Fiona Casey, the assistant her agent had hired for her, showed up at Hope’s hotel room at nine o’clock the next morning. She was a bright, funny, redheaded girl, who was totally in awe of Hope. She was a graduate photography student at the Royal Academy of Arts, and supported herself by doing freelance work. She was equally impressed that they would be shooting Finn O’Neill, and stumbled all over herself, carrying Hope’s equipment out to a rental van. They were due at Finn O’Neill’s house at ten o’clock. Hope hadn’t heard from him again, so she assumed he was healthy enough to do the shoot.
The driver the hotel had provided for her with the van drove them the short distance to an elegant mews house at a fashionable address. The house was tiny, as they all were on the narrow backstreet, and as soon as she struck the brass knocker on the door, a maid in a uniform appeared and let them in. She led them into a doll-sized living room near the front door, which was crammed with weathered antique English furniture. The bookcase was overflowing, and there were stacks of books on the floor, and glancing at them, Hope could see that many of the books were old, either leatherbound, or on closer inspection, first editions. This was clearly a man who loved books. The couches were comfortable, covered in leather, and very old, and there was a fire burning brightly in the grate, which seemed to be the only heat source in the room. It was cold, except when one stood close to the fire. And in close proximity to the sitting room was a dining room painted dark green, and a small kitchen beyond. Each of the rooms was very small, but had lots of charm.
They sat there for nearly half an hour, waiting for Finn, as both Fiona and Hope got up to stand near the fire, chatting quietly in whispers. The house was so minute that it seemed awkward to speak too loudly, for fear that someone would overhear them. And then, just as Hope began wondering where he was, a tall man with a mane of dark hair and electric blue eyes burst into the room. The house seemed ridiculously small for a man his size, as though if he stretched his arms he could touch the walls and span the room. It seemed an absurd place for him, particularly after she had looked up his ancestral home in Ireland on the Internet after Paul mentioned it to her.
“I’m so sorry to keep you waiting,” Finn said in an ordinary American accent. She didn’t know why, but after all she’d read about O’Neill and his ties to Ireland, she almost expected him to have a brogue, except that they had spoken on the phone the night before, and he had sounded like any other educated New Yorker, although he looked more European. Whatever his ancestry, he was in fact as American as Hope. And his cold sounded a lot better. He coughed a few times, but no longer sounded as though he were dying. In fact, he looked surprisingly healthy and full of life. And he had a smile that melted Fiona on the spot, as he had the maid offer her a cup of coffee while he invited Hope to join him upstairs. He apologized to Fiona for disappearing with Hope, but he wanted to get to know his photographer a little better.
She followed him up a narrow winding staircase, and found herself in a cozy but larger living room, filled with books, antiques, objects, mementos, old leather couches, and comfortable chairs, and there was a blazing fire in the fireplace. It was the kind of room where you wanted to tuck yourself in and stay for days. Every object was fascinating and intriguing. Some were from his travels, and others looked as though he had treasured them for years. The room was full of personality and warmth, and despite his large frame and long limbs, it somehow seemed the perfect place for him. He let himself down into the embrace of an overstuffed old couch, and stretched out his long legs toward the fire with a broad grin at Hope. She saw that he was wearing well-worn, very elegant black leather riding boots.
“I hope I wasn’t rude to your assistant,” he said apologetically. “I just thought it might be nice to get acquainted, before we get to work. I’m always self-conscious about being photographed. As a writer, I’m used to observing everyone else, not to having others watch me. I don’t like being in the limelight.” He said it with a boyish, slightly lopsided smile that immediately won her heart. He had an immense amount of charm.
“I feel exactly the same way. I don’t like being photographed either. I like being at the shooting end myself.” She was already thinking about where she could photograph him best. She almost preferred him right where he was, stretching out comfortably in front of the fire, his head slightly thrown back so she could see his face. “Are you feeling better?” He appeared so healthy and vital that it was hard to believe he’d ever been sick. He still sounded a little hoarse, but he was full of energy, and his blue eyes danced when he laughed. He reminded her of the fairy tales of her youth, and looked like the perfect handsome prince, or the hero in a book, although most of the subjects of his work were fairly dark.
“I’m fine now,” he said blithely, and then coughed a little. “This house is so small, I always feel somewhat foolish in it, but it’s so comfortable and easy, I could never give it up. I’ve had it for years. I’ve written some of my best books here.” And then he turned to point to his desk behind them. It was a wonderful old partner’s desk, which he said had been on a ship. It dominated the far corner of the room, where his computer sat on it, looking strangely out of place. “Thank you for coming over,” he said kindly. He seemed truly grateful, as the maid walked in, carrying a silver tray with two cups of tea. “I know it was a crazy thing to ask you to do, on Christmas week. But they needed the shot, and I’m finishing a book next week, and due to start another right after, so I’ll be back in Dublin working. Meeting you in London now made more sense.”
“It was fine actually,” Hope said easily, helping herself to one of the cups of tea. Finn took the other one, and the maid instantly disappeared back down the stairs. “I had nothing else to do,” she said, as he examined her carefully. She was younger than he had expected, and better looking. He was startled by how tiny and delicate she was, and the strength of her violet eyes.
“You’re a good sport to come over here right before Christmas,” he commented, as she looked at the light and shadows on his face. He was going to be easy to photograph. Everything about him was expressive, and he was a strikingly handsome man.
“London is fun this time of year,” Hope said with a smile as she set down her cup of tea on the regimental drum he used as a coffee table. A stack of beautiful old alligator suitcases sat to one side of the fireplace. Everywhere she looked there was something to admire. “I usually ignore the holiday, so it was fun to come over here. The assignment was a nice surprise and came at a good time. What about you? Will you be spending Christmas in Ireland or here?” She liked getting to know her subjects before she started work, and O’Neill was easy and relaxed. He didn’t seem like a difficult person, and he was open and accessible as he smiled at her over his cup of tea. He was extremely charming and appealing.
“No, I’m going to stay here and go back afterward,” he answered. “My son is flying over the day after Christmas. He goes to MIT, he’s a bright kid. He’s a computer whiz. His mother died when he was seven, and he grew up with me. I really miss him now that he’s in college in the States. It’s more fun for him here in London than in Dublin. And then he’s going skiing with friends. We’re very close,” Finn said proudly, and then looked at her intently. He was curious about her. “Do you have kids?”
“No.” She shook her head quietly. “I don’t.” He was surprised. She looked as though she would. She didn’t look like one of those career women who had decided not to have children. She seemed more motherly and there was a noticeably gentle softness about her. She was soft-spoken and seemed nurturing and kind.
“Married?” He glanced at her left hand, and there was no ring.
“No,” and then she opened up a little. “I was. My husband was a cardiovascular surgeon at Harvard. Heart-lung transplants were his specialty. He retired ten years ago. We’ve been divorced for over two years.”
“I think retiring destroys people. I’m going to keep writing until they carry me out. I wouldn’t know what else to do with myself. Was retiring hard on him? It must have been. Heart surgeons are always heroes, particularly at Harvard, I imagine.”
“He had no choice. He got sick,” she said quietly.
“Worse yet. That must have been tough for him. Cancer?” He wanted to know about her, and as they talked, she watched the movement of his face, and the bright blue of his eyes. She was glad they were shooting in color-it would have been a shame not to get the actual color of those eyes. They were the bluest she’d ever seen.
“No, Parkinson’s. He stopped operating as soon as he found out. He taught for several years after that, but eventually, he had to give that up too. It was very hard on him.”
“And probably on you too. That’s a brutal disappointment for a man in the midst of a career like that. Hence the divorce?”
“That and other things,” she said vaguely, glancing around the room again. There was a photograph of Finn with a handsome young blond boy, who she guessed was his son, and he nodded when he saw her looking at it.
“That’s my boy, Michael. I miss him now that he’s at school. It’s hard getting used to his not being around.”
