Born in Fire Read online

  him?"

  "The last night we were in France. I told him no, absolutely no. I meant it. I might still. That's why I'm driving, to give myself time to think it through. I've realized that it has to be one or the other." She fingered the glass drops in her pocket. "So I'm going, and I wanted to tell you."

  "Maggie—" Brianna was left with her hands full of dough, staring at the swinging back door.

  The worst part was not finding him home—and knowing she should have checked before making the drive. At the gallery, his butler had said, but when she arrived there, cursing Dublin traffic all the way, he was already gone and on the way to his office. Again, she missed him, by no more than five minutes, she was informed. He was heading to the airport and a flight to Rome. Would she care to put through a call to his car phone? She would not, Maggie decided, stumble through one of the biggest decisions of her life over the telephone. In the end, she got back in her lorry and made the long, lonely drive back to Clare. It was easy to call herself a fool. And to tell herself she was better off not having found him at all. Exhausted by the hours of driving, she slept like the dead until noon the next day. Then she tried to work.

  "I want the Seeker in the forefront, and the Triad centered, precisely."

  Rogan stood in the sun-washed showroom of Worldwide Gallery, Rome, watching his staff arrange Maggie's work. The sculptures stood up well in the gilded rococo decor. The heavy red velvet he'd chosen to drape the pedestals and tables added a royal touch. Something he was sure Maggie would have complained about, but which suited the clien tele of this particular gallery. He checked his watch, muttered to himself under his breath. He had a meeting in twenty minutes. There was no help for it, he thought as he called out another order for a minute adjustment. He was going to be late. Maggie's influence, he supposed. She'd corrupted his sense of time.

  "The gallery opens in fifteen minutes," he re minded the staff. "Expect some press, and see that they each receive a catalog." He scanned the room one last time, noting the placement of each piece, the fold of every drape. "Well done."

  He stepped outside into the bright Italian sun, where his driver waited.

  "I'm running late, Carlo." Rogan shifted into his seat and opened his briefcase.

  Carlo grinned, tucked the chauffeur's cap lower on his brow and flexed his fingers like a concert pianist preparing to launch into an arpeggio. "Not for long, signore."

  To Rogan's credit, he barely lifted a brow as the car leaped like a tiger from the curb, snarling and growling at the cars it cut off. Bracing himself in the corner of the seat, Rogan turned his attention to a printout of figures from his Roman branch. It had been an excellent year, he decided. Far from the staggering boom of the mideighties, but quite good enough. He thought perhaps it was best that the days when a painting could demand hun dreds of millions of pounds at auction were over. Art, with so high a price tag, was too often hidden away in a vault until it was as soulless as gold bullion. Still, it had been a profitable year. Profitable enough, he thought, that he could implement his idea of opening another smaller branch of World wide, one that displayed and sold only the works of Irish artists. It had been a germ in his mind for the last few years, but lately, just lately, it had grown. A small, even cozy gallery—very accessible, from the decor to the art itself. A place that invited browsing, with good-quality art priced in a range that invited owning. Yes, he thought the time was perfect. Absolutely perfect.

  The car screeched to a halt, all but rearing up like a stallion. Carlo hurried out to open Rogan's door. "You are on time, signore."

  "You are a magician, Carlo."

  Rogan spent thirty minutes with the head of the Roman branch, twice that in a board meeting, then granted back-to-back interviews to promote the Con-cannon tour. Several hours were devoted to studying Rome's proposed acquisitions and to meeting artists. He planned to fly to Venice that evening and lay the groundwork for the next stop of the tour. Gauging his time, he slipped away to place a few calls to Dublin.

  "Joseph."

  "Rogan, how's Rome?"

  "Sunny. I've finished up here. I should be in Venice by seven at the latest. If there's time, I'll go by the gallery there tonight. Otherwise, I'll do the preliminaries tomorrow."

  "I have your schedule here. You'll be back in a week?"

  "Sooner, if I can manage it. Anything I should know?"

  "Aiman was in. I bought two of his street sketches. They're reasonably good."

  That's fine. I've an idea we might be able to sell more of his work after the first of the year."

  "Oh?"

  "A project I'll discuss with you when I get back. Anything else?"

  "I saw your grandmother and her friend off to Galway."

  Rogan grunted. "Brought him by the gallery, did she?"

  "He wanted to see some of Maggie's work—in the proper setting. He's quite the character."

  "He certainly is."

  "Oh, and speaking of Maggie, she was by earlier this week."

  "By there? In Dublin? What for?"

  "Didn't say. She sort of dashed in and out. I didn't even speak with her myself. She did send a shipment, with what seems to be a message for you."

  "What message?"

  "'It's blue.'"

  Rogan's fingers paused on his notebook. "The message is blue?"

  "No, no, the message reads, 'It's blue.' It's a gorgeous piece, rather delicate and willowy. Appar ently she thought you'd know what she meant."

  "I do." He smiled to himself, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "It's for the Comte de Lorraine, Paris. A wedding present for his granddaughter. You'll want to contact him."

  "I will, then. Oh, and it seems Maggie was by your office, and the house as well. I suppose she was looking for you for some reason."

  "It would seem so." He debated a moment, then acted on instinct. "Joseph, do me a favor? Contact the gallery in Venice. Tell them I'll be delayed a few days."

  "I'll be glad to. Any reason?"

  "I'll let you know. Give Patricia my best. I'll be in touch."

  Maggie drummed her fingers on a table in O'Mal ley's, tapped her foot, blew out a long breath. "Tim, will you give me a bookmaker's sandwich to go with this pint? I can't wait for Murphy all bloody after noon on an empty stomach."

  "Happy to do it. Got a date, do you?" He grinned at her from over the bar, wriggled his eyebrows.

  "Hah. The day when I date Murphy Muldoon's the day I lose what's left of my mind. He said he had some business in the village and would I meet him here." She tapped the box on the floor with her. "I've got his birthday present for his mother."

  "Something you made, then?"

  "Aye. And if he's not here by the time I've finished eating, he'll have to come fetch it himself."

  "Alice Muldoon," said David Ryan, who sat at the bar puffing a cigarette. "She be living down to Killarney now, wouldn't she?"

  "She would," Maggie agreed. "And has been these past ten years or more."

  "Didn't think I'd seen her about. Married again, did she, after Rory Muldoon passed over?"

  "She did." Tim took up the story while he built a pint of Guinness. "Married a rich doctor name of Golin Brennan."

  "Kin to Daniel Brennan." Another patron picked up the tale, musing over his bowl of stew. "You know, he that runs a food store in Clarecastle."

  "No, no." Tim shook his head as he walked over to serve Maggie her sandwich. "'Tisn't kin to Daniel Brennan but to Bobby Brennan from Newmarket on Fergus."

  "I think you're wrong about that." David pointed with the stub of his cigarette.

  "I'll wager two pounds on it."

  "Done. We'll ask Murphy himself."

  "If he ever gets here," Maggie muttered, and bit into her sandwich. "You'd think I have nothing better to do than to sit here twiddling my thumbs." "I knew a Brennan once." The old man at the end of the bar spoke up, paused, blew a lazy smoke ring. "Frankie Brennan, he was, from Ballybunion, where I lived as a boy. One night he was walking home from the pub
. Had a fill of porter, he did, and never had head for it."

  He blew another smoke ring. Time passed, but no one spoke. A story was in the making.

  "So he went walking home, reeling a bit, and cut across a field to shorten the way. There was a fairy hill, and in his drunken state, he trod right over it. Well, a man should know better, drunk or sober, but Frankie Brennan got less than his share when the Lord passed out sense. Now, of course, the fairies had to teach him manners and respect, and so they tugged off all his clothes as he went staggering across the field. And he arrived home, stark naked, but for his hat and one shoe." He paused again, smiled. "Never did find the other shoe."

  Maggie gave an appreciative hoot of laughter and propped her feet on the empty chair across from her. They could keep Paris and Rome and the rest, she thought. She was just where she wanted to be. Then Rogan walked in. His entrance gained him some glances, appraisals. It wasn't often a man in so fine a suit strolled into O'Malley's on a cloudy afternoon. Maggie, the pint glass nearly to her lips, froze like stone.

  "Good day to you. Is there something I can get you?" Tim asked.

  "A pint of Guinness, thank you." Rogan leaned back against the bar, smiled at Maggie while Tim turned the tap. "Good day to you, Margaret Mary."

  "What are you doing here?"

  "Why, I'm about to have a pint." Still smiling, he slid coins across the bar. "You're looking well."

  "I thought you were in Rome."

  "I was. Your work shows well there."

  "Would you be Rogan Sweeney, then?" Tim slid the glass to Rogan.

  "I would, yes."

  "I'm O'Malley, Tim O'Malley." After wiping his hand over his apron, Tim took Rogan's and pumped. "I was a great friend of Maggie's father. He'd have been pleased with what you're doing for her. Pleased and proud. We've a scrapbook started, my Deirdre and I."

  "I can promise you you'll be adding to it. Mr. O'Malley, for some time to come."

  "If you've come to see if I've work to show you," Maggie called out, "I haven't. And I won't if you breathe down my neck."

  "I haven't come to see your work." With a nod to Tim, Rogan walked to Maggie. He sat beside her, took her chin in his hand and kissed her softly. And kissed her long. "I've come to see you."

  She let out the breath she'd forgotten she was holding. A frowning glance at the bar had the curious onlookers turning their attention elsewhere. Or pretending to.

  "You took your sweet time."

  "Time enough for you to miss me."

  "I've hardly worked at all since you left." Because it was difficult to admit, she kept her eyes trained on her glass. "I've started and stopped, started and stopped. Nothing's coming out the way I want it to. I don't care far this feeling, Rogan. I don't care for it at all."

  "What feeling is that?"

  She shot him a look from under her lashes. "I've been missing you. I came to Dublin." "I know." He toyed with the ends of her hair. It had a bit, he noted, and wondered how long it would be before she whacked away again with her i as she said she sometimes did. "Was it so hard to come to me, Maggie?"

  "Yes, it was. As hard as anything I've done. Then you weren't there."

  "I'm here now."

  He was. And she wasn't sure she could speak for the pounding of her heart. There are things I want to tell you. I don't—" She broke off as the door opened, and Murphy came in. "Oh, his timing's perfect."

  Murphy signaled to Tim before heading toward Maggie. "You've had lunch, then." In a casual ges ture, he scraped up a chair and snatched one of her chips. "Did you bring it?"

  "I did. And you've kept me waiting half the day."

  "It's barely one o'clock." Eyeing Rogan, Murphy ate another of Maggie's chips. "You'd be Sweeney, would you?"

  "I would."

  "Twas the suit," Murphy explained. "Maggie said how it was you dressed like every day was Sunday. I'm Murphy Muldoon, Maggie's neighbor."

  The first kiss, Rogan remembered, and shook hands as cautiously as Murphy. "It's good to meet you."

  "And you." Murphy leaned his chair on its back legs as he did his measuring. "You could almost say I'm a brother to Maggie. As she's no man to look out for her."

  "And she's not needing one," Maggie tossed out. She would have kicked Murphy's chair out from under him if he hadn't been quick enough to drop it in place again. "I'll look out for myself very well, thank you."

  "So she's often told me." Rogan addressed Murphy. "But need or not, she has one."

  The message passed, male to male. After a moment's consideration, Murphy nodded. 'That's fine, then. Did you bring it or not, Maggie?"

  "I said I did." In an impatient move, she bent to grab the box from the floor and set it on the table between them. "If it wasn't for my fondness of your mother, I'd bash it over your head."

  "She'll be grateful you restrained yourself." As Tim plunked down another beer Murphy opened the box. This is grand, Maggie. She'll be pleased."

  Rogan imagined so. The pale pink bowl was as fluid as water, its sides waving up to end in delicate crests. The glass was so thin, so fragile, he could see the shadow of Murphy's hands through it.

  "You'll wish her a happy birthday for me as well."

  "I will." Murphy skimmed a callused finger over the glass before setting it back in the box. "Fifty pounds, was it?"

  "It was." Maggie held out a hand, palm up. "Cash."

  Feigning reluctance, Murphy scratched his cheek. "It seems mighty dear for one little bowl, Maggie Mae—that you can't even eat from. But my mother likes foolish, useless things."

  "Keep talking, Murphy, and the price'll go up."

  "Fifty pounds." Shaking his head, Murphy reached for his wallet. He counted out the bills in her outstretched hand. "You know I could've gotten her a whole set of dishes for that. And maybe a fine new skillet"

  "And she'd have knocked you in the head with it." Satisfied, Maggie tucked the bills away. "No woman wants a skillet for her birthday, and any man who thinks she does deserves the consequences."

  "Murphy." David Ryan shifted on his stool. "If you've finished your transaction there, we've a ques tion for you."

  "Then I'll have to answer it." Taking up his beer, Murphy rose. "Tis a fine suit, Mr. Sweeney." He walked away to settle the wager of the Brennans.

  "Fifty pounds?" Rogan murmured, nodding to ward the box Murphy had left on the table. "You and I are both aware that you could get more than twenty times that."

  "What of it?" Instantly defensive, she shoved her glass aside. "It's my work, and I'll ask for it what I please. You've got your damned exclusive clause, Sweeney, so you can sue me if you like for breaking it, but you'll not have the bowl."

  "I didn't—"

  "I gave my word to Murphy," she barreled on. "And a deal's done. You can have your cursed twenty-five percent of the fifty pounds. But if I choose to make something for a friend—"

  "It wasn't a complaint." He wrapped his hand around her fisted one. "It was a compliment. You have a generous heart, Maggie."

  With the wind so successfully stripped from her sails, she sighed. "The papers say I'm not to make anything that doesn't go to you."

  "The papers say that," he agreed. "I imagine you'll go on snarling about it, and you'll go on slipping your friends gifts when it suits you." She shot him a look from under her lashes, so blatantly guilty, he laughed. "I see I could have sued you a time or two over the last few months. We can make what we'd call a side deal. I won't take my percentage of your fifty pounds, and you'll make something for my grandmother for Christmas."

  She nodded, lowered her lashes again. "It isn't just about money, is it, Rogan? I'm afraid sometimes that it is, that I've let it be. Because I like the money, you see. I like it very much, and all that goes with it."

  "It's not just about money, Maggie. It's not just about champagne showings or newspaper clippings or parties in Paris. Those are just trimmings. What it's about really is what's inside you, and all that you are that goes into creating the beautiful
, the unique and the startling."

  "I can't go back, you see. I can't go back to the way things were, before you." She looked at him then, studying his face feature by feature while his hand lay warm over hers. "Will you take a drive with me? There's something I want to show you."

  "I have a car outside. I've already put your bike in it."

  She had to smile. "I should have known you would."

  With a fall wind in the air, and the leaves a riot of color, they drove toward Loop Hea. Away from the narrow road, spilling back like the sea itself, were harvested fields and the deep, sweet green so special to Ireland. Maggie saw the tumbled stone sheds that looked no different than they had when she had traveled this road nearly five years before. The land was there, and the people tended it, as they always had. Always would.

  When she heard the sea, smelled the first sharp sting of it on the air, her heart lurched. She squeezed her eyes tight, opened them again. And read the Sign.

  LAST PUB UNTIL NEW YORK.

  Shall we sail over to New York, Maggie, and have a pint ?

  When the car stopped, she said nothing, only got out to let the wind slap cool over her skin. Reaching for Rogan's hand, she held it as they walked down the beaten path to the sea. The war continued, wave against rock in the echoing crash and hiss that was eternal. The mist had rolled in, so that there was no border between sea and sky, just a wide, wide cup of soft gray.

  "I haven't been here in almost five years. I didn't know I'd ever come again to stand like this." She pressed her lips together, wishing the fist around her heart would loosen, just a little. "My father died here. We'd come out together, just us two. It was winter and bitter cold, but he loved this spot more than any other I can think of. I'd sold some pieces that day to a merchant in Ennis, and we'd celebrated in O'Ma lleys."

  "You were alone with him?" The horror of it slashed Rogan like a rapier. He could do nothing for her but pull her into his arms and hold on. "I'm sorry, Maggie. So sorry."

  She brushed her cheek over the soft wool of Rogan's coat, caught the scent of him in it. She let her eyes close. "We talked, about my mother, their marriage. I'd never understood why he stayed. Maybe I never will. But there was something in him that yearned, and that wanted for me and Brianna what ever that yearning was. I think I have the same longing, but diat I might have the chance to grab hold of it."

  She drew back so that she could look at his face as she spoke. "I've something for you." Watching him, she took one of the glass drops from her pocket, held it out in her palm.

  "It looks like a tear."

  "Aye." She waited while he held it to the light and studied it.

  He rubbed a thumb over the smooth glass. "Are you giving me your tears, Maggie?"

  "Perhaps I am." She took another one out of her pocket. "It comes from dropping hot glass in water. When you do, some shatter right away, but others hold and form. Strong." She crouched and chose a rock. While Rogan watched she struck the glass with rock. "Strong enough that it won't break under a hammer." She rose again, holding the undamaged drop. "It holds, you see. Does nothing more than bounce away from the blow and shine. But there's this thin end here and it only takes a careless twist." She took the slim, trailing end between her fingers. The glass turned to harmless dust. "It's gone, you see. Like it never was."

  "A tear comes from the heart," Rogan said. "And neither should be handled carelessly. I won't break yours, Maggie, nor you mine."

  "No." She took a long breath. "But we'll hammer away often enough. We're as different as that water and hot glass, Rogan."

  "And as able to make something strong between us."

  "I think we might. Yet I wonder how long you'd last in a cottage in Clare, or I in a house full of servants in Dublin."

  "We could move to the midlands," he said, and •watched her smile. "Actually, I've given that particu lar matter some thought. The idea, Maggie, is nego tiation and compromise."