasure and my deepest hell. Damn you once more for making me remember all the moments we spent together.

      Had he sent the flowers?

      And if he had, for what purpose? To confuse and confound her? To let her know she was in his thoughts?

      He could do that in person if he wanted.

      Would she be ready?

      Cat reluctantly admitted that she would never be quite ready, still maybe it would be for the best. Get it over with, quick and clean. Simple. She had survived his leaving; she would survive his coming back again. Besides, she had nothing in common with him anyway.

      Except a child, came the sadly sweet thought. A beautiful little girl created out of the love they had shared.

      Correction, her inner voice added, out of the love she had for him. But that love was over. In the past. The fire was dead. Ashes were all that remained. And wasn’t it better that way? Being consumed by the flames was no way to live. Charred fragments of her heart had survived once. Now it was cloaked in self-induced asbestos to keep it safe. Maybe someday she would love again. A nice, sweet, gentle love. The kind that was comfortable and secure. Nothing that heated the blood or scorched the soul.

      Been there, she thought. Done that. Don’t plan on making that mistake ever again.

      Her glance fell to the silver-framed photograph that rested on her desk, sharing space with piles of papers, a computer and books. It was of her and Tara, smiling broadly to the camera. Taken at her daughter’s last birthday party.

      He’d missed them all. All the cakes, the presents, the laughter, and most especially the fun of seeing the wonder and excitement of a birthday through a child’s eyes.

      But it couldn’t be helped. Or regretted.

      The intercom on her phone buzzed, giving Cat a good excuse to put her mind on something else.

      Rory sat in his leased car in the parking lot of Cat’s bookstore, remembering the first time he’d come here. Flush with success at the rave notices his initial effort had produced, he’d been excited to do his first real book signing and thrilled to finally meet the woman who’d sent such a glowing review to his publisher. He recalled the shock that first hit him as he walked through the door of The Silver Harp—he’d been expecting a much older woman to be the owner. Instead, she’d been closer to his own age, he discovered, twenty-five to his thirty.

      And lovely beyond compare. A dew-dappled apricot rose with a hint of a blush. That’s the flower he associated with her. The flower he’d sent today.

      She was smart. Funny. More than able to meet him halfway. A woman who stirred him on so many levels. A woman of passion, honesty and conviction.

      He watched as several people walked in and out, some with small bags, a few with large.

      So what was he waiting for? He wasn’t going to get a damn thing accomplished by sitting in his car and staring at the continual flow of customers.

      Rory got out and locked the car with a click of his key ring. A few steps took him to the door of the stone building, where he turned the brass handle and stepped inside.

      She’d made a few changes in the interim years. Soft strains of Celtic music now played in the background. A subtle fragrance hung in the air, light and spicy, making him think of golden autumn days and crisp fall nights, of colors he associated with Cat. A wooden display on a nearby bare pine table held store newsletters. Rory picked one up and perused it. Poetry readings, book signings, storytelling hour for children, an upcoming Irish step-dancing demonstration. Something for everyone.

      “Hi. May I help you?”

      Rory turned his head at the sound of the female voice.

      “Oh my, it’s Professor Sullivan, isn’t it?” Mary Alice said, her eyes widening in surprise.

      Rory smiled. “I’m flattered that you remembered me.”

      “Let’s say that you made an impression that doesn’t soon fade,” Mary Alice responded wryly.

      “Really?” he responded with a lift of one black eyebrow. “How very sweet of you to say that.”

      “I’d only be speaking the truth.”

      “Does Caitlyn Kildare still own this place?”

      “She sure does.”

      “Is she by any chance here today?”

      “Yes.”

      “Then would you tell her that I’d like to see her.”

      Mary Alice nodded her head. “Just you wait right here, and I’ll go and let her know that you’ve come to say hello. There’s freshly brewed tea and coffee if you’d like something to drink.” With a wave of her hand she indicated a sturdy pine sideboard upon which sat a coffeemaker and next to it a carafe of hot water. “There’s a few things to nibble on if you’d like, too. Personally, I’d try the shortbread. One taste and you swear you’ve died and been reborn.”

      “That good?”

      “Better than almost anything,” she insisted.

      Rory almost laughed at that declaration. He’d tasted a few things in his time that would have put the shortbread treat to shame, he was sure. One of them had been Cat’s skin. Smooth as cream. And her mouth, sweet as honey.

      His body stirred achingly with the sensory pictures his mind painted. Images grown sharper. Clearer. Especially now that he allowed himself to see them freely. Artists had a term for that which resurfaced after being buried under layers of paint—pentimento. The discovery of the treasure beneath the surface, beneath the obvious.

      As for coffee or tea, he didn’t need further stimulation. Thinking about Cat was stimulating enough. Much more than enough.

      Mary Alice slipped into the back room and closed the door behind her.

      Cat glanced up from her computer screen when her assistant entered.

      “You’ve got a visitor,” the older woman announced in a soft voice.

      A sudden chill ran along Cat’s spine. She asked the question to which she had already guessed the answer. “Who?”

      “Rory Sullivan.”

      Cat momentarily shifted her eyes to the picture СКАЧАТЬ