He looked up again, met her eyes again. “You’ve a right to know I checked on you, deeply.”
“I expected you would.”
“And I checked on her. On myself. I’d never done so before, not carefully.”
“I don’t understand that. I wouldn’t have told you the way I did if I hadn’t thought you’d know some of it. A man like you would know whatever he needed to know.”
“It was a point of pride to me that it didn’t matter. Wouldn’t matter, particularly when I believed my mother was Meg Roarke and I was as glad to see the back of her as she was of me.”
Moira let out a long breath. “I said no to coffee before because my hands were shaking. I wonder if I might trouble you for some after all.”
“Of course.” He rose and walked over to open a panel in the wall. Inside was a fully equipped minikitchen. When she laughed, he turned in the act of programming coffee.
“I’ve never seen the like of this office. So posh. My feet nearly sank to the ankles in the carpet. You’re young to have so much.”
The smile he sent her was more grim than amused. “I started early.”
“So you did. My stomach’s still jumping.” She pressed a hand to it. “I was certain you were bringing me in to fire me, maybe to threaten legal action of some sort. I didn’t know how I was going to tell my family, or the guests at Dochas. I hated thinking I’d have to leave. I’ve gotten attached.”
“As I said, I checked on you. They’re lucky to have you at the shelter. How would you like your coffee?”
“Plenty of cream, if you don’t mind. Is this whole building yours, then?”
“It is.”
“It’s like a great black spear, powerful and elegant. Thanks.” She accepted the coffee and took the first sip. Her eyes widened, then narrowed as she sniffed the contents of the cup. “Is this real coffee?”
And that weight at the base of his skull vanished with a quick, appreciative laugh. Gone, at last. “It is, yes. I’ll send you some. The first time I met my wife, I gave her coffee and she had a similar reaction. I sent her some as well. Might be why she married me.”
“I doubt that very much.” She kept her gaze steady on his now. “Your mother is dead, and he killed her, didn’t he? Patrick Roarke murdered her, as I always believed.”
“Yes. I went to Dublin and verified it.”
“Will you tell me how?”
Beat her to death, he thought. Beat her bloody and dead, with hands so much like my own. Then threw her away in the river. Threw away the poor dead girl who’d loved him enough to give him a son.
“No, I won’t. Only that I tracked down a man who’d been with him in those days, and who knew of it. Knew her and what happened.”
“If only I’d had more experience and less arrogance . . .” Moira began.
“It wouldn’t have mattered. If she’d stayed in the shelter in Dublin, or gone back to her family in Clare, or run. As long as she’d taken me, it wouldn’t have mattered. For whatever reason, pride, meanness, bloody-mindedness, he wanted me.”
The knowledge of that would haunt him for all of his days. Maybe it was meant to. “And he’d have found her.”
“That’s the kindest thing you could say to me,” she murmured.
“It’s just truth.” And he needed to get past it as best he could. “I went to Clare. I saw her family. My family.”
“Did you?” She reached out, laid a hand on his arm. “Oh, I’m so glad. I’m so glad for that.”
“They were . . . extraordinary. My mother’s twin, Sinead, she opened her home to me. Just like that.”
“Well, West County folks, they’re known for their hospitality, aren’t they?”
“I’m still baffled, and grateful. I’m grateful to you, Ms. O’Bannion, for telling me. I wanted you to know that.”
“She’d have been pleased, don’t you think? Not only that you know, but that you’ve taken these steps. I think she’d be very pleased.” She set her coffee aside, opened her purse. “You didn’t take this when you were in my office before. Will you have it now?”