“I want to go to Ireland. Oh Jesus, oh God, that’s what I want. I want to go see where my father came from, see what pulled him back there and away from me. I want, if I can, to find him, to ask him why. Why he left, why he sent money. Just why.”
“Do it. That’s a great one thing. Spend the summer in Ireland, let yourself have that time, that place to figure the rest out.”
“The summer?”
“Why the hell not? When’s the last time you had any sort of vacation?”
“When we graduated from college and took a bus to the Jersey Shore for a week.”
“We had a great time,” he remembered. “And that was a time ago, Breen. Long time ago.”
She picked up her wine, drank deep. “Go with me.”
“To Ireland?”
“I’d never do it alone. Go with me. You’re right, you’re right.” She pushed away from the table, whirled around the room. “Why the hell not? It’s what I want. The one thing I really want. We’ll fly first class this time, and stay in a castle. At least one night in a castle. We’ll rent a car and drive on the wrong side of the road. We could—we could rent a cottage. An Irish cottage with a thatched roof.”
“You maybe had too much wine.”
“I haven’t.” She laughed now, eyes dancing. “Go with me, Marco, and share my one thing.”
“I can’t go off for the whole summer. Sally and Derrick, they’d be cool with it, but I’ve got a day job I gotta keep.”
“You hate your day job. You hate working in the music store.”
“Yeah, but nobody slapped me with four mil. But I could go for a couple weeks, get you started. Jesus, I’ve never been to Europe. What a kick in the ass it would be.”
“I’ll kick yours, you kick mine. Deal?”
He sat back. He loved her, more than anything or anyone in the world. And he couldn’t put out that light in her eyes. But he could sure as hell bargain.
“I have conditions.”
She plopped back down. “Name them.”
“I can’t afford first class, so fine, that’s on you. But I pay my share of the rest.”
“I don’t care about that.”
“Yeah, because you’re a freaking millionaire.”
She threw back her head and howled with laughter. “I’m a freaking millionaire.”
“That’s one condition. The others are just as solid from my side. When you finish eating, you’re going in there and washing your hair until you wash that stupid-ass brown shit out of it—for the last time. And you’re tossing that stupid-ass hair dryer out, the one you spend an hour with every morning blowing your gorgeous curls straight.”
He shook his head when she opened her mouth to object.
“You’re going to Ireland. Bet you won’t be the only redhead there.”
“I’m not the only redhead anywhere.”
“That’s right, but you let yourself be convinced the hair, your hair, made you look, what, frivolous? That it attracted attention—and why the hell shouldn’t it? Fuck that, Breen.”
“You’ll go with me, at least two weeks, if I go back to my natural hair.”
“That’s right.”
“Deal.”
“Not quite there yet. I have one more.”
“You’re a hard sell, Marco Polo.”
“I ain’t no pushover. This one’s important, it might be key.” He leaned forward. “Tomorrow, we’re going shopping because tonight we’re bagging up damn near everything in your closet. We’ll drop it by the Goodwill tomorrow, then you, being the lucky woman with every woman’s dream of a gay best friend, are going to let me help you buy clothes that don’t hurt my heart when you wear them.”
“My clothes aren’t that bad.”
“Sad and pitiful is what they are, and you are not. You’ve let yourself think you need to be, or need to be goddamn beige. I’m not going to talk against your mama, because that’s not how I was brought up. But I am going to say, when you go talk to her next week, you’re going to look like what you really are: strong, capable, beautiful, and smart. And we’re buying some good makeup while we’re at it, too.”
“That’s a lot of conditions.”
“It is what it is. I love you, Breen.”
“I know you do, and so . . .” She held out a hand. “Deal.”
“That’s my girl!”
CHAPTER THREE
In another series of firsts, Breen took off work on the day of her mother’s expected arrival. She’d bought the listed groceries, put them away. After all, she’d agreed to do so.
She opened the windows, watered the plants, sorted the mail.
She had a calm, and firm, monologue in her head. In fact, she’d written out what she intended to say to her mother. She’d edited and revised it several times. Practiced it in the mirror.
Then she’d practiced it without the mirror, as she didn’t altogether recognize the person looking back at her.
She knew the drama of the change if only from the looks, comments, even compliments at work, on the bus.
The hair, flaming curls well beyond her shoulders—and Marco had vetoed her option of having it cut—made the statement. She wasn’t sure, yet, what the statement was, but it made one.
No chance of fading into the background now, she thought. She’d see, that’s all, she’d just see how she felt about it in a week or two.
But she knew already she liked her new—if limited—wardrobe. A few strong colors, some spring pastels—no beige. Pants that fit, a couple of simple, and pretty, dresses. One business suit. New shoes—she’d held the line at three against an enthusiastic Marco. And with Ireland in mind, a good pair of walking boots.
She’d stuck with sales, and had still spent more money in a single day than she spent on herself—just Breen—in six months.
More.
Maybe it had been the rush of it all that had weakened her enough to let Marco talk her into getting her ears pierced.
She fiddled with the little silver stud as she looked at the latest text from Marco on her phone.
It said: Courage.
And as she saw the cab pull up outside, she tried to take it to heart.
Going with instinct, she went to the door, stepped out.
Because her eyes were trained on her mother, she didn’t see the man with the silver hair glance her way as he strolled by across the street.
Jennifer Wilcox looked, as always, perfect in trim gray pants, a light jacket in bold red over a soft white shirt. Her hair, richly brown, expertly highlighted, complemented her sharp-featured face with an angular wedge.
Breen saw the surprise—and, oh yes, the quick disapproval—as she walked down to help with the luggage.
“I’ve got this,” Breen said as she took the handle of the large wheeled Pullman.
Jennifer shouldered the matching tote and her computer case.
“I didn’t expect to see you here. Why aren’t you at work?”
“I took the day off.” Battling back the knee-jerk anxiety, Breen rolled the suitcase to the door and inside.