And she could imagine it. The babies and toddlers whose mothers needed a reliable place to leave their children while they worked. The older children who would come after school and before the close of business. It would fill some of the ache, she thought, and the emptiness that throbbed inside her. She and Robert hadn't had children. They had been so sure there was plenty of time. So sure.
"I'm sure Rogan could help you with the business end of it, Patricia," Anne went on. "After all, you've no experience."
"She's my daughter, isn't she?" Dennis interjected with a wink. "She'll do fine."
"I'm sure she will." Again Anne itched to connect her foot with her husband's shin.
She waited until she was in the parlor with her daughter and the men were lingering over glasses of port in the dining room—a custom Anne refused to believe was outdated. She dismissed the maid who had wheeled in coffee, and rounded on her daughter.
"What are you waiting for, Patricia? You're letting the man slip between your fingers."
"Please, don't start this." Already Patricia could feel the dull, insistent throb of a headache in progress.
"You want to be a widow all your life, I suppose." Grim-eyed, Anne added cream to her cup. "I'm telling you it's been time enough."
"You've been telling me that since a year after Robbie died."
"And it's no more than the truth." Anne sighed. She'd hated to watch her daughter grieve, had wept long and hard herself, not only over the loss of the son-in-law she'd loved, but for the pain she'd been unable to erase from Patricia's eyes. "Darling, as much as we all wish it wasn't so, Robert's gone."
"I know that. I've accepted it and I'm trying to move on."
"By starting a day-care service for other people's children?"
"Yes, in part. I'm doing that for myself, Mother. Because I need work, the satisfaction of it."
"I've finished trying to talk you out of that." In a gesture of peace, Anne raised her hands. "And if it's what you want, truly, than it's what I want as well."
"Thank you for that." Patricia's face softened as she leaned over to kiss her mother's cheek. "I know that you only want the best for me."
"I do. Which is exactly why I want Rogan for you. No, don't close up on me, girl. You can't tell me you don't want him as well."
"I care for him," Patricia said carefully. "Very much. I always have."
"And he for you. But you're standing back, all too patiently, and waiting for him to take the next step. And while you're waiting he's becoming distracted. A blind woman could see that he's interested in more than that Concannon woman's art. And she's not the type to wait," Anne added with a wag of the finger. "Oh, no, indeed. She'll see a man of Rogan's background and means and snap him up before he can blink."
"I very much doubt Rogan can be snapped up," Patricia said dryly. "He knows his own mind."
"In most areas," Anne agreed. "But men need to be guided, Patricia. Allured. You haven't set yourself out to allure Rogan Sweeney. You've got to make him see you as a woman, not as his friend's widow. You want him, don't you?"
"I think—"
"Of course you do. Now see to it that he wants you, too."
Patricia said little when Rogan drove her home. Home to the house she'd shared with Robert, the house she couldn't give up. She no longer walked into a room expecting to find him waiting for her, or suffered those silvery slashes of pain at odd moments when she suddenly remembered their life together. It was simply a house that held good memories. But did she want to live in it alone for the rest of her life? Did she want to spend her days caring for other women's children while there were none of her own to brighten her life? If her mother was right and Rogan was what she wanted, then what was wrong with a little allure.
"Won't you come in for a while?" she asked when he walked her to the door. "It's early still, and I'm restless."
He thought of his own empty house, and the hours before the workday began. "If you'll promise me a brandy."
"On the terrace," she agreed, and walked inside.
The house reflected the quiet elegance and faultless taste of its mistress. Though he'd always felt completely at home there, Rogan thought of Maggie's cluttered cottage and narrow rumpled bed. Even the brandy snifter reminded him of Maggie. He thought of the way she'd smashed one against the hearth in a rage of passion. And of the package that had come days later, holding the one she'd made to replace it.
"It's a lovely night," Patricia said, and snagged his wandering attention.
"What? Oh, yes. Yes, it is." He swirled the brandy, but didn't drink.
A crescent moon rode the sky, misted by clouds, then glowing white and thin as the breeze nudged them clear. The air was warm and fragrant, disturbed only by the muffled sound of traffic beyond the hedges.
Tell me more about the school," he began. "What architect have you chosen?" She named a firm he approved of. They do good work. We've used them ourselves."
"I know. Joseph recommended them. He's been wonderfully helpful, though I feel guilty taking his mind off his work."
"He's well able to do a half-dozen things at once."
"He never seems to mind my dropping into the gallery." Testing him, herself, Patricia moved closer. "I've missed you."
Things have been hectic." He tucked her hair behind her ear, an old gesture, an old habit he wasn't even aware of. "We'll have to make some time. We haven't been to the theater in weeks, have we?"
"No." She caught his hand, held it. "But I'm glad we have time now. Alone."
A warning signal sounded in his head. He dis missed it as ridiculous and smiled at her. "We'll make more. Why don't I come by that property you've bought, look it over for you?"
"You know I value your opinion." Her heart beat light, quick, in her chest. "I value you."
Before she could change her mind, she leaned forward and pressed her mouth to his. If there had been alarm in his eyes, she refused to see it. No sweet, platonic kiss this time. Patricia curled her fingers into his hair and poured herself into it. She wanted, desperately wanted, to feel something again. But his arms didn't come around her. His lips didn't heat. He stood, still as a statue. It wasn't pleasure, nor was it desire that trembled between them. It was the chilly air of shock. She drew back, saw the astonishment and, worse, much worse, the regret in his eyes. Stung, she whirled away.
Rogan set his untouched brandy down. "Patricia."
"Don't." She squeezed her eyes tight. "Don't say anything."
"Of course I will. I have to." His hands hesitated over her shoulders and finally settled gently. "Patricia, you know how much I ..." What words were there? he thought frantically. What possible words? "I care about you," he said, and hated himself.
"Leave it at that." She gripped her hands together until her fingers ached. "I'm humiliated enough."
"I never thought—" He cursed himself again and, because he felt so miserable, cursed Maggie for being right. "Patty," he said helplessly. "I'm sorry."
"I'm sure you are." Her voice was cool again, despite his use of her old nickname. "And so am I, for putting you in such an awkward position."
"It's my fault. I should have understood."
"Why should you?" Chilled, she stepped away from his hands, made herself turn. In the dappled starlight, her face was fragile as glass, her eyes as blank. "I'm always there, aren't I? Dropping by, available for whatever evening you might have free. Poor Patricia, at such loose ends, dreaming up her little projects to keep herself busy. The young widow who's content with a pat on the head and an indulgent smile."
"That's not at all true. It's not the way I feel."
"I don't know how you feel." Her voice rose, cracked, alarming them both. "I don't know how I feel. I only know I want you to go, before we say things that would embarrass us both more than we already are."
"I can't leave you this way. Please come inside, sit down. We'll talk."
No, she thought, she would weep and complete her mortification. "I mean it, Rogan," she
said flatly. "I want you to go. There's nothing for either of us to say but good night. You know the way out." She swept past him, into the house.
Damn all women, Rogan thought as he strode into the gallery the following afternoon. Damn them for their uncanny ability to make a man feel guilty and needy and idiotic. He'd lost a friend, one who was very dear to him. Lost her, he thought, because he'd been blind to her feelings. Feelings, he remembered with growing resentment, that Maggie had seen and understood in the blink of an eye. He stalked up the stairs, furious with himself. Why was it he had no idea how to handle two of the women who meant so much to him? He'd broken Patricia's heart, carelessly. And Maggie, God cursed her, had the power to break his. Did people never fall in love with anyone who was eager to return it? Well, he wouldn't be fool enough to toss his feelings at Maggie's feet and have her crush them. Not now. Not after he'd inadvertently done some crushing of his own. He could get along very well on his own, thank you. He stepped into the first sitting room and scowled. They'd put a few more pieces of her work on display. A mere glimpse of what would be toured over the next twelve months. The globe she'd created in front of his eyes gleamed back at him, seeming to contain all the dreams she'd claimed were held inside, dreams that now mocked at him as he stared into its depths. It was just as well she hadn't answered the phone when he'd called the night before. Perhaps he'd needed her at that moment while the miserable guilt over Patricia had clawed at him. He'd needed to hear her voice, to soothe himself with it. Instead he'd heard his own, clipped and precise on the answering machine. She'd refused to make the recording herself. So instead of a quiet, perhaps intimate late-night conversation, he'd left a terse message that would, no doubt, annoy Maggie as much as it annoyed him. God, he wanted her.
"Ah, just the man I wanted to see." Cheerful as a robin, Joseph popped into the room. "I've sold Carlotta."Joseph's self-satisfied smile faded into curiosity when Rogan turned. "Bad day, is it?"
"I've had better. Carlotta, you say? To whom?"
"To an American tourist who strolled in this morning. She was absolutely enthralled by Carlotta. We're having her shipped—the painting, that is—to someplace called Tucson."
Joseph sat on the corner of the love seat and lighted a celebratory cigarette. "The American claimed that she adores primitive nudes, and our Carlotta was certainly primitive. I'm quite fond of nudes myself, but Carlotta was never my type. Too heavy at the hip—and the brush strokes. Well, the artist lacked subtlety, shall we say."
"It was an excellent oil," Rogan said absently.
"Of its type. Since I prefer something a bit less obvious, I won't be sorry to ship Carlotta off to Tucson." He pulled a little flip-top ashtray out of his pocket and tapped his cigarette in it. "Oh, and that watercolor series, from the Scotsman? Arrived an hour ago. It's beautiful work, Rogan. I think you've discovered another star."
"Blind luck. If I hadn't been checking on the factory in Inverness, I never would have seen the paintings."