The table in the big family kitchen could have fit twelve, and he imagined it had. There was a huge stove that appeared to be well-used, an enormous refrigerator, miles of butter yellow counters.
The windows over the sink looked out over garden and field and hill, and there were little pots he supposed were herbs sitting on the sill. It was a working room, and a cheerful one. He could still smell breakfast in the air.
"Have a seat then, Roarke. Will you have biscuits with your tea?"
"No, thank you. I'm fine."
"Well, I will. Don't get much of a reason to eat a biscuit in the middle of the day, might as well take advantage of it when I do."
She dealt with the homey chores, and had him wondering if she was giving them both time to settle. The tea was in a plain white pot, and the biscuits she put on a pretty blue plate.
"Yours is a face I never expected to see at my door." With the chores done, she sat, chose a biscuit. "So, why have you come?"
"I thought I… felt I… Ah, well." He sipped the tea. Apparently, she hadn't given him time enough to settle. "I didn't know about you-about Siobhan-until a few days ago."
Her eyebrow lifted. "Know what?"
"That you-she-existed. I'd been told, I believed, that my mother… the woman I thought was my mother, had left. Left me when I was a child."
"Did you?"
"Ma'am-"
"I'm Sinead. Sinead Lannigan."
"Mrs. Lannigan, until a few days ago, I'd never heard the name Siobhan Brody. I thought my mother's name was Meg, and I don't remember her particularly well except she had a hard hand and she walked out, leaving me with him."
"Your mother, your true mother, wouldn't have left you if there'd been breath in her body."
So she knows already, he thought. Knows her sister's long dead. "I know it now. He killed her. I don't know what to say to you."
She set her cup down, very carefully. "Tell me the story as you know it now. That's what I want to hear."
He told her, while she sat in silence, watching him. And when he'd told her all he knew, she rose, filled a kettle, put it on the stove.
"I've known it, all these years. We could never prove it, of course. The police, they didn't help, didn't seem to care. She was just one more girl gone astray."
"He had a few cops in his pocket back then. One or two is all it takes when you want something covered. You could never have proved it, however you tried."
Her shoulders trembled once on a long breath, then she turned. "We tried to find you, at first. For her sake. For Siobhan. My brother, Ned, nearly died trying. They beat him half to death, left him in a Dublin alley. He had a wife, and a babe of his own. Much as it pained us, we had to let you go. I'm sorry."
He only stared, and said, very slowly. "My father killed her."
"Yes." Tears swam into her eyes. "And I hope the murdering son of a whore's burning in hell. I won't ask God to forgive me for saying it, for hoping it." Carefully, she folded the red-and-white dishcloth, then sat back down while the kettle heated for more tea.
"I felt, when I learned all this, what had happened to her, I felt you-her family-deserved to be told. That it was only right that I tell you, face-to-face. I realize it's no easier hearing it from me, maybe harder at that, but it was the only way I knew."
Watching his face, she leaned back. "Come from America, did you, for this?"
"I did, yes."
"We heard of you-your exploits, young Roarke. His father's son, I thought. An operator, a dangerous man. Heartless man. I think you may be a dangerous man, but it's not a heartless one sitting in my kitchen waiting for me to slap him for something he had no part in."
"I didn't look for her, never thought of her. I did nothing to put it right."
"What are you doing now? Sitting here with me while your tea goes cold?"
"I don't know. Christ Jesus, I don't know. Because there's nothing Ican do."
"She loved you. We didn't hear from her much. I think he wouldn't let her, and she only managed to sneak a few calls or letters off now and then. But she loved you, heart and soul. It's right that you should grieve for her, but not that you should pay."
She rose when the kettle sputtered. "She was my twin."
"I know."
"I'd be your aunt. You have two uncles, grandparents, any number of cousins if you're interested."
"I… it's difficult to take it in."
"I imagine it is. Aye, I imagine it is. You have her eyes," she said quietly.
Baffled, he shook his head. "Hers were green. Her eyes were green, like yours. I saw her picture."
"Not the color, but the shape." She turned around. "The shape of your eyes is hers. And like mine, don't you see?" She stepped to him, laid a hand over his. "It seems to me that the shape of something is important, more important than the color."
When emotion stormed through him, Sinead did what came naturally. She drew his head to her breast, stroked his hair. "There now," she murmured, holding her sister's boy. "There now. She'd be glad you've come. She'd be happy you're here, at last."
Later, she took him out to where the edge of the yard met the first field. "We planted that for her." She gestured to a tall, many-branched tree. "We made no grave for her. I knew she was gone, but it didn't seem right to make a grave for her. So we planted a cherry tree. It blooms fine every spring. And when I see it bloom, it gives me some comfort."
"It's beautiful. It's a beautiful place."
"Your people are farmers, Roarke, generations back." She smiled when he looked at her. "We held on to the land, no matter what. We're stubborn, hotheaded, and we'll work till we drop. You come from that."
"I've spent years trying to shake off where I came from. Not looking back."
"You can look back on this with pride. He couldn't break you, could he? I bet he tried."
"Maybe if he hadn't tried so bloody hard I wouldn't have gotten away. I wouldn't have made myself. I'll… I'll plant a cherry tree back home for her."
"There's a good thought. You're a married man, aren't you, married to one of the New York guarda."
"She's my miracle," he told her. "My Eve."
His tone stirred her. "No children though."
"Not yet, no."
"Well, there's plenty of time for them yet. I've seen pictures of her, of course. I've kept tabs on you over the years. Couldn't help myself. She looks strong. I suppose she'd have to be."
"She is."
"Bring her with you next time you come. But for now, we should get you settled in."
"I'm sorry?"
"You don't expect to get away so easy, do you? You'll stay at least the night, meet the rest of your family. Give them a chance to meet you. It would mean a great deal to my parents, to my brothers," she added before he could speak.
"Mrs. Lannigan."
"That's Aunt Sinead to you."
He let out a half-laugh. "I'm out of my depth."
"Well then," she said cheerfully, and took his hand, "sink or swim, for you're about to be tossed into the deep end of the pool."
Chapter 17
She questioned over two dozen registered owners of vehicles with carpet matching the fibers found on the victims. Including a little old lady who used hers to transport other little old ladies to church on Sundays.
Eve found herself trapped inside a two-room apartment that smelled of cats and lavender sachet. She wasn't sure which was worse. She drank weak, tepid iced tea because Mrs. Ernestine MacNamara gave her no other choice.
"It's so exciting-terrible of me, but I can't help myself. So exciting to be questioned by thepolice at my age. I'm a hundred and six, you know."
And looked it, Eve thought sourly.
Ernestine was tiny and dry and colorless, as though the years had leached her. But she shuffled around the room with some energy in her faded pink slippers, shooing or cooing at cats. There appeared to be a full dozen of them, and from some of the sounds Eve heard, some were very busy making more cats.