Chapter 20

 

New York, 1976

 

Ann Ryan moved quietly, a well-practiced trait that she learned from her mother. A mother, who impressed upon her daughter early in life, that no matter how beautiful, an obnoxious and loud female was never tolerated in proper society.

Her mother had groomed her to be the ‘perfect wife’ and Ann had disappointed her. It was the late sixties when she went off to college, and young ladies were hunting more interesting and lucrative careers than wife and mother. Ann had taken law but when the opportunity came to practice it she had failed badly. Since she wasn’t forced into the labor market by need of money, she had convinced herself she lacked the personality necessary to function on equal footing with men and played at her career choice while contemplating an early marriage. That too had seemed to escape her; the opportunities had been there but the fellows hadn’t met her standards.

She stood on the veranda of the O’Neill estate and watched Michael patrolling the walkway as the car came up the drive. The man behind the wheel must have spotted Michael, for he never drove that slowly.

Ann Ryan loved Michael O’Neill since she was eleven and he nineteen. The gulf seemed insurmountable. So she had packed him away in her heart but continued to judge other men by this idealistic character that couldn’t exist.

More the pity, Ann wasn’t blind to the real Michael. As she grew up she had watched him flit from one relationship to another and had been thrilled when each one ended. Last year Ann had returned from a junket around Europe to find Michael still unmarried. To her delight, Michael noticed she wasn’t a child anymore.

Ann smiled but there was no humor in her face. ‘Children are easily handled’, her mother had said. Mama should spend a few weeks with Deirdre, she thought. Good lord. A few hours and she’d be pulling her hair out. No, maybe not, maybe she could handle the little girl. Ann wished her mother had taught her something useful like how.

Ever since the party Deirdre had ignored her; treated her like she didn’t exist—and it hurt. If the child was just being her nasty self, Ann could have coped. The girl went to the housekeeper for anything she couldn’t manage. She kept her bedroom and playroom doors closed and ignored Ann’s requests to enter. Michael promised they would talk to Deirdre today. They would discuss their plans together so Deirdre would understand it was going to be the three of them from now on.

That night. Michael had come home late and requested they have dinner in the den. When he returned from his shower, wearing his dressing gown, Ann knew Michael was obviously looking forward to a pleasurable night. As she left to fetch their meal he said, “If anyone but you comes through that door I’ll shoot them.”

Taking the clue from that declaration, Ann changed. She washed off the bit of day makeup. Arranging several curls on her forehead gave her an impish look, added the short red silk negligee, she hoped had some trampish appeal. When you were five foot one, with narrow boyish hips, and breasts as skimpy as the padding in your bra, it was difficult to look sexy.

She made the detour though the kitchen only to become upset to find the housekeeper was preparing their tray. “Stella, I told you I would take care of that myself.” Ann’s self-consciousness about her outfit made her tone sharp.

The large woman answered in her slight German accent. “Wasn’t no bother. TV stinks tonight.” In her late forties, Stella was full-bodied but there was nothing flabby about her. The natural blonde hair was streaked lightly with white—she would never struggle with gray. Her face bore no signs of wrinkling and while her stern features rarely gave hint to a smile there was a rough attractiveness to the face.

Michael kidded Stella that she was a ‘Hun’ and it didn’t bother her. Ann figured the housekeeper was gay. She was always half-expecting Stella to make a pass at her.

As Stella turned with the tray, Ann saw her eyes shifting up and down. She was openly appraising her body beneath the inadequate outfit. Ann wanted to say, hope you’re enjoying the view. She said, “Thank you.” and took the tray.

When Ann returned the artificial light in the den was replaced by the glow from the fireplace. A soft instrumental came from hidden speakers. Michael had set the table up in front of the hearth that now gave off a scent of apple wood. He’d adjusted the twin lounge so it faced the fire he’d started, and installed himself on the left side of the lounge with his head back and his eyes closed. He appeared so completely relaxed that for a moment she felt like an intruder.

The radiance from the flames cast a golden sheen over Michael’s fairness and made his ginger hair sparkle with its own fire. He was big but not with the bulkiness of excessive weight. A supple, loose-jointed machine, his body was created in the image of some ancient god. She had the urge to kneel down and adore him. She wondered what it would feel like to walk around in that magnificent flesh. To wield all that power. To never be afraid. His lashes flickered like tiny flashes of light and his eyes opened. His lips parted in a teasing smile. “Aye, my lady Ann is dinner then served?”

“Aye, my Lord, and it’s a fine feast I’ve prepared.”

She set down the tray. Before she could straighten, he rose and came up behind and caught her waist between his hands. He spun her around lifting her feet from the floor so their mouths could meet. At such times Ann could lull herself with the belief she really mattered to him. He loved her.

“There are two men in Michael,” Shelia Connors had told her. “If you are lucky like I was you’ll find the right one.”

Ann’s arms encircled his chest. She drew tightly against him and felt their hearts beating in tune. Michael loves Ann, Annie loves Michael…and that was last night.

They’d made love, made plans, and life was perfect. But now it was today and he told her to wait on the veranda. “Wait here for a minute—let me talk to the kid first,” he had said.

Wait Ann—wait like the insignificant creature you are. She had suppressed an instant flash of anger, as she tried to convince herself Michael was simply setting the stage to make things easier.

Michael was determined to keep his daughter from going to her grandfather’s for Easter. Deirdre was just as determined to go. He had been fighting with the little girl for days. Ann had no difficulty over hearing for neither ever bothered to lower their voice. Now she watched as he confronted Deirdre when she exited the car that returned her from school. Ann barely listened to their repeated nonsense. Then she heard Michael offer. “You’d like Ann for a mother. I’ll marry her.” And a lump formed in her throat. Last night he’d also said he would tell the brat—not ask her permission.

“Why?” Deirdre’s tone was sulky.

“I thought you liked Ann?”

“I do—sometimes.” Deirdre was swinging her leg so that her foot kept hitting the flagpole. Ann could see the child was making her father nervous which Deirdre seemed to enjoy doing. Just that morning, Ann caught the girl rubbing the mark he’d put on her cheek, the night of the party, with a kitchen scrubby to keep it red. She watched as Deirdre deliberately presented that side of her face to her father. Then fingering the area he’d slapped days before, Deirdre asked, “Why do people get married?”

Ann knew most men were no good at explaining things of that nature to little girls but still she heard Michael try. “Lots of reasons. Love. To raise a family.”

“You mean have kids?” Deirdre’s leg continued to swing; the white of the saddle shoe was streaking black.

“Kids,” he agreed.

Still making a point not to actually look at him, Deirdre said, “You’re not married. You got me. I’m your kid.”

“You had a mother, baby.”

“I never saw her.”

“I’ve explained before how she died.”

“Can I die?”

“Why in hell would you want to?”

The girl had switched to swinging the opposite leg. Ann shrugged and thought, At least now the shoes would match.

“How come you had a girl? Why am I a lousy girl?”

Obviously taken by surprise, her father laughed and said, “Sorry about that.”

Ann knew he’d taken the wrong approach. Sorry didn’t cut it with the little brat and laughing at her always put her on the offensive. Why hadn’t he allowed her to take part in the conversation? She might have prevented that angry pout on Deirdre’s face.

“Wasn’t my choice. I’m glad you are a girl.” O’Neill held out his arms but his daughter ignored the gesture. His arms fell heavily to his sides.

Deirdre’s hands had become fists, pounding into her hips. “When can I go ‘ome?”

“Damn it! Girl, this is your home.”

Ann was tempted to interrupt but Michael surprised her. His angry tone dropped into a disgusted drawl as he said, “School lets out Wednesday. You can leave in the afternoon.”

Standing on the veranda, Ann suppressed an urge to scream. The features of the little girl running towards her wore a look of triumphant. “Annie, Annie,” Deirdre yelled. “I’m goin’ ‘ome.”

Michael turned and stalked off. Ann felt a dull ache creep up between her breasts. A sad smile surfaced on her face as she wondered if the pain came from her breaking heart. Deirdre didn’t want her as a mother. Michael would be disappointed that moving Ann into his home hadn’t made a difference.