After he died, we found out that the old man had bequeathed to Maeve his apartment, the one our family lives in now.
And instead of the antiques and Persian rugs a lot of our neighbors seem to be into, Maeve filled our house with children. Four months after we got the apartment, we adopted Brian. Six months after that came Jane. And on … and on …
Saint was a pretty trite term, I knew, but as I sat there alone, gazing at all my wife’s accomplishments, that was the word that kept popping into my mind.
The life of a saint, I thought bitterly.
All the way down to the martyrdom.
My heart literally skipped when the doorbell rang.
The outside world could go scratch, I thought as it rang again.
I figured that it was an errant guest of the Underhills, our frequent-cocktail-party-throwing neighbors across the hall—when it rang a third time.
I finally stood, annoyed.
Big mistake, dude, I thought as I yanked back the doorknob. You just woke up the Grinch.
Chapter 7
JUDGING FROM the wrinkled jeans and dusty navy peacoat of the young blond woman on the other side of my door, I decided she probably wasn’t headed to a Manhattan-style cocktail party.
But with a dirty knapsack that bulged over her back and a duffel bag clutched in her gloveless hands, she definitely seemed to be heading somewhere.
“Mr. Bennett?” she said, dropping her bag and extending a small, well-formed hand. “Mr. Michael Bennett?”
Her Irish accent was as warm as her hand was cold.
“It’s me, Mary Catherine,” she said. “I made it.”
From her accent, I suspected she must be some relative of my wife’s. I tried to place Mary Catherine’s face from the small contingent of Maeve’s side who had attended our wedding. But all I could remember was an elderly granduncle, some distant cousins, and a trio of middle-aged bachelors. What the heck was this about?
“Made it?” I repeated warily.
“I’m the au pair,” Mary Catherine said. “Nona said she spoke with you.”
Au pair? Nona? I thought. Then I remembered that Nona was Maeve’s mother’s name. My wife had always been insistently vague about her past, growing up in Donegal. I had a feeling her people were a little eccentric.
“I’m sorry, um, Mary, is it?” I said. “Ah, I don’t think I know exactly what you’re talking about.”
Mary Catherine’s mouth opened as if she was about to say something. Then it closed. Her porcelain features blushed crimson as she picked up her bag.
“Sorry I wasted your time, sir,” she said quickly and a tad sadly. “There must have been some mistake on my part. I’m sorry.”
Her duffel bag slipped out of her hand as she approached the elevator. I stepped out of the doorway to give her a hand, then noticed my mail on the floor. It had been piling up a little, and my helpful neighbors, the Underhills, had dumped it beneath the alcove’s table we share in order to make way for their antique wooden nutcracker collection.
I noticed a small, odd-looking letter sticking out from the pile’s center.
“Wait,” I said. “Hold up a second, Mary Catherine. Just a sec.”
I tore open the letter. It was handwritten in a tiny, all but illegible script, but I was able to make out the Dear Michael, a couple of Mary Catherine’s, and the God Bless You In Your Time of Need, Love Nona closing.
I still didn’t know what the hell it all meant, though.
I wasn’t even 100 percent aware my mother-in-law was still alive until that moment. One thing I was sure of, though, was that it was too late and I was too tired to try to figure it all out right now.
“Oh,” I said to the girl as the elevator door rumbled open. “You’re Mary Catherine, the au pair.”