He bent down to kiss the top of her head. “Sullivans stick together. That includes you, Harry.” “She was never one of us.” A quiet man with quiet ways, he unfolded himself from the chair to go sit by his mother-in-law. She patted his hand. “You never liked her much, did you, Harry?” “I never liked her at all, but Aidan loved her. You can’t choose family, Rosemary my own. I just got lucky with the bulk of mine. There now.” He put an arm around her when Rosemary turned her face to his shoulder and finally wept. Aidan walked off the sick, walked off at least the top notes of his rage. For Cate’s sake, he reminded himself as he kept walking, kept breathing in the cool, salty air, for her sake he had to find his calm, find his steady. But beneath it, that rage lived, a feral animal that craved blood. He feared it would live and crave forever. And under that, even under the snarling and pacing of that beast, lay the shattered pieces of his heart. He’d loved Charlotte with all of that heart. How could he have not seen? How could he have not known the grasping, selfish, immoral woman beneath the facade? Even, he had to admit, when that facade had thinned and he’d gotten glimpses, he’d dismissed them. He’d loved her, trusted her. He’d made a child with her, and she’d risked that child, used that child, betrayed that child. He would never forgive her for it. He’d never forgive himself. But when he went back inside, he’d coated on layers of that calm and steady. Coated them thick so they couldn’t crack—not even when he went in through the back and saw Cate burrowed against his father. His eyes met Hugh’s over Cate’s head. “I think Cate and I need to talk.” “Sure you do.” Hugh drew Cate back, smiled at her. “Everything’s going to be all right. All right can take a little time, but we’ll get there.” He gave her a last squeeze, then left them alone. “How about we sit and talk in the library? Just you and me?” When he held out a hand, she took it with such unquestioning trust, his heart broke just a little more. Because he wanted privacy for both of them, he took her the long way around, through the formal dining room, past the conservatory, around what they called the music room, and into the library. Its windows faced the hills, the gardens, gave glimpses of a little orchard. They, with the pale winter sun drifting in, offered a quieter view than the roll of sea. Under a coffered ceiling of mocha and cream, shelves of books, of bound scripts, lined the walls. The chestnut floor gleamed under an Aubusson carpet of elegantly faded greens and roses. He knew his grandmother sometimes sat at the antique library table shipped from Dublin to write actual letters and notes. He pulled the double pocket doors shut, guided Cate to the big leather sofa. Before he sat, he lit the fire. Then he sat beside her, took her face in his hands. “I’m sorry.” “Daddy—” “I have to say this, then I’ll listen to whatever you need to say. I’m so sorry, Catey, my Cate. I didn’t keep you safe, I didn’t protect you. You’re everything to me, and I promise you I won’t ever fail you again.” “You didn’t. She—” “But I did. Never again. Nothing and no one is as important to me as you. Nothing and no one ever will be.” He kissed her forehead, and found saying the words to her helped settle him. “I knew it was her when I was in that room. She told me where to hide. She took me there and showed me, so I knew. But only inside because . . .” “She’s your mother.” “Why doesn’t she love me?” “I don’t know. But I do, Cate.” “Does . . . does she have to live with us?” “No, and she won’t. Ever.” It carved at him again, the shaky breath of relief his little girl let out. “Do we have to live where we did? I don’t want to go back there anymore, and live where she did. I don’t—” “Then we won’t. I think, for now, we could live with Grandpa and G-Lil. Until we find a place for just you and me.” Hope, sweet and bright, lit her face. “Really?” He made himself smile. “Sullivans stick together, right?” She didn’t smile back, and her voice trembled. “Do I have to see her? Do I have to talk to her? Do I—” “No.” He prayed he could make that the truth. Her eyes, so blue, and now so robbed of innocence, looked into his. “She let them scare me, and hurt me. And I know what ‘lover’ means. She scared you, too, she hurt you, too. She doesn’t love us, and I don’t ever want to see her again. She’s not really my mother, because mothers don’t do that.” “You don’t have to worry about that.” “I don’t feel sad about it,” she claimed, even as tears started to roll. “I don’t care. I don’t love her either, so I don’t care.” He said nothing; he understood completely. He felt exactly the same. Torn to bits, desperate not to care. So he just gathered her close, let her cry it out, cry herself to sleep. And while she slept, he sat alone with her, watching the fire.
CHAPTER SIX