A Woman's Heart. JoAnn Ross

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      “And don’t forget, girls, every sin you commit is another thorn in our Lord Jesus’s side.” Sister had glared like Moses standing atop the Mount at the group of tartan-clad adolescents. “French-kissing debases a girl. And makes the devil smile.”

      Although Nora certainly hadn’t wanted to make Satan smile, three years after that memorable sex-education lecture, Devlin Monohan’s kisses had proved so thrilling she’d recklessly risked hell on more than one occasion during that idyllic summer of her first love.

      “How is Devlin?” she asked now.

      “Fit as a fiddle. He rang up last night, as a matter of fact, to say he’s been offered a position at the National Stud.”

      “That’s wonderful!” Graduating from veterinary college and working at the National Stud had been Devlin’s dream. He’d talked about it a lot between kisses.

      “Isn’t it just? I’ll have to admit I’m guilty of the sin of pride at the idea of my son helping to breed the best racehorses in the world.”

      “It’s no sin to be proud of a son.” On this Nora had reason to be very clear. Nora wondered if her mother knew this latest news about Devlin and decided she probably did. Not much had ever slipped by Eleanor Joyce.

      The woman who might have been Nora’s mother-in-law climbed down from the ladder and brushed her dusty hands on her apron, which, like the poster, bore a fanciful image of the lake creature—which, in a way, was the source of all this uproar.

      If those old myths hadn’t existed, Quinn Gallagher wouldn’t have written the book, Hollywood wouldn’t have bought the film rights and the movie people would have stayed in Hollywood.

      “We were all surprised when you went off to become a postulate,” Sheila said suddenly, as if that life-altering Sunday morning were only yesterday and not eight long years ago. “Everyone expected you and my Devlin would get married.”

      “I thought we might, as well. For a time.” After all, Nora wouldn’t have risked hell for just anyone. “But I truly believed I had a vocation.”

      “Just because you could memorize all the prayers and catechism answers faster than any girl at Holy Child School,” Sheila said, “didn’t necessarily make you a candidate for the convent.” She was only pointing out what Nora’s own mother had told her as they’d loaded her suitcase—filled with the muslin sheets, black stockings, black shoes and white cotton underwear the nuns had instructed she bring to the convent—into the family car.

      “I would have eventually realized that.” Nora wondered briefly if this out-of-the-blue discussion might be no coincidence. Her mother had supposedly told Kate she might be sending Nora a husband. Could she be trying to get the two childhood sweethearts back together again?

      “As it turned out, you didn’t have time to make up your own mind,” Sheila said with a regretful shake of her head. “What with your poor mam dying giving birth to Celia and you having to leave the order.”

      It had been the second-worst time of her life. “Someone had to tend to the house and children.” And Da, she thought, but did not say.

      “I’ve always said it was too much responsibility for a young girl. A child raising children was what you were. Lord knows Brady, as good a man as he is in his way, couldn’t take care of himself, let alone those babies.

      “Considering how lonely you must have been, it’s no wonder you fell head over heels for Conor Fitzpatrick when he came back from the continent with all those flashy trophies.”

      “I loved Conor,” Nora stated firmly.

      Her love for her dashing husband—who’d held the promise of becoming one of the world’s greatest steeplechase riders—had been the single constant in Nora’s life during that time. And if she hadn’t married Conor, Rory, the shining apple of her eye, wouldn’t have been born.

      And then Conor had been killed in a race, which had been the worst time of her life.

      “He’s been dead for five years, Nora. It’s not good for a woman to be alone. Especially a woman with children to raise.”

      “I manage.”

      “Of course you do, dear.” Sheila paused, giving Nora the impression she was choosing her words carefully. “Devlin had other news.”

      “Oh?”

      “He’s engaged. To a young woman he met in veterinary school.”

      The older woman’s gaze had turned so intent Nora felt as if she were standing at the wrong end of one of those telescopes all the lake-monster trackers inevitably carried.

      “I’m so happy for him,” she said. “You’ll have to give me his address so I can write him a note.”

      “You don’t mind?”

      “Of course not. It’s been over between Devlin and me for a long time. I’m pleased he’s found someone to share his life with.”

      So much for her mother’s perceived matchmaking.

      “Here’s my list.” Not wanting to discuss her love life—or lack of it—any longer, Nora handed the piece of paper to the storekeeper. “I hope you have some of those Spanish oranges. Rory loves them, and they’re so much better for his teeth than sweets or biscuits.”

      “You’re a good mother, Nora Fitzpatrick,” Sheila said. “And no one can fault the job you’re doing with the children. But it’s easier on a woman to have a man around the house. Sons, especially, need a father’s firm guiding hand.”

      As the older woman began plucking items from the wooden shelves, Nora almost laughed as she thought how much Sheila Monohan sounded like her mother. Which made sense, she decided, since the two women had been best friends.

      “Brady brought in your eggs this morning, in case you’re wondering,” Sheila offered as she began adding up Nora’s purchases on her order pad. “I gave him a credit.”

      Nora had worried her father might have forgotten to sell the eggs before heading off to the pub for a day of storytelling and gossiping. She was also grateful Sheila hadn’t paid cash for the eggs. Da could make coins disappear faster than the magician she’d seen at last year’s Puck Fair in County Kerry.

      “Thank you.”

      “No thanks necessary. They were good-size eggs, Nora. A lot bigger than Mrs. O’Donnel’s. We’ll get a good price for them.”

      Nora smiled at that. “John says it’s the Nashville music he’s started playing in the henhouse. Perhaps I ought to write a letter to Garth Brooks and ask if he’d be interested in paying me for a commercial endorsement.”

      Although Nora still refused to believe that the piped-in tunes had any effect at all on the hens, she couldn’t deny that since her seventeen-year-old brother’s latest science experiment, they’d begun laying more—and larger eggs.

      “Brady said you were thinking of joining the cheese guild,” Sheila said after laughing at Nora’s suggestion. Her sentence tilted upward at the end, turning it into СКАЧАТЬ