It was late afternoon and we’d spent the day in the room, ordered up a fortune in room service, and fucked. I was hormonal and needy—this whole week was the part of my cycle where I was one giant ball of sex-crazed hormones, which I affectionately referred to as “fuck me stupid week.”

Brock got it, I think, and never called me on it. Never said a damn word about the fact that I hadn’t shown even a hint of sorrow over my dad’s death. He just went with it, because I think—I hope like hell—he understands that I don’t know what I’m thinking or feeling right now, and that I’m going to need serious time to figure it out. I also hope he understands that when I do finally to come to grips with the fact that Dad died and how I feel about it, it’s going to get messy.

So we lazed about and avoided heavy conversation.

By late afternoon I was getting antsy, because I can’t stay cooped up for long, even with Brock.

The TV was on, playing a trailer for a movie, and Brock was dozing, lying on his back, arm over his eyes, cock flaccid against his hip, completely spent from having just bent me over the side of the bed and fucking me until I saw stars. I was sitting next to Brock, toying with the remote, and trying to decide what I wanted to do.

“You’re fidgety,” Brock mumbled.

I laughed. “I’m always fidgety, haven’t you noticed?”

“Yeah, but you’re extra fidgety at the moment. What’s up?” He slid his arm up so he could look at me.

“I’m just antsy. I need to do something.”

“Okay. What sounds good?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. I know I’m supposed to be in mourning or whatever, but…I can’t cope with everything right now. I need time to process things, and it’s all on hold until I talk to Mom anyway. I just know the way I feel right now is crazy and inappropriate for the day my dad died, but I just want to go have fun. Play pool in a dive bar somewhere, or go to a club, something. Anything.”

Brock laughed. “Somehow, that doesn’t seem any more inappropriate than how we’ve spent the rest of the day.”

“You have a point, sir.” I went into the bathroom to freshen up, deodorant, makeup, a little scrubby-scrub to my hoo-ha. “So we’re gonna get dressed and go get in trouble, then?”

“Sounds good, babe,” Brock said, sliding gracefully off the bed.

I put on my favorite pair of teeny-tiny khaki booty shorts, wearing them commando, and then tugged a forest-green camisole over my bare breasts, slipped my feet into my TOMs, and grabbed my purse. “Well, I’m ready.”

He had watched the whole thing. “Damn babe, commando and no bra? What are you trying to do to me?”

I wiggled my hips side to side. “Drive you crazy, of course.”

He got a washcloth wet and cleaned himself, applied some deodorant, and then dressed in what I would call golf shorts, pastel green and white in a plaid pattern, hemmed knee-length, the kind of thing that are so ugly they’re almost cool, pairing it with a white Izod polo. He looked preppy and cute and ridiculous. Brock normally wore jeans and polos, or jeans and a tee, or maybe a button-down for a nicer date, and for the rarest of rare dress-up dates, he wore dress slacks and a dress shirt. I’d never seen him in shorts, and didn’t know he owned anything like…that.

I couldn’t help a giggle. “What are you wearing, Brock?”

He frowned at me, and then down at his outfit. “What’s wrong with it? Thought I’d try a new style.”

I eyed him, laughing. “I mean, babe. You look adorable. You could wear JNCO jeans and a shirt with wolves and flames on it and look hot, but this…I don’t know. Gel your hair up and put on a pair of loafers without socks, and you’d be a straight up country club douche-bag.”

He frowned at me again, dug in his bag, and tossed a pair of brown loafers onto the floor in front of me.

I bust out laughing even harder. “Brock, honey. No.”

“No?”

I shook my head. “No. Nope. No way.”

He looked…puzzled. “I thought it looked kinda cool.”

I laughed again, this time softly and affectionately, sidling up to pat his chest. “It does look cool. You totally pull it off. That’s not the problem.”

“You’re gonna have to enlighten me then.”

“It’s not you. I mean, with a name like Brock, you wear that outfit…you could walk into any country club and get in without a membership. You just look…I don’t know. With your looks, it’s just too much. It works too well. You look too much like you’d absolutely fit in in Bloomfield Hills. And that’s not you. You’re from Alaska. You’re a stunt pilot. You own a bar. You’re a Judo expert. You’re tough and masculine and manly, and if you wear that, you wouldn’t be you. It’s fine for other guys, just not you.”

He chewed on his lip, staring down at me. “Well, okay, if you think so.” Another beat of silence, and then he gestured at his bag. “You pick.”

I sorted through his bag, found my favorite pair of his jeans, old and faded light-wash denim, soft and worn, the pair that cupped his ass like a glove, and then a plain, stretchy gray V-neck with his thick black leather belt. I handed it all to him. “Wear that. But go commando.”

“Why? I never go commando. It’s weird.”

I grinned. “It’ll be fun. Neither of us will be wearing underwear, and we’ll both be super aware of it. You never know when I might get a hankerin’ for a little somethin’.”

Brock laughed, snickering at me as he shucked his clothes, and pulled on the outfit I’d chosen. Except he tucked in the shirt all the way around.

“No, no, no.” I untucked it except for right behind his belt buckle. “Like this. Casual, but still sort of dressy. Now put on your boots and we’ll go check out the town.”

We took the elevator to the lobby and then had the valet bring the car around.

“Brock, you are so hot it should be illegal,” I said, as we waited. “Just thought you should know.”

He grinned at me. “No longer a country club douche-bag?”

“No, but even then you’re so sexy it’s sinful.”

“You’re pretty damn fetching yourself, Claire.”

I tossed my hair. “Fetching, huh?”

“And gorgeous. Sexy. Adorable. Lovely. Stunning. Breathtaking—”

“Okay, okay,” I broke in, laughing—and also blushing, truth be told. “I get it. Thank you.”

“You sure? I got more.”

“One more, then.”

He tapped his chin. “Hmmm. Only one more? I’ll have to make it a good one.” The car came, and we got in, Brock tipping the valet. “Where to, local girl?”

“How about Ferndale? I heard it’s gotten nice since I left. Just head south on Woodward. It’s close to the Dream Cruise, so we might see some cool hot rods, too.” I eyed him. “So, one more compliment. Think of a good one, yet?”

His smirk was arrogant and pleased. “Yes, I believe I have.”

“Hit me with it, hot stuff.”

“My fantasy.”

I hadn’t meant for it to actually hit me like it did; my heart twisted and my tummy lurched. “Your fantasy, huh?” I barely choked out the words, whispering them.

“Yes ma’am.” He heard it, saw it, how his compliment had hit me, but he didn’t call me on it. He also didn’t let up, either. “If I fantasize, it’s about you. When I think of the perfect woman for me, what she looks like, sounds like, fucks like, kisses like…it’s you. You’re my fantasy, Claire.”

I blinked hard. “Damn. That is a good one.”

“I mean every word.”

“Okay, you can stop now.”

“Why should I? You like the truth, don’t you? Not all truths have to be unpleasant. Some can be good truths. Like this one.” He reached out and took my hand.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Yeah, probably. That’s irrelevant, though.”

“Pretty sure I’m no one’s fantasy, Brock, but it’s sweet of you to say so.”

Oops, wrong response.

He jerked the wheel, pulling off Woodward into the parking lot of a small strip mall. “You think I’m lying, Claire?” Brock’s gaze was hot and furious.

“No, I just—” I cut off, shrugging. “I’m just not…that.”

“Yes, you are.”

“That’s stupid.”

He flinched, literally, physically flinched. “Why? Why is stupid of me to have you as my fantasy?”

I blinked hard, but salt threatened hot at the corners of my eyes anyway. “Just is,” I whispered.

I crossed my arms over my chest and stared hard out the window, trying to breathe, and trying not to figure out why I was reacting so strongly to this, which even I knew was idiotic.

A long tense silence, broken eventually by Brock.

“Claire—”

“Ignore me. I’m being dumb.” I smiled brightly at him, flicked the radio dial so the latest Bruno Mars song blasted loud. “Let’s go have fun, okay?”

Brock stared at me, unblinking, his expression hard to read. Eventually, he softened, and took my hand. He didn’t say anything, just pulled back out into traffic. Then, when we hit a red light, he lifted my hand to his lips and kissed the back, slowly and softly, with a genuinely soft and affectionate and loving look in his eyes, saying more with that look than he could with words.

Whatever you need, is what that look said.

I see through your bullshit, but I’m letting you off the hook, that look said.

We hit Ferndale and walked around, stopping for a coffee and then checking out a local bar to see how it compared to Badd’s Bar and Grill back in Ketchikan. We had a few beers there and agreed it was good, but not as good as the Badd brothers’ place. We shot a few games of pool and then asked the friendly bartender for a recommendation for dinner.

By the time we finished our steaks at Ruth’s Chris in Troy, it was still kinda early so we left the car with the hotel valet and caught a movie at the Palladium in Birmingham, finishing off the night with too much to drink at an authentic Irish pub, which had a live band playing. We got plastered together, is what we did, absolutely shitfaced. At least, I did. Brock was pretty drunk too, but stayed sober enough that he could take care of me, making sure we found our way back to the Townsend and into bed.

The room was spinning so bad I had to put one foot on the floor to make sure I didn’t fall off the world, and my brain was shooting out all sorts of crazy nonsense, and I just knew at some point before I passed out that I was going to say something stupid.

Brock lay beside me, just looking at me, dozing off.

“Brock?” I slurred.

Oh, yep, here came the drunk-Claire verbal diarrhea.

“Yeah, babe.”

“You’re aware a shit-storm is coming, right? I’m going to completely fall apart sometime soon.”

“Yes, Claire. I know.”

“It’s gonna be bad.”

“I know.”

“I’m gonna do something really stupid. I’m gonna be a horrible, horrible, terrible, stupid person.”

“No, you’ll be a person who’s grieving and hurting and confused, that’s all.”

“No no no. You don’ understand.” I rolled to face him. “I’m unpredictable. I’m crazy.”

“Yes, and I love those things about you.”

I put a hand over his mouth. “Sssshhh! Don’t use that word yet. It’s too soon. You don’t know what I’m capable of.”

“I won’t let you do anything too crazy, and I’ll be there through whatever you have to go through.”

I shook my head, because he was making promises I wasn’t sure he could keep. “Just…just make me one promise, okay?” I peered at Brock, at the three of him that were currently rotating in front of me; I closed one eye so there were fewer of him.

“Anything I’m capable of.”

“Don’t let me break up with you.”

“Why would you want to do that?”

“I’m not saying I’m going to, just that I might try. For stupid reasons, because I’m stupid.”

“You’re not stupid.”

“I’d be stupid to break up with you.”

“I agree.”

I tried to make sense of the barrage of thoughts in my head. “Right, and when the hit shits the fan—I mean, I mean—shit, you know what I mean. Just…I mean—I might try.”

He tugged me to himself, cradled me in his arms, on his chest. “Get some sleep, Claire.”

“You didn’t promise.”

He kissed my temple. “I promise I won’t let you break up with me, Claire.”

I snuggled closer to him, feeling a bit better. “Okay. Good. I just wanted you to be warned.”

He laughed, although I wasn’t quite sure why. “It’s going to be fine.”

“You’re crazy.”

“Yep. Crazy about you.”

“Cheese-ball.”

He patted my ass. “Sleep, Claire.”

“I’m trying. My brain won’t let me.”

“Maybe you’re not tired out enough.”

I snickered. “Gonna tire me out, Mr. Badd?”

“Why yes, Miss Collins, I think I will.”

I wasn’t expecting him to actually do it, but he slid out from under me, tugged my shorts off, stuffed a pillow under my back, and kissed his way from belly to hip to thigh to thigh to hip to belly, and finally, god finally to my clit, flicking, circling, and his tongue was holy JESUS—whoa…what the fuck? I came so hard I cried out, the orgasm hitting me like a ton of bricks out of nowhere, and he didn’t relent, only slowed a tiny bit in his assault on my clit, sliding fingers into me. I had to close my eyes and arch off the bed and clutch the pillow behind my head, and then I reached down and found Brock, and his hair was much more satisfying to hold on to than some stupid pillow.

A second, followed a few minutes later by a third, and then it was too much, his fingers inside me and his tongue on me, so drunk I couldn’t think, the room still spinning even though my eyes were closed, holding on to Brock for dear life, half-terrified I might let go of him and be thrown off the world by the spinning, like a kid on a merry-go-round whirling too fast who can’t hold on and lets go and is tossed like a doll.

And then, oh…and then the dirty beautiful man added a finger, but this one didn’t go in the pink, oh no, this finger, his pinkie, went right into my ass and goddamn it was glorious, the slow dirty slide in and out of his fingers, three in my pussy and one in my asshole and his tongue on my clit and more fingers on my nipples, and fuck man, how many fingers did he have? Jesus.

The next time I came it was a maelstrom of heat and pressure flooding through my pussy and my belly, seizing me, and I heard myself screaming so loud someone banged on the floor or ceiling or walls, I wasn’t sure which and didn’t care, because Brock whipped me through the orgasm into a place of sobbing paroxysms.

I finally pushed him away from my overloaded pussy and tugged him up to me, kissed him sloppily so I could taste myself on him, and then shoved him into place: under me, draping his arm around me.

Now I was done, totally done. Darkness rose up to meet me.

“I don’t know how to be your fantasy,” I mumbled.

“It’s easy—you just have to be you.”

“What if that’s not so easy?”

“Then we figure it out together.”

“Okay.”

“Now, sleep, Claire.”

I nuzzled against him. “Okay.”

* * *

Brock and I spent the last couple of days exploring the area a little more, and I met with my sisters to go over the funeral plans. I hadn’t planned on doing that, but Tab called and suggested we sisters meet for coffee. Since I had nothing but love for them, I figured I should probably go hang out with them at least once; and actually, we ended up having a good time, even though it was shadowed by the knowledge of Dad’s—Connor’s—death.

The day of the funeral was a bright, beautiful, sunny day.

The ceremony was solemn, held at the church where Dad had worked for twenty years. His friends and colleagues said warm, genuine, wonderful things about him. My sisters said loving, wonderful things about him. Mom tried, but couldn’t get anything out without sobbing, so her best friend Mrs. Shaughnessy helped her off the stage, and then it was my turn to say something.

Except, I couldn’t.

I couldn’t go up there.

Tab and Hayley tried to push me up, Mom gestured at me, but I just burrowed into Brock and shook my head.

But my reasons for not saying a few words were not what I hoped people assumed: I didn’t go up because I wasn’t crying; my eyes were dry, and I didn’t have anything warm and wonderful and kind and loving to say about him. He really did seem like he had been a wonderful man…to everyone except me. And I just couldn’t go up there and talk a bunch of bullshit about a man I didn’t love. So I remained seated.

He was buried in Rosewood Cemetery, near a huge spreading oak tree. A priest who had known Dad read appropriate Bible verses and rambled the appropriate platitudes, and then Dad’s coffin was interred and everyone tossed a rose onto the casket.

I did not throw a rose.

I did not throw a fistful of dirt.

I watched it all but I did not cry. I held myself straight and clung to Brock’s arm, staring in stony silence as Mom and Tab and Hayley had one last moment over the coffin of the man they had loved. They held hands, shoulders shaking.

“Do you want to go over there, Claire?” Brock asked, nudging me.

I shook my head. “That’s for them.”

He didn’t push it.

After a while it was only Mom and the girls and Brock and I left at the graveside.

Mom took careful, tentative steps across the grass toward me, stopping in front of me. “You couldn’t spare a single word for your father at his funeral?”

I fought for the right words, but failed to find them. “No, Mom. I couldn’t.” I bit down on the questions whirling through my head. “I didn’t have anything nice to say, so I didn’t say anything at all.”

Mom closed her eyes as if my words physically hurt her. “I see.” She opened her eyes, searching me. “You’re going back to Seattle right away, I assume?”

I shook my head. “Not Seattle, and not right away, no.”

“You don’t live in Seattle anymore?”

“No, I do. But now I’m splitting my time between Seattle and Ketchikan, Alaska…where Brock lives.”

“Oh.”

I hesitated a moment. “I have a few things I’d like to talk to you about before I go home, but I know today is probably not the day.”

“How generous of you,” Mom said, sarcasm dripping from her tone.

“We’ll come by tomorrow. Probably around midmorning.”

“Very well, then.”

I hugged Tab and Hayley, waved at Mom, and then we left the cemetery. I felt Mom’s gaze on me as I walked away. I wondered if she suspected what our conversation was going be about, and if she was afraid of it. But I didn’t really care—this was going to be about me.

The next morning, after a late breakfast, Brock drove me to my parents’ house—Mom’s house, I suppose it was now. She answered my knock, and admitted us without a word. Tab and Hayley were both gone, which was a good thing, as this didn’t really concern them. Mom was still in her bathrobe, wearing her slippers, cat’s eye glasses on her nose rather than the contacts she usually wore; the fact that she was still undressed at nearly noon was a testament to her grief, as Mom was always fully dressed with makeup on and her hair immaculate by seven in the morning, no matter what, even on Saturdays. And she’d certainly never have let a complete stranger see her in such a state of undress.

After letting us in, Mom led us into the living room, and then left to go a make a pot of tea.

The house was much the same as it had always been: a single-story ranch, a little dated, low ceilings, a compartmented floor plan. The living room was the brightest room in the house, with a picture window taking up much of the front wall of the room, admitting sunlight. There was a lot of religious iconography on the walls, as one might expect from the home of a Catholic deacon, a painting of what I always thought of as Pansy White Jesus, a lot of crucifixes, some half-burned Yankee Candles, a shelf full of thick tomes of Biblical analysis texts and a few select fiction titles, and a new flat screen TV on the ancient wooden TV stand from my own childhood. The couch was the same scratchy cloth in an ugly blue-green paisley, with a mismatched love seat and a truly ancient La-Z-Boy recliner, Dad’s favorite spot to sit and read and drink tea.

Brock and I sat on the love seat, and when Mom returned, she poured the tea and sat down opposite us on the couch. She tucked her legs beneath her on the couch, and wrapped a fleece throw blanket over herself, then cupped her huge mug of tea in both hands. “So. You have something you want to talk about?”

I took a moment to gather my thoughts. “I don’t really know how to ease into this, or how to ask nicely, so I’m just going to come right out with it.” I hesitated, sucking in a deep breath, and then let it out. “Am I the biological daughter of Connor Collins?”

Mom’s eyes slid closed slowly, and she let her mug rest on her knee, covering her mouth with her palm. “Claire, I—I…”

“Am I?”

“That’s not a simple question, Claire.”

“Actually, it kind of is. There’s a one-word answer, here—yes or no.”

Mom opened her eyes and looked at me, and her eyes were full of tears. “No. You’re not his biological child.”

“But Tab and Hayley are.”

Mom nodded. “Yes.”

I felt a bizarre and complicated tangle of emotions rippling and roiling inside me. Relief, hurt, confusion, and anger were chief among the emotions, but it was all mixed up together. “Were you ever going to tell me?”

“No.”

“So you were just going to let me go through my whole life never knowing the truth?”

“Your father raised you, Claire. He loved you, he—”

“Mom, come on!” I shouted. “He did not fucking love me. He didn’t. He never told me he loved me. Not once. He rarely hugged me. He was never kind or sweet or loving with me, not like he was with Tab and Hayley. I was a burden to him.”

“Your father loved you, Claire,” Mom insisted.

“He…did…not,” I snarled. “There is absolutely no reason for me to think that he did. You don’t love someone and then do to me what you two did to me.”

Mom sobbed, a short choking sound. “Claire, that’s not fair, we—”

“Not fair? Not fair? I nearly committed suicide because of what you and—and Connor did to me. If it wasn’t for an Army recruiter, I would have killed myself. It’s no thanks to you or him that I’m alive right now, let alone even close to stable or well-adjusted. Which, I’m not, really, truth be told. I’m not stable. I’m not well-adjusted. I’m fucked up, Mom—I’m a mess.”

Mom shuddered, and had to set aside her tea so she could wipe at her face. “You don’t understand, Claire.”

“No, you’re right, I don’t. How about you enlighten me, then?”

Brock held my hand, sitting as close to me as he could, and remained silent, a strong support beside me. I couldn’t have handled this conversation with Mom without him next to me, I knew that much.

“Your father and I married very young. Eighteen, and barely out of school. We’d dated for only a brief time before we married, and it was against the wishes of both of our parents.” Mom let out a slow, thoughtful breath, staring into space. “We barely knew each other, but we knew we loved each other. Or…that’s what we thought, anyway. Your father—Connor, he…he wanted to go to seminary, and so I went with him.”

“I thought you met at sixteen or something?”

“Oh, well yes, sort of. We met at sixteen, but only started properly seeing each other a few months before he started his post-primary schooling. We got married just before we moved for him to go to seminary college.” Another pause. “Those were long, lonely years, while Connor was at seminary. I was so young, and I’d never been away from my family and now suddenly I was in a different city, alone, with little to do. I had no friends, I wasn’t in school, and Connor was gone all the time, at his classes. I made the best of it I could, I suppose. I found a job at a bakery, joined a ladies group…anything to pass the time and not feel so alone.”

“Spare me the Hallmark sob story, Mom,” I sniped.

Brock squeezed my hand. “Let her tell the story her way, Claire.”

“Thank you, Brock.” She managed to not make that sound snarky, but I could tell it took effort. “It is relevant, I promise. I began to doubt whether I’d done the right thing in marrying Connor. I had no purpose. You don’t understand, growing up here in America and in this generation as you have, since things are so different…but then, in Ireland? There were fewer options.”

“I can see how that would be difficult,” I said.

“It was…well, hellish, really. I barely saw my husband, and when I did it was in passing, so to speak. He would come home to sleep, to eat, and then go back to school. I was a young woman, and I had—desires, to put it bluntly. And he didn’t seem interested. We’d been barely able to keep our hands off each other up until that point, and I’m sure you don’t really want to hear this, but it’s relevant, so hear it you shall. He stopped touching me, in basically every way.

“It took the loneliness to a new level, especially because then, at that time of my life, I didn’t exactly share his faith.” She paused, then, and took a sip of her tea, then resumed her story. “Three years. The prime of my youth, and it was spent mostly alone, working at a bakery, and playing bridge with a bunch of old matrons and mothers. I had no children, because Connor was too busy with school and we weren’t in a financial position to start a family. I wanted children, desperately, just so I wouldn’t be alone, so I’d have some purpose in my life, but he refused, and we still rarely…came together…in that way. I think I went a little crazy, to be honest.”

“I guess I can see where this is going.”

“I suppose you might, at that.” She let out another sigh. “There was a young man who came by the bakery regularly. He was handsome, and he seemed to find me attractive. It was nothing but smiles at each other as I handed him his bread in the morning, but it felt like…the attention I so desperately needed. Three years, and all I ever did was smile at Brennan. And then one day I was leaving the bakery after it closed. Late in the evening, it was, and I knew Connor wouldn’t be home for hours yet, studying in the library most like.

“I walked home, not really hurrying. I very literally ran into Brennan, not far from home. He was leaving a pub, and I wasn’t really paying attention, and we collided. It was…one of those moments. You know? A moment where you know you’re faced with a choice, and you know what’s right, but that’s not what you want, and what you want is just…far too strong? It was…well, you said it yourself—it was a moment from a Hallmark movie.

“I collided with him and ended up with his arms around me, looking up at him, and he looked down at me like he’d never seen anyone so beautiful, and I hadn’t felt wanted like that in so, so long. I knew I was supposed to pull away and go back home, but I didn’t. Brennan lived above the pub…we’d collided right outside his door. He pulled me into the stairwell and he kissed me, and…I couldn’t stop, after that. If it’s the truth you want, then I’ll tell you I didn’t even try to stop. Even with Connor I’d never felt such all-consuming…passion. Like a fire I couldn’t put out, a fire that only burned hotter no matter what I did.”

Mom stared into nothingness, probably seeing Brennan, seeing that moment.

“I slept with him, right there on the stairs.”

I boggled. “Holy shit, Mom.”

She blinked, glanced at me. “This is the first I’ve spoken of this since it happened.”

“Did Dad know? Did he ever find out what happened?”

Mom dipped her head to one side. “It wasn’t just the once, Claire. I had an affair with Brennan for over a year. He knew I was married—it was the first thing I said to him, after that first time.”

“Holy shit.” It was the only thought running through my head—holy shit, holy shit, holy shit.

“It all came to a rather abrupt end. Connor had finished his schoolwork for the day, and since he was nearly done with his degree, he decided to come home earlier than usual. Four years, and he’d never once come home early. I don’t know what would have happened, had he not come home early that day. Honestly, I think about it sometimes, and I wonder.”

“Was it just sex, with Brennan?” I asked.

Mom took a sip of tea, and shook her head. “No. It was more. I cared for him. I was thinking of leaving Connor, actually.” She seemed startled, somehow. “I don’t think I’ve ever said that before, right out loud. I was thinking of leaving Connor to be with Brennan. He took care of me. Gave me the attention and affection I needed, seemed to genuinely enjoy my company. We both knew what we were doing was wrong, but I saw Connor so rarely it was almost like he didn’t exist. I’d leave the bakery, go to Brennan's flat, and we’d…you know. We’d eat together, talk, read books, listen to the radio. I’d go home around midnight and go to bed, and Connor would come home eventually and sleep, but he’d wake up and eat and leave for school before I woke again. I saw him on the weekends, but even then he’d often scarper off to the library for more studying. And I never understood it—why was religion so important to him? Why it was more important than me? I…with Brennan…I mattered. He liked me. He listened to me.”

“And then Dad came home early.”

She nodded. “He saw me leaving the bakery, which was on the way from the university to our flat. He followed me, but didn’t announce himself or catch up. I don’t know why, maybe he was thinking to surprise me or something. Well, instead of going to our flat, of course, I went into Brennan's. Connor followed me in, and caught Brennan and I in the act.”

“Damn. That had to have been intense.”

Mom laughed, strangely. “Actually, no. He just stood there staring at us, naked in Brennan's bed, and he didn’t say a word. We stared back for a moment, too surprised to do anything else, really, and then Connor just turned around and walked out. I was rather relieved, actually.”

“So you went after him?”

Mom didn’t look at me, but gazed into her tea. “No. I was planning to leave Connor, remember? I stayed with Brennan.”

“Damn. That’s kind of cold.”

“Perhaps. But I thought it was over. Why would I want to go back to him, and why would he want me back?”

“So what actually happened?”

“Brennan…” She let out a shuddery breath. “Brennan was involved with the IRA. I don’t suppose you know much about that, but…well, it was a violent time. Brennan had ties to the IRA, family and friends who were very active in the movement. And he, um…he told me had to take a trip. Down to Dublin, he said. For business. And he never came back. He was involved in a bombing in London, and was killed.”

“Wait, go back. This was after Dad found out?”

Mom nodded. “I stayed with Brennan until he left for London. Connor just…he was going to let me go, I guess. Then, about two months later, Brennan left for his trip, and never came back. While he was gone, I discovered I was pregnant. I was alone again, and I had no idea when Brennan was going to be home again. This was before cell phones, obviously, so I had no way of contacting him.”

“Oh my god.”

“Indeed, yes. It was…very difficult. I stayed in Brennan’s flat, alone, for days. I went to work, came back, went to work, came back…and I heard nothing. A week passed, and I began to feel afraid he wasn’t coming home. Had he left me? I didn’t think he would have done that, not when we were talking about me trying to get a divorce so we could be together more openly.

“Then, one day, I was at work. A man entered the bakery, and handed me a letter. It was from Brennan. He’d been fatally wounded in the bombing, but hadn’t died immediately. He wrote me a letter. He knew he was dying, and he…” She shuddered, sniffed. “He told me he loved me, and that he was sorry it had happened this way, that he wasn’t leaving me intentionally. So I was pregnant with another man’s baby and that man was dead, and I hadn’t seen my legal husband in over two months, almost three at that point.”

“Oh, Mom.”

“I went back to our flat, the one I’d shared with Connor. I…” She laughed. “I actually knocked on the door. I didn’t know what else to do, or where else to go. Connor let me in, and I told him everything. That Brennan was dead, and that I was pregnant with Brennan's baby.”

“And he took you back? Dad—Connor took you back?”

She nodded. “He said it was his duty to forgive me, and so he would. I made it very clear why I’d had the affair, and told him if he was going take me back, that if we were going to do this, then he couldn’t just abandon me again.”

“You cheated on him, went back to him with another man’s baby inside you, and you had the audacity to make demands of him?” I laughed. “That took some serious confidence.”

“I felt justified in what I’d done. He had, for all intents and purposes, totally abandoned me. It wasn’t right, what I did, I’m not saying that—it wasn’t, it was wrong, it was a sin, and one I’ve struggled with every day of my life. But I had good reasons for doing it.”

“So you and Dad got back together, and you had me.”

Mom nodded. “It wasn’t easy. We had to learn how to be together all over again, on top of getting past my affair with Brennan and being pregnant.” She paused a moment, drank more tea. “You were born in Belfast, and then six months later, Connor received an opportunity to come here, to America.”

I took a moment to absorb all that. “Tell me about Brennan.”

“Why?” Mom asked. “He’s gone.”

“I’m just curious.”

She didn’t answer for a while. “He was…very kind. But he had an edge to him. I only rarely saw it, since most of the time we spent together was at his flat. But a few times we’d pop down to the pub for a drink, and I caught a glimpse of…another side to him.

“You look a lot like him, actually. He wasn’t a large or intimidating man, but he had a lot of presence. He had blond hair and dark eyes, and he was very, very attractive. I think you’re much like him in many ways, really. He never showed it to me, but he had a temper. Sometimes he’d have black eyes or bruises from fighting, but with me he was never anything but gentle and kind.” She stared off into space, fiddling with her tea. “He was…how do I put this? He was a man of insatiable appetites.”

I couldn’t help laughing. “Well I certainly got that from him.”

Mom blushed, but looked directly at me. “And how do you know you don’t get it from me, too? He wasn’t the only one with an appetite that wasn’t easily sated, you know.”

“Was Connor that way too?” I asked.

Mom looked away, but shook her head. “Oh, no. Not really.”

“You were never satisfied with him, were you? With Connor, I mean.”

Mom frowned. “I don’t see how that’s any of your business, Claire. I loved Connor with all my heart.”

“I know, Mom. I’ve never doubted that.” I hesitated, and then continued. “It’s him I doubt. Connor. I don’t look like him at all, and now I know why. But I’m also not…I’m not like him in any way. And he never loved me, so this just…it explains it.”

“He tried, Claire,” Mom said, through tears. “He tried. He was there the day you were born. He signed the birth certificate. He was there when you said your first word and took your first step. He taught you to ride a bike, gave you your first communion. He…he tried. He tried.”

“It wasn’t enough, Mom,” I said. “I never received equal treatment from him. Everything I did was wrong, and nothing was ever good enough. I grew up wondering what was wrong with me, why my daddy didn’t love me. I knew it from an early age, Mom. I think I was…nine, or ten maybe when I first really realized that Dad—that Connor—didn’t love me. I’d gotten straight As, the best grades I’d ever gotten, and he barely noticed.” I mimicked Dad’s voice. “‘Good job, Claire. Do better next marking period.’ Nothing was below a ninety-three percent, and yet it wasn’t good enough. Tab got worse grades than me, and you guys took her out for ice cream to celebrate. You took Hayley with you, but me—you made me stay home and study.”

Mom cried, and didn’t wipe away the tears. “He was never able to look at you without seeing Brennan. It was a reminder of his failure as a husband, and my failure as a wife. You were a constant reminder that I’d sought solace and companionship in the arms of another man. We couldn’t just forget and put it behind us, because you were always there, reminding us.”

“But that wasn’t my fault!” I shouted. “I didn’t do anything wrong! I was a child, a little girl who just wanted her mommy and daddy to love her. But you didn’t, and I could never figure out what was wrong with me that made my parents hate me but love my sisters. They could do no wrong, and I could do no right.”

She looked at me then, tears shining in her eyes and dripping down her face. “I’m sorry, Claire.”

I stood up. “Yeah, well…being sorry doesn’t give me my childhood back.” I tried to think of something else to say, but couldn’t. “But thanks for telling me. It makes sense of everything I’ve never been able to figure out my whole life.”

She didn’t answer. Brock stood up with me and we made for the door. I stopped, the storm door propped open. “What was his full name?”

A long silence. “Brennan Patrick O’Flaherty.”

I soaked that in, filing it along with the rest of the information I wasn’t sure how to process. “Bye, Mom.”

“Goodbye, Claire.” She said it with a sense of finality. She was staring into space, lost in the past, lost in thought. I wasn’t sure I would ever see her again.

As I was angling into the passenger seat of the rental, Tab and Hayley rounded the corner, just finishing a jog together.

“Claire?” Tab, the more observant of the two, stopped beside me, eyeing me. “You’re leaving already? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” I stood back up and hugged her. “And yeah, I’m going home.”

Tab frowned, and touched my cheek, then showed me her index finger, damp. “You’re crying.”

I wiped at my face with both hands. “Oh. Um.” I shook my head. “Never mind. It’s nothing I want to talk about right now.”

Hayley stepped in for a hug. “When will we see you again?”

I shrugged as I let her go. “Maybe you guys can come visit me in Ketchikan. You’d like it there.”

“Oh, that would be fun! Could we?” Tab asked.

I tried to smile. “I’ll call you and set something up.”

They both hugged me at the same time. “We love you, Claire,” Hayley said. “Please remember that we’re here for you.”

“I know.” I whispered it. “I love you guys too.”

And I did. They’d never understood why Mom and Dad—it was hard to break the habit of calling him that even though I didn’t feel he deserved the title—had treated me so differently, and they had always done their best to make up for it by loving me all the harder, and I’d never resented them for the difference in treatment, since it was no more their doing than it was mine.

I let them go and got into the car. Brock drove off, and I didn’t look back. We were pulling up the hotel a few minutes later, and I grabbed Brock’s wrist before he could get out. “Take me home, Brock.”

He sank back into his seat. “Home?”

I nodded. “Ketchikan.”

He gazed at me steadily. “Ketchikan is home?”

“Yeah, I feel like it is.”

He reached up and palmed my cheek. “Home it is, then.”