The Saint. Kathleen O'Brien

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СКАЧАТЬ to give up the hope that someday Binky Potter would say yes. Maybe even tonight. They had a movie date at eight, and if he didn’t get started mowing those lawns soon he’d be late. When they went to the movies, she liked to tease him, sucking slick popcorn butter from his fingers one by one till he nearly died.

      No way could he give that up.

      “Eddie?” Coach’s voice was tighter now. Really concerned. “You can tell me. What’s wrong?”

      “Wrong? What could be wrong?” Eddie stood up again and tossed Coach a smile as fake as anything Cullen Overton had ever produced. “Life’s sweet, man. Sweet.”

      KIERAN WAS DOG TIRED, and he would have given anything he owned to be able to take a long hot shower, order a sloppy pizza, open a freezing cold beer and spend the evening in front of the TV.

      Instead, he had to dress up in a penguin suit and go next door to Aurora York’s house, where he would spend three hours pretending he gave a damn who was elected Heyday’s next parade Ringmaster and Ringmistress. Even worse, he might well be nominated himself, which would mean he’d have to pretend to be delighted.

      Frankly, he wasn’t sure he had “delighted” left in his bag of tricks tonight. It had been a very long day.

      He did take the shower. That wasn’t optional, not after standing in the sun all morning helping teenagers wash cars. And he got the beer, too. That wasn’t optional, either, not after having spent the entire afternoon listening to the Heyday Historical Society bitch about Larry Millegrew, a newly arrived artist who had dared to paint his house orange.

      Kieran didn’t know how he’d stopped himself from laughing. When had this town become so darn snooty? Pretty ironic for a town that got its jump-start because of a drunken circus animal trainer to begin having apoplexy at the sight of an orange house. “Gray and white,” Dolly Jenkins had kept repeating at today’s meeting, sounding weak with shock. “Gray and white. Anything else is just vulgar!”

      But what did they want Kieran to do about it, anyhow? He had inherited a lot of the property around here, but his dad’s estate wasn’t even probated yet, and besides, this wasn’t feudal England. He couldn’t exactly throw Mr. Millegrew in the dungeon and commandeer his absurd orange house.

      Kieran tossed his towel on the bed and, still yearning for the pizza he couldn’t have, he reluctantly began to assemble his tux. He hated parties. This must be one of the ways in which he took after his mother, who everyone said had been a quiet, unassuming woman. She’d died when Kieran was born, so he knew her only as a wispy, smiling face in a small watercolor painting on the living-room wall.

      He certainly didn’t take after his dad, who even at seventy had been all strong, primary colors, all great bold strokes in oil, like the portrait of him that hung above the fireplace mantel.

      His dad could have handled Dolly Jenkins and Larry Millegrew with one hand, then tossed off tonight’s party like an after-dinner cognac. Old Anderson McClintock had loved people. He’d loved parties. He’d loved power games. And, as he had every day since his father died, Kieran wished the old devil were still alive to play them.

      Kieran knew he was dragging his feet and probably running late, so he wasn’t surprised when the doorbell rang.

      It was probably Aurora. She had asked him to come over early to help with the lights. She’d be mad as hell to discover he wasn’t even dressed.

      “Coming,” he called as he trotted down the stairs with his dress shirt still half in, half out of his trousers. His black tie dangled between his teeth as he tried to insert his cuff links.

      “Sorry, Aurora,” he mumbled as he swung open the door. “But you’re just in time to tie my—”

      But it wasn’t Aurora, who at seventy-five was still an imposing old lady. She would have stood about five-eleven, higher if you counted her heels and the feather plume she invariably wore in her hat.

      This was someone younger, smaller—someone who stood back, out of the glare of the porch lamp, clearly far less sure of her welcome than Aurora had ever been in her life.

      But who…?

      The woman moved awkwardly, and the creamy light washed over her.

      Kieran dropped his cuff link. It was Claire Strickland.

      The little ebony square clattered out onto the porch, and Claire stooped stiffly to pick it up. Watching her, Kieran pulled his tie slowly from between his teeth. He tried to gather his thoughts, which were about as disorganized as darting minnows. But it was just such a shock. What was Claire Strickland doing showing up here, unannounced, on his doorstep?

      The last time he had seen her was that strange, unforgettable night in Richmond. He’d thought of her—and of the sex, of course—almost every day since. But he hadn’t called. After they’d awakened in the echoing, predawn hours, she had asked him to leave. And she’d made it clear she did not want to hear from him ever again.

      In the distance, he could hear the sounds of the party tuning up. Laughter, the strum of an electrified cello, the distant thud of car doors.

      But here on the porch everything was silent. He felt a sudden flash of anxiety. Was she all right? He knew she wouldn’t have come here without a very serious reason, not after the way she had told him goodbye….

      And why was she dressed in black, her face as somber as if she had just been to a funeral? Good God, had someone else in her life died? He hadn’t thought she had anyone else.

      “Kieran, I’m… May I come in?”

      “God, yes, of course. I’m sorry.” He backed away from the door and let her enter. She stood there in the foyer, glancing around as if she’d never seen the inside of his house before. Which, he realized with surprise, she actually hadn’t. Their relationship—or whatever embryonic version of a relationship they’d been trying to develop when Steve’s death had shattered it to bits—had never progressed far enough for him to bring her here.

      As she took it all in, her gaze held a strange combination of curiosity and apathy. It was as if she knew she should care what his house looked like, but she just didn’t.

      He tried for a second to see it through her eyes. The big, classical Georgian mansion was pristine, thanks to his housekeeper. The only item out of place was his half-empty beer bottle. He didn’t have anything to feel ashamed about.

      And yet, oddly, he did.

      Perhaps it was just that the place was so ridiculously big. That he had so much when she had always had so little. He remembered the simple house she and Steve had shared. And that half-empty tomb she called home in Richmond.

      “Claire, is everything all right? Why have you come? Do you need anything?”

      She looked up at him. Her eyes were bottomless, and circled with thin, blue-shadowed skin. Her cheeks were pale, and for a moment he thought he saw her shudder. He put out his arm to steady her, but she backed away.

      “Claire, what’s wrong? Are you ill?”

      “No,” she said. “I’m pregnant.”

      CHAPTER FIVE

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