Sullivan's Child. Gail Link

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      Chapter Two

      Finally, he was, he believed, back where he truly belonged.

      After almost seven years of voluntary exile in Ireland, Rory Sullivan had returned to the States. Returned not to the elegant four-story town house on the Upper East Side of New York City where he was born and raised and which he now owned, but instead to Cedar Hill, the small town in southeastern Pennsylvania where he had taught college. Back to a fresh start at a new life. Back to a place overflowing with memories.

      He held one such in his hand, a slim volume of poetry. It was an old book, privately published and quite rare, bound in leather and stamped in gold, a find from an estate sale; it was a unique birthday gift he had cherished doubly because of the person who had given it to him. Contained inside the pages were poems of love and longing, of heartbreak and happiness, the work of an Irish woman in the late nineteenth century, simply titled To My Beloved.

      He gently opened the book, read the inscription that he’d read hundreds of times before: Always and forever, Cat.

      The irony of that phrase haunted him. Just because you left a place, or a person, didn’t mean they left you. Some memories were burned too deep to ever depart; they remained in your mind, constant reminders of what was.

      What was, what is, what would always be for him—the woman whose memory he’d tried to ignore. A recollection he’d tried—but found impossible—to suppress. A woman that he tried his damnedest to erase from the deepest recesses of his mind and found she was unforgettable. The passion he tried to so hard to bury where he thought it belonged—in the over-and-done-with category—was ultimately unquenchable.

      She was still there. In his heart. In his mind. In his past. A living ghost that had attached itself to him with ethereal chains stronger than any forged with steel.

      One day several months ago, while surfing the Internet in his Dublin apartment, he’d stumbled upon her name quite by accident. He’d been checking a list of specialty Irish bookstores in the States, trying to locate an out-of-print research book. It was available in two places, one of which turned out to be hers. Cat’s bookstore had its own Web site, and it included a recent article from a local newspaper on her thriving business, along with a current photo that showed a beautiful woman who looked barely older than some of his undergraduate students. Even through the filter of a monitor screen her hair still gleamed that particular shade of reddish brown. A color he could never forget—gold-dusted cinnamon. He didn’t need a closer inspection to recall the exact shade of her eyes; their color was imprinted in his memory. Green. The green of a ripe lime in summer.

      Once, while searching through an antiques shop in the Irish capital, he’d found two items that mirrored that shade. A lady’s antique-gold brooch that held a stunning emerald in the center and a pair of matching gentleman’s Edwardian cuff links, which he wore tonight with his tuxedo. He’d bought both items on the spot, unable to resist, because they reminded him of her.

      Was there someone special in her life now? he wondered. Someone who’d replaced him in her heart, her mind, her bed? The article had given no personal details.

      Who was he kidding? Rory thought. Of course there had to be someone else. He’d been gone a long time. Too long to believe he’d find her waiting patiently for a man who’d walked out on her.

      And why should she? He’d foolishly slammed the door on their relationship. Forced her to make a choice.

      And she had.

      A choice he’d had to live with.

      Until now.

      Had she ever regretted that decision? Had she ever wished that she’d chosen a life with him instead of her business? Did she ever spare a random thought for what if?

      Rory raked a hand through his fashionably cut dark hair, then loosened the black tie he wore and poured himself a whiskey, neat, from the Waterford decanter that rested on a small butler’s table in the living room of his rented condo. The strong taste was a sharp contrast to the two glasses of champagne he’d consumed at his welcome party, thrown in his honor tonight by university colleagues. A party he’d hoped she would have attended.

      But she hadn’t. Throughout the night he’d watched and waited, in vain. Cat never showed, even after he’d made sure that she was invited.

      Payback time?

      No, the Cat he remembered wouldn’t have blown him off for petty reasons. That wasn’t her style.

      Then why didn’t she attend?

      Maybe she had better things to do, he mused as he prowled about the room. Better places to be. Or perhaps she didn’t want any part in this prodigal’s return.

      That thought left a particularly bad taste in his mouth, so he poured himself another whiskey to wash it away.

      Had he made a colossal mistake coming back here? Several other colleges and universities had wanted him to teach at their campuses. Had wooed him with fabulous promises and tempting offers.

      But they lacked proximity to what he was seeking.

      His friends and fellow professors in Ireland asked him to reconsider when he’d informed them he was leaving. Stay where you belong, they urged. Settle down with one woman and raise a family, a proper Irish family. Past time, they argued, that he had a wife and children.