Born in Fire (Born In Trilogy #1)

Born in Fire (Born In Trilogy #1) Page 76

“Oh, very. Blooming, you could say. And I believe she said Joseph had told her about the Paris business. She’s working very hard on her day school, and Joseph is giving her a bit of help.”

“Good. I haven’t had much time at the gallery this past week, I’m afraid. The fact is the expansion in Limerick is taking most of my efforts.”

“How is that going?”

“Well enough. I’ve had some complications, so I’ll have to take a trip down to sort them out.”

“But you’ve hardly gotten back.”

“It shouldn’t take more than a day or two.” He cocked his head, watching his grandmother tug at her skirt, brush at her hair. “Is something wrong?”

“No.” She smiled brightly and forced her hands to still. “Not at all, though there is something I want to discuss with you. You see…” She trailed off, calling herself a miserable coward. “How is Maggie? Did she enjoy France?”

“She seemed to.”

“It’s a beautiful time of year to holiday at the villa. Was the weather good?”

“It was. Is it weather you want to discuss, Grandmother?”

“No, I was just—are you sure you don’t want that drink?”

A trickle of alarm skidded down his back. “If something’s wrong, I want you to tell me.”

“There’s nothing wrong, darling. Nothing at all wrong.”

To his amazement she blushed like a schoolgirl. “Grandmother—”

He was interrupted by a clatter on the stairs and a shout. “Chrissy? Where have you gone off to, girl?”

Rogan stood slowly as a man popped into the doorway. He was burly of chest, bald as an egg and dressed in an ill-fitting suit the color of marigolds. His face was round and wrinkled. It beamed like a moon.

“There you are, my darling girl. I thought I’d lost you.”

“I was about to ring for tea.” Christine’s blush deepened as the man strode into the room and kissed both her fluttering hands.

“Rogan, this is Niall Feeney. Niall, my grandson, Rogan.”

“So, this be himself.” Rogan found his hand enveloped and pumped heartily. “Well, it’s delighted I am to be meeting you at long last. Chrissy’s told me all about you, lad. Why, you’re the very apple of her eye.”

“I’m—pleased to meet you, Mr. Feeney.”

“No, no, now, none of that formality between us. Not with all our family connections.” He winked and laughed until his belly jiggled.

“Connections?” Rogan said weakly.

“Aye, with me growing up no farther than a toad could spit from Chrissy here. Fifty years pass, begad, and now fate has it that you’re handling all that pretty glass my niece makes.”

“Your niece?” Realization struck like a fist. “You’re Maggie’s uncle.”

“I am indeed.” Niall sat, very much at home, his substantial belly sagging over his belt. “Proud as a peacock of the girl, I’ll say, though I don’t understand a bloody thing about what she’s doing. I have to take Chrissy’s word that it’s fine.”

“Chrissy,” Rogan repeated in a small voice.

“Isn’t it lovely, Rogan?” Christine’s nervous smile hurt her face. “It seems Brianna wrote to Niall in Galway to tell him Maggie and you were working together. Of course, she mentioned that you were my grandson. Niall wrote me back, and one thing led to another. He’s come to visit awhile.”

“Visit. In Dublin?”

“A fine city it is, to be sure.” Niall smacked a hand on the delicate arm of the sofa. “With the prettiest girls in all of Ireland.” He winked at Christine. “Though, in truth, I’ve only eyes for one.”

“Go on with you, Niall.”

Rogan stared at the pair of them, all but billing and cooing before his eyes. “I believe I’ll have that drink after all,” he said. “A whiskey.”

Chapter Eighteen

IT was a very subdued Rogan who left his grandmother’s parlor and swung by the gallery just past closing. He didn’t want to believe he’d seen what he knew he’d seen. Just as Maggie had once said, when a couple is intimate, they throw off signals.

His grandmother, for God’s sake, was flirting with Maggie’s moon-faced uncle from Galway.

No, he decided as he let himself into the gallery, it didn’t bear thinking of. Signals there might have been, but undoubtedly he’d read them incorrectly. His grandmother was, after all, over seventy, a woman of faultless taste, unblemished character, impeccable style.

And Niall Feeney was…was simply indescribable, Rogan decided.

What he needed was a couple of hours of perfect peace and quiet in his gallery office—away from people and phones and anything remotely personal.

He shook his head as he crossed the room. He was sounding entirely too much like Maggie.

The raised voices stopped him before his hand met the knob. An argument was in full swing on the other side of the door. While manners might have urged him to retreat, curiosity turned the tide.

He opened the door on Joseph and Patricia in full steam.

“I tell you, you’re not using the head God gave you,” Joseph shouted. “I won’t be the cause of an estrangement between you and your mother.”

“I don’t give a bloody pin for what my mother thinks,” Patricia shouted right back, causing Rogan’s mouth to fall open. “This has nothing to do with her.”

“The fact that you could say so proves my point. You’re not using your head. She’s—Rogan.” Joseph’s furious face went still as a stone. “I didn’t expect you in.”

“Obviously.” Rogan looked cautiously from Joseph to Patricia. “I seem to have interrupted.”

“Perhaps you can talk your way through that pride of his.” Eyes glinting with emotion, Patricia tossed back her hair. “I can’t.”

“This has nothing to do with Rogan.” Joseph’s voice was quiet, with the steel of warning beneath.

“Oh, no, we mustn’t let anyone know.” The first tear spilled over. Patricia dashed it away. “We should keep sneaking around like—like adulterers. Well, I won’t do it any longer, Joseph. I’m in love with you and I don’t care who knows.” She whirled on Rogan. “Well? What do you have to say about it?”