had read articles about women who failed to conceive
because they postponed childbearing beyond the optimal years.
There was some disagreement as to what those years were, but
Grace Flynn was clearly more optimal than I.
I had finally conceived a child the previous April. Six weeks
later I miscarried. It was all very well for the doctors to assure me
that spontaneous abortions were common in mothers of a certain
age. I was not consoled. My grief and fury extended well into
summer, until Dad's stroke jolted me out of my self-absorption.
Jay had borne with me. I realized I ought to be grateful, but
what I felt was a kind of shamefaced resentment. Hence my desire to
escape. Hence my flight to Ireland. And here was the fecund Miss
Flynn confronting me with my inadequacy.
"The poor child," Maeve murmured.
My cheeks burned as if she had heard my selfish
reaction.
"Do something, Joe."
Kennedy cleared his throat. "Gracie darling, should you be
riding on a motorcycle in your condition?"
"Joe!" Maeve's tone was stern.
"Come and sit down, lass." Kennedy walked across the long
room to Grace and led her back to the couch. She looked less
dramatic sitting down. The leather-clad man, who was younger than
I had thought at first glance, circled and stood behind the couch. His
eyes kept darting around the room like a cornered animal's.
Alex hovered at Kennedy's elbow. "I'll get her a drink, shall
I?"
"Juice or water," Kennedy pronounced. "We can't have the
baby suffering from fetal alcohol syndrome." He said babby.
Grace blinked. She looked as if she wanted to protest.
Alex brought her something fruity. She took it and sat with
the glass balanced on one bejeaned knee.
"That's the ticket," Kennedy said kindly. "Now, Grace, why
don't you tell us what it was moved you to burst in here without an
invitation?"
"I want me rights." She took a swallow from the glass and
made a face.
"And who is trying to deprive you of them?"
Grace muttered dark aspersions against Kayla Wheeler.
Kennedy straightened. "Ah, I see. You're concerned for your
child's rights in the estate of Slade Wheeler."
Grace nodded.
"His Dublin solicitor doesn't know of a will. If he died
intestate, the child stands to come into a share of his property. Time
for the lawyers, lass. Isn't it grand that it's so easy to establish
paternity these days? I'll alert the doctors..." His voice trailed.
Possibly he decided taking tissue from a dead man for
genetic analysis was an indelicate subject in the presence of the dead
man's putative child. Or he may have wanted to work on our
imaginations—and Grace's.
Grace's eyes widened and she shifted on the couch. Her
bodyguard stared. Somebody gave a choked laugh. Maeve
frowned.
I wondered if Grace was sure who the child's father was. She
looked alarmed. Of course, she might have been puzzling over the
word intestate. I hoped she had some instinct for self-preservation,
because she had just handed the Gardai a motive for murder.
Kennedy was saying soothing things. He expressed no doubt
that the child was Wheeler's. "You'll want to talk the legal situation
over with your da, Gracie."
"He'll kill me."
"Does he know you're with child?" Maeve interjected,
sharp.
Grace shook her head, and her eyes brimmed tears.
Barbara took a step forward. I edged toward the couch, too.
Both of us, I think, were moved by an impulse of protection, but it
was Maeve who expressed it.
"I'll come home with you, Grace. So will Joe, if you think that
will help. And you should ring up Caitlin Morrisey in Arklow."
"The solicitor?" Grace looked awed.
Maeve said, "Shall I telephone her for you?"
"Oh, please, Miss Butler, I'm that upset I don't know what I'd
say to a lawyer at all." She burst into tears.
Maeve sat beside her and held her quivering shoulders.
Grace's henchman looked as if he would have burst into tears too, if
he hadn't been covered with leather and tattoos. They were just kids,
and Grace, at least, had suffered a loss, though I had
because they postponed childbearing beyond the optimal years.
There was some disagreement as to what those years were, but
Grace Flynn was clearly more optimal than I.
I had finally conceived a child the previous April. Six weeks
later I miscarried. It was all very well for the doctors to assure me
that spontaneous abortions were common in mothers of a certain
age. I was not consoled. My grief and fury extended well into
summer, until Dad's stroke jolted me out of my self-absorption.
Jay had borne with me. I realized I ought to be grateful, but
what I felt was a kind of shamefaced resentment. Hence my desire to
escape. Hence my flight to Ireland. And here was the fecund Miss
Flynn confronting me with my inadequacy.
"The poor child," Maeve murmured.
My cheeks burned as if she had heard my selfish
reaction.
"Do something, Joe."
Kennedy cleared his throat. "Gracie darling, should you be
riding on a motorcycle in your condition?"
"Joe!" Maeve's tone was stern.
"Come and sit down, lass." Kennedy walked across the long
room to Grace and led her back to the couch. She looked less
dramatic sitting down. The leather-clad man, who was younger than
I had thought at first glance, circled and stood behind the couch. His
eyes kept darting around the room like a cornered animal's.
Alex hovered at Kennedy's elbow. "I'll get her a drink, shall
I?"
"Juice or water," Kennedy pronounced. "We can't have the
baby suffering from fetal alcohol syndrome." He said babby.
Grace blinked. She looked as if she wanted to protest.
Alex brought her something fruity. She took it and sat with
the glass balanced on one bejeaned knee.
"That's the ticket," Kennedy said kindly. "Now, Grace, why
don't you tell us what it was moved you to burst in here without an
invitation?"
"I want me rights." She took a swallow from the glass and
made a face.
"And who is trying to deprive you of them?"
Grace muttered dark aspersions against Kayla Wheeler.
Kennedy straightened. "Ah, I see. You're concerned for your
child's rights in the estate of Slade Wheeler."
Grace nodded.
"His Dublin solicitor doesn't know of a will. If he died
intestate, the child stands to come into a share of his property. Time
for the lawyers, lass. Isn't it grand that it's so easy to establish
paternity these days? I'll alert the doctors..." His voice trailed.
Possibly he decided taking tissue from a dead man for
genetic analysis was an indelicate subject in the presence of the dead
man's putative child. Or he may have wanted to work on our
imaginations—and Grace's.
Grace's eyes widened and she shifted on the couch. Her
bodyguard stared. Somebody gave a choked laugh. Maeve
frowned.
I wondered if Grace was sure who the child's father was. She
looked alarmed. Of course, she might have been puzzling over the
word intestate. I hoped she had some instinct for self-preservation,
because she had just handed the Gardai a motive for murder.
Kennedy was saying soothing things. He expressed no doubt
that the child was Wheeler's. "You'll want to talk the legal situation
over with your da, Gracie."
"He'll kill me."
"Does he know you're with child?" Maeve interjected,
sharp.
Grace shook her head, and her eyes brimmed tears.
Barbara took a step forward. I edged toward the couch, too.
Both of us, I think, were moved by an impulse of protection, but it
was Maeve who expressed it.
"I'll come home with you, Grace. So will Joe, if you think that
will help. And you should ring up Caitlin Morrisey in Arklow."
"The solicitor?" Grace looked awed.
Maeve said, "Shall I telephone her for you?"
"Oh, please, Miss Butler, I'm that upset I don't know what I'd
say to a lawyer at all." She burst into tears.
Maeve sat beside her and held her quivering shoulders.
Grace's henchman looked as if he would have burst into tears too, if
he hadn't been covered with leather and tattoos. They were just kids,
and Grace, at least, had suffered a loss, though I had
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