Born in Shame
Page 44
“No use making something ugly. You’ll use this to flatten the base. Careful now, that’s good. You’ve got smart hands.” She shifted the pipe, showing Shannon how to attach the other end to a pontil. “Now strike it sharp, there.”
Shannon blinked when the ball detached from the pipe, holding now to the pontil.
“Back in the furnace first,” Maggie instructed, impatient now. “To heat the lip. That’s it, not too much. Into the oven it goes. To anneal. Now take that file, strike it again.”
When the ball landed on a thick pad of asbestos, Maggie closed the oven in a businesslike manner and set the timer.
“That was wonderful!”
“You did well enough.” Maggie bent down to a small refrigerator and took out two cold drinks. “You’re not ham-handed or stupid.”
“Thanks,” Shannon said dryly. She took a long drink. “I think the hands-on lesson overbalanced the bargain.”
Maggie smiled. “Then you owe me, don’t you?”
“Apparently.” Casually Shannon brushed through the sketches littering a workbench. “These are excellent. I saw some of your sketches and paintings in New York.”
“I’m not a painter. Rogan isn’t one to let any bit of business pass by, so he takes what he likes from them, has them mounted.”
“I won’t argue that your glasswork is superior to your drawing.”
Maggie swallowed the soft drink before she choked. “Won’t you?”
“No. But Rogan has an excellent eye, and I’m sure he culls out your best.”
“Oh, to be sure. You’re the painter, aren’t you? I’m sure it takes tremendous talent to draw advertisements.”
Challenged, Shannon set down her drink. “You don’t really think you’re better at it than I am.”
“Well, I haven’t seen anything of yours, have I? Unless I flipped by in a magazine waiting to have my teeth cleaned.”
Shannon set her own and snatched up one of Maggie’s hunks of charcoal. It took her longer to find a sketch pad and a clean sheet. While Maggie leaned her hip idly on the edge of the bench, Shannon bent over her work.
She started with fast strokes, annoyance pushing her. Then she began to find the pleasure in it, and the desire for beauty.
“Why, ’tis Liam.” Maggie’s voice went soft as butter as she saw her son emerge. Shannon was drawing just the head and shoulders, concentrating on that impishness that danced in his eyes and around his mouth. The dark hair was mussed, the lips quirked on the verge of a laugh.
“He always looks as though he’s just been in trouble, or looking for it,” Shannon murmured as she shaded.
“He does, yes. He’s a darling, my Liam. You’ve caught him so, Shannon.”
Alarmed by the catch in Maggie’s voice, Shannon glanced over. “You’re not going to start crying. Please.”
“Hormones.” Maggie sniffled and shook her head. “Now I suppose I’ll have to say you’ve a better hand than I at drawing.”
“Acknowledgment accepted.” Shannon dashed her initials at the corner of the page, then carefully tore it off. “Fair trade for a paperweight,” she said, handing it to Maggie.
“No, it’s not. The balance has tipped again. I owe you another boon.”
Shannon picked up a rag to wipe the charcoal dust from her hands. She stared at her own fingers. “Tell me about Thomas Concannon.”
She didn’t know where the need had come from, and was no less surprised than Maggie that she had asked. The question hummed for several long seconds.
“Come inside.” Maggie’s tone was suddenly gentle, as was the hand she set on Shannon’s arm. “We’ll have tea and talk of it.”
It was there Brianna found them when she walked into Maggie’s kitchen with Kayla and a basket of soda bread.
“Oh, Shannon. I didn’t know you were here.” And she would never have pictured her there, sitting at Maggie’s table while Maggie brewed tea. “I . . . I brought you some bread, Maggie.”
“Thanks. Why don’t we slice some up? I’m starving.”
“I wasn’t going to stay—”
“I think you should.” Maggie glanced over her shoulder, met Brianna’s eyes. “Kayla’s gone to sleep in her carrier, Brie. Why don’t you put her down for a nap here?”
“All right.” All too aware of the tension in the room, Brianna set the bread down and took the baby out with her.
“She’s worried we’ll start spitting at each other,” Maggie commented. “Brie’s not one for fighting.”
“She’s very gentle.”
“She is, yes. Unless you push the wrong spot. Then she’s fierce. Always seems fiercer because it’s never quite expected. It was she who found the letters your mother wrote. He’d kept them in the attic, you see. In a box where he liked to put things important to him. We didn’t go through it, or some of his other things, for a long time after he’d died.”
She brought the pot over, sat. “It was difficult for us, and my mother was living with Brie in the house until a couple years ago. To keep what peace could be kept, Brie didn’t speak much of Da.”
“Were things really so bad between your parents?”
“Worse than bad. They came to each other late in life. It was impulse, and passion. Though he told me there’d been love once, at the start of it.”
“Maggie?” Brianna hesitated at the doorway.
“Come and sit. She wants to talk of Da.”
Brianna came in, brushing a hand over Shannon’s shoulder, perhaps in support, perhaps in gratitude, before she joined them. “I know it’s hard for you, Shannon.”
“It has to be dealt with. I’ve been avoiding it.” She lifted her gaze, looked closely at each of her sisters. “I want you to understand I had a father.”
“I would think it would be a lucky woman who could say she had two,” Maggie put in. “Both who loved her.” When Shannon shook her head, she barreled on. “He was a loving man. A generous one. Too generous at times. As a father he was kind, and patient, and full of fun. He wasn’t wise, nor successful. And he had a habit of leaving a chore half done.”
“He was always there if you needed cheering,” Brianna murmured. “He had big dreams, outrageous ones, and schemes that were so foolish. He was always after making his fortune, but he died more rich in friends than in money. Do you remember the time, Maggie, when he decided we would raise rabbits, for the pelts?”
Shannon blinked when the ball detached from the pipe, holding now to the pontil.
“Back in the furnace first,” Maggie instructed, impatient now. “To heat the lip. That’s it, not too much. Into the oven it goes. To anneal. Now take that file, strike it again.”
When the ball landed on a thick pad of asbestos, Maggie closed the oven in a businesslike manner and set the timer.
“That was wonderful!”
“You did well enough.” Maggie bent down to a small refrigerator and took out two cold drinks. “You’re not ham-handed or stupid.”
“Thanks,” Shannon said dryly. She took a long drink. “I think the hands-on lesson overbalanced the bargain.”
Maggie smiled. “Then you owe me, don’t you?”
“Apparently.” Casually Shannon brushed through the sketches littering a workbench. “These are excellent. I saw some of your sketches and paintings in New York.”
“I’m not a painter. Rogan isn’t one to let any bit of business pass by, so he takes what he likes from them, has them mounted.”
“I won’t argue that your glasswork is superior to your drawing.”
Maggie swallowed the soft drink before she choked. “Won’t you?”
“No. But Rogan has an excellent eye, and I’m sure he culls out your best.”
“Oh, to be sure. You’re the painter, aren’t you? I’m sure it takes tremendous talent to draw advertisements.”
Challenged, Shannon set down her drink. “You don’t really think you’re better at it than I am.”
“Well, I haven’t seen anything of yours, have I? Unless I flipped by in a magazine waiting to have my teeth cleaned.”
Shannon set her own and snatched up one of Maggie’s hunks of charcoal. It took her longer to find a sketch pad and a clean sheet. While Maggie leaned her hip idly on the edge of the bench, Shannon bent over her work.
She started with fast strokes, annoyance pushing her. Then she began to find the pleasure in it, and the desire for beauty.
“Why, ’tis Liam.” Maggie’s voice went soft as butter as she saw her son emerge. Shannon was drawing just the head and shoulders, concentrating on that impishness that danced in his eyes and around his mouth. The dark hair was mussed, the lips quirked on the verge of a laugh.
“He always looks as though he’s just been in trouble, or looking for it,” Shannon murmured as she shaded.
“He does, yes. He’s a darling, my Liam. You’ve caught him so, Shannon.”
Alarmed by the catch in Maggie’s voice, Shannon glanced over. “You’re not going to start crying. Please.”
“Hormones.” Maggie sniffled and shook her head. “Now I suppose I’ll have to say you’ve a better hand than I at drawing.”
“Acknowledgment accepted.” Shannon dashed her initials at the corner of the page, then carefully tore it off. “Fair trade for a paperweight,” she said, handing it to Maggie.
“No, it’s not. The balance has tipped again. I owe you another boon.”
Shannon picked up a rag to wipe the charcoal dust from her hands. She stared at her own fingers. “Tell me about Thomas Concannon.”
She didn’t know where the need had come from, and was no less surprised than Maggie that she had asked. The question hummed for several long seconds.
“Come inside.” Maggie’s tone was suddenly gentle, as was the hand she set on Shannon’s arm. “We’ll have tea and talk of it.”
It was there Brianna found them when she walked into Maggie’s kitchen with Kayla and a basket of soda bread.
“Oh, Shannon. I didn’t know you were here.” And she would never have pictured her there, sitting at Maggie’s table while Maggie brewed tea. “I . . . I brought you some bread, Maggie.”
“Thanks. Why don’t we slice some up? I’m starving.”
“I wasn’t going to stay—”
“I think you should.” Maggie glanced over her shoulder, met Brianna’s eyes. “Kayla’s gone to sleep in her carrier, Brie. Why don’t you put her down for a nap here?”
“All right.” All too aware of the tension in the room, Brianna set the bread down and took the baby out with her.
“She’s worried we’ll start spitting at each other,” Maggie commented. “Brie’s not one for fighting.”
“She’s very gentle.”
“She is, yes. Unless you push the wrong spot. Then she’s fierce. Always seems fiercer because it’s never quite expected. It was she who found the letters your mother wrote. He’d kept them in the attic, you see. In a box where he liked to put things important to him. We didn’t go through it, or some of his other things, for a long time after he’d died.”
She brought the pot over, sat. “It was difficult for us, and my mother was living with Brie in the house until a couple years ago. To keep what peace could be kept, Brie didn’t speak much of Da.”
“Were things really so bad between your parents?”
“Worse than bad. They came to each other late in life. It was impulse, and passion. Though he told me there’d been love once, at the start of it.”
“Maggie?” Brianna hesitated at the doorway.
“Come and sit. She wants to talk of Da.”
Brianna came in, brushing a hand over Shannon’s shoulder, perhaps in support, perhaps in gratitude, before she joined them. “I know it’s hard for you, Shannon.”
“It has to be dealt with. I’ve been avoiding it.” She lifted her gaze, looked closely at each of her sisters. “I want you to understand I had a father.”
“I would think it would be a lucky woman who could say she had two,” Maggie put in. “Both who loved her.” When Shannon shook her head, she barreled on. “He was a loving man. A generous one. Too generous at times. As a father he was kind, and patient, and full of fun. He wasn’t wise, nor successful. And he had a habit of leaving a chore half done.”
“He was always there if you needed cheering,” Brianna murmured. “He had big dreams, outrageous ones, and schemes that were so foolish. He was always after making his fortune, but he died more rich in friends than in money. Do you remember the time, Maggie, when he decided we would raise rabbits, for the pelts?”
