"It was cancer," she said shortly.
No sympathy wanted, he judged, and offered none. "I represent Rogan Sweeney," Hobbs began, "his wife and her family."
"Rogan Sweeney?" Cautious, Shannon joined him at the table. "I know the name, of course. Worldwide Galleries has a branch in New York. They're based in..." She trailed off, setting down her mug before her hands could shake. Ireland, she thought. In Ireland.
"You know, then." Hobbs read the knowledge in her eyes. That, too, would make his job easier. "My clients were concerned that the circumstances might be unknown to you."
Determined not to falter, Shannon lifted her cup again. "What does Rogan Sweeney have to do with me?"
"Mr. Sweeney is married to Margaret Mary Concannon, the oldest daughter of the late Thomas Concannon, of Clare County, Ireland."
"Concannon." Shannon closed her eyes until the need to shudder had passed. "I see." When she opened her eyes again, they were bitterly amused. "I assume they hired you to find me. I find it odd that there would be an interest after all these years."
"I was hired, initially, to find your mother, Ms. Bodine. I can tell you that my clients only learned of her, and your existence, last year. The investigation was initiated at that time. However, there was some difficulty in locating Amanda Dougherty. As you may know, she left her home in New York suddenly and without giving her family indication of her destination."
"I suppose she might not have known it, as she'd been tossed out of the house for being pregnant." Pushing her coffee aside, Shannon folded her hands. "What do your clients want?"
"The primary goal was to contact your mother, and to let her know that Mr. Concannon's surviving children had discovered letters she had written to him, and with her permission, to make contact with you."
"Surviving children. He's dead then." She rubbed a hand to her temple. "Yes, you told me that already. He's dead. So are they all. Well, you found me, Mr. Hobbs, so your job's done. You can inform your clients that I've been contacted and have no interest in anything further."
"Your sisters-"
Her eyes went cold. "I don't consider them my sisters."
Hobbs merely inclined his head. "Mrs. Sweeney and Mrs. Thane may wish to contact you personally."
"I can't stop them, can I? But you can forward the fact that I'm not interested in reunions with women I don't know. What happened between their father and my mother some twenty-eight years ago doesn't change the status quo. So-" She broke off, eyes sharpening again. "Margaret Mary Concannon, you said? The artist?"
"Yes, she is known for her glass work."
"That's an understatement," Shannon murmured. She'd been to one of M. M. Concannon's showings at Worldwide New York herself. And had been considering investing in a piece. The idea was almost laughable. "Well, that's amusing, isn't it? You can tell Margaret Mary Concannon and her sister-"
"Brianna. Brianna Concannon Thane. She runs a B and B in Clare. You may have heard of her husband as well. He's a successful mystery writer."
"Grayson Thane?" At Hobbs's nod, Shannon did nearly laugh. "They married well, it seems. Good for them. Tell them they can get on with their lives, as I intend to do." She rose. "If there's nothing else, Mr. Hobbs?"
"I'm to ask if you'd like to have your mother's letters, and if so, if you would object to my clients making copies for themselves."
"I don't want them. I don't want anything." She bit back on a sudden spurt of venom, letting out a sigh as it drained. "What happened is no more their fault than mine. I don't know how they feel about all of this, Mr. Hobbs, and don't care to. If it's curiosity, misplaced guilt, a sense of family obligation, you can tell them to let it go."
Hobbs rose as well. "From the time, effort, and money they've spent trying to find you, I'd say it was a combination of all three. And perhaps more. But I'll tell them." He offered a hand, surprising Shannon into taking it. "If you have second thoughts, or any questions come to mind, you can reach me at the number on the card. I'll be flying back to New York tonight."
His cool tone stung. She couldn't say why. "I have a right to my privacy."
"You do." He nodded. "I'll see myself out, Ms. Bodine. Thanks for the time, and the coffee."
Damn him, was all she could think as he walked calmly out of her kitchen. Damn him for being so dispassionate, so subtly judgmental.
And damn them. Damn Thomas Concannon's daughters for searching her out, asking her to satisfy their curiosity. Offering to satisfy her own.
She didn't want them. Didn't need them. Let them stay in Ireland with their cozy lives and brilliant husbands. She had her own life, and the pieces of it needed to be picked up quickly.
Wiping at tears she hadn't realized were falling, she stalked over and snatched up the phone book. She flipped through quickly, ran her finger down the page, then dialed.
"Yes, I have a house I need to sell. Immediately."
A week later Shannon was back in New York. She'd priced the house to sell, and hoped it would do so quickly. The money certainly didn't matter. She'd discovered she was a rich woman. Death had given her nearly a half a million dollars in the investments her father had made over the years. Added to her earlier inheritance, she would never have to worry about something as trivial as money again.
She'd only had to become an orphan to earn it.
Still, she was enough Colin Bodine's daughter to know the house had to be sold, and that it would bring in considerable equity. Some of the furnishings she hadn't had the heart to sell or give away were in storage. Surely she could wait a little longer before deciding what to do with every vase and lamp.
Shannon had boxed only a few sentimental favorites to bring back with her to New York. Among them were all of the paintings she'd done for her parents over the years.
Those, she couldn't part with.
Though her supervisor had offered her the rest of the week off, she'd come back to work the day after returning from Columbus. She'd been certain it would help, that work was the answer she needed.
The new account needed to be dealt with. She'd hardly begun to work on it when she'd been called away.
She'd barely had two weeks to become used to her promotion, the new responsibilities and position.
She'd worked most of her adult life for that position, for those responsibilities. She was moving up the ladder now, at the brisk and steady pace she'd planned for herself. The corner office was hers, her week-at-a-glance was tidily filled with meetings and presentations. The CEO himself knew her name, respected her work, and, she knew, had an eye on her for bigger things.
It was everything she'd always wanted, needed, planned for.
How could she have known that nothing in her office seemed to matter. Nothing about it mattered in the least.
Not her drafting table, her tools. Not the major account she'd snagged on the very day she'd received the call from Columbus, and had been forced to turn over to an associate. It simply didn't matter. The promotion she'd broken her back to secure seemed so removed from her just then. Just as the life she'd led, with all its tidiness and careful planning, seemed to have belonged to someone else all along.
She found herself staring at the painting of her father sleeping in the garden. It was still propped against the wall rather than hung. For reasons she couldn't understand, she simply didn't want it in her office after all.