Seamus…and his mother’s devastating loneliness at his father’s endless absences. The soft sobs he heard late at night behind her bedroom door cut him to the quick and he wanted to go to her, to make everything all right. But whenever he approached, her tears magically dried and all was well.
One day she was there, smiling at him, and the next day, she was gone. Conor expected her to come home by morning, as did Seamus when he stumbled in from the pub just as the sun was rising. But his mother never returned. And from that day on, Seamus would not speak her name. Questions were met with stony silence and when they persisted, he’d told the boys she’d moved back to Ireland. A few months later, he finally told them she’d died in an auto wreck. But Conor suspected that this was only a lie to end the questions, just revenge for his mother’s betrayal.
Conor had vowed never to forget her. At night, he’d imagined her soft, dark hair and her warm smile, the way she touched him when she spoke and the pride he saw in her eyes when he did well in school. The twins and Liam had just vague memories of her. And Dylan and Brendan’s memories were distorted by their loss, making her seem unreal, like some fairy princess dressed in spun gold.
“So this you must remember,” his father said in a warning tone, interrupting Conor’s daydream. “Like the clever Eamon Quinn who drove the dragon off the cliffs and saved many fishermen from a fate worse than death, a man’s strength and power is lost if he gives in to a weakness of the heart. Love for a woman is the only thing that can bring a Mighty Quinn down.”
“I’m a Mighty Quinn!” Brendan cried, pounding on his chest. “And I’m never going to let a girl kiss me!”
“Shhh!” Conor hissed. “You’ll wake Liam.”
Seamus chuckled and patted Brendan’s knee. “That’s right, boyo. You listen to your da on this. Women are trouble for the likes of us Quinns.”
“Da, it’s time for us to get to bed,” Conor said, weary of the same old cautionary tale. “We have school.”
Dylan and Brendan both moaned and rolled their eyes, but Seamus wagged his finger. “Conor is right. Besides, I’ve got a powerful thirst that only a pint of Guinness can quench.” He ruffled their hair, then pushed off the bed and headed toward the front door.
Conor hurried after him. “Da, we need to talk. Can’t you stay in tonight?”
His father waved him off. “You sound like an old woman, Con. Don’t be a nag. We can talk in the morning.” With that, Seamus grabbed his jacket and slipped out into the storm, leaving his son with nothing more than a cold draft and an uneasy shiver. Defeated, Conor turned and walked back to the bedroom. Dylan and Brendan had already climbed into their bunk beds. Conor turned off the lights and flopped down on the mattress in the corner, drawing the blankets up to his chin to ward off the chill.
He was almost asleep when a small voice came out of the darkness. “What was she like, Con?” Brendan asked, repeating a question he’d been asking nearly every night for the past few months.
“Tell us again,” Dylan pleaded. “Tell us about Ma.”
Conor wasn’t sure why they suddenly needed to hear. Maybe they sensed how fragile their life had become, how easily it could all fall apart. “She was a fine and beautiful woman,” Conor said. “Her hair was dark, nearly black like ours. And she had eyes the color of the sea, green and blue put together.”
“I remember the necklace,” Dylan murmured. “She always wore a beautiful necklace that had jewels that sparkled in the light.”
“Tell us about her laugh,” Brendan said. “I like that story.”
“Tell the story about the soda bread, when you fed it to Mrs. Smalley’s wee dog and Ma caught you. I like that one.”
So Conor spun his tale, lulling his brothers to sleep with visions of their mother, the beautiful Fiona Quinn. But unlike his father’s stories, Conor didn’t have to embellish. Every word he spoke was pure truth. And though Conor knew that love for a woman was a sign of weakness and trouble for any Quinn, he didn’t heed his father’s warning. For, in a secret corner of his heart, he’d always love his mother and that would make him strong.
1
THE SHOT CAME out of nowhere, shattering the plate-glass window of Ford-Farrell Antiques into thousands of pieces. At first, Olivia Farrell thought one of the display cases had fallen over, or a crystal vase had tipped off a shelf. But then a second shot rang out, the bullet whizzing by her head and embedding itself into the wall with a soft hiss and thud. Frantic, she glanced up to find shards of glass tumbling into the window display around a Federal-era breakfront.
Her first impulse was to throw herself over the breakfront, a rare piece valued at over $60,000. After all, the multipaned doors still contained all original glass! And the piece would be virtually worthless to her discerning clientele if it contained any scratches on the exquisitely preserved marquetry. But then, common sense took over and she dove for cover behind a rather overblown chaise longue in the Victorian style, a piece that might actually benefit from a few bullet holes.
“Oh, damn,” she murmured, not sure what to do next. Should she run? Should she hide? She certainly couldn’t shoot back since she didn’t own a gun. She thought about locking the front door, but then whoever was shooting could just walk through the gaping hole in her plate-glass window. “Why didn’t I listen? Why did I sneak out?”
Pushing up from the floor, she gauged the distance between her location and the back door of the gallery. But what if they were waiting for her in the alley? Since she wasn’t familiar with wiseguy protocol, she had no idea whether her unseen assassins were determined to kill her at all costs or whether they’d regroup and try again later. Then again, they’d missed. Maybe they’d just meant to scare her.
“Phone,” she murmured, reaching into her jacket pocket to pull out the sleek little cell phone she always carried. “Nine-one-one.” She punched in the number and immediately began to pray. Perhaps she should just play dead, in case they burst into the shop, guns blazing.
Tears pressed at the corners of her eyes and her hand trembled as she waited for the emergency operator to answer. But she refused to give in to fear, pushing back the tears and summoning up her courage. She’d taught herself to control her emotions, to maintain a cool demeanor, but that was for business purposes only. Maybe a gunshot through the window was a good excuse for a little hysteria.
None of this would have happened if she’d just kept her mouth shut, if she’d just turned around and walked away that night a few months back. But she’d been scared back then, scared that everything she’d worked so hard to achieve was about to be taken from her.
The closest she’d ever come to breaking the law was fudging a few numbers on her tax return and ignoring the speed limit on the I-90. Now her business records had been impounded, her past scrutinized, her partner thrown in jail, and her reputation left nearly in tatters. She was a material witness in a murder and money-laundering trial against a very dangerous man-a man who obviously thought nothing of killing her before she had a chance to tell her story in court.
Olivia listened as the operator came on the line, then quickly gave her location and a brief description of what had happened. The operator asked her to stay on the line and she listened distractedly as the woman tried to keep her calm. Olivia had always heard that when someone came close to death, their life passed before their eyes. All she could think about was how she hated feeling so vulnerable, so dependent on someone else’s help.
“Just keep talking to me, ma’am,” the operator urged.
“What should I talk about?” Olivia asked, her voice edgy. The only subject that came to mind was how quickly her life had changed in such a short time. Two months ago, she’d been on top of the game, Boston’s most successful antiques dealer. She travelled all over the country, searching out the finest American antiques for her shop. Her client list read like a Who’s Who of East Coast society. And she’d recently been named to the board of one of Boston’s most prestigious historical societies. There was even talk that she might be asked to appear on the public television show
All this for a girl who’d grown up not on Beacon Hill, but in a working-class neighborhood of Boston. But she’d risen above her rather common beginnings, leaving her past far behind and creating a whole new identity for herself-a wonderful, exciting identity, filled with travel and parties and influential friends. And financial security. She had saved only one thing from her childhood-an interest in anything one hundred years old or older.
“My parents were antique fanatics,” she murmured to the operator, surrendering to the memory. “They used to
