“I’m glad you both came,” she says.
“Thank you. I’m sorry your dad died,” I say back, and she actually gives a little smile.
“Thankyou,” she says in turn. “You know, I really wanted to keep more in touch with Howie after the wedding. I should have reached out.”
A sense of unreality settles over me. The way Tara talks, you’d think we just had run-of-the-mill family issues, like disagreements over where to spend the holidays or some shit. Not that her brother was involved in a hostage marriage, or that their older sister has tried several times to have him whacked, or that our two Families aren’t old enemies.
“I don’t think Maggie would allow it, would she? She’s head of your Family now, isn’t she?”
Tara looks back at Finch. “I suppose she is,” she says vaguely. “She was always very close to Pops. I know she’s standing in as CEO while everything is sorted out...but between you and me,” she lowers her voice even more, “She’s behavingverypoorly about the will. OfcourseHowie should get his fair share, and I’m glad Pops realized that before he died. There’ll be no problem at all having his fair share transferred, I can promise you.”
That surprises me. I have a sudden image of us all gathered in a wood-walled room to hear an old-fashioned lawyer read out the will; accusations flying among the family members, threats and tears. It never even occurred to me that there might be more blood to squeeze out of the Donovan stone. Not that Finchneedsany more money—he was very well looked after by Tino Morelli, his biological father.
Still. Never turn down a free lunch.
And given my current circumstances with the Commission, it might come in handy to have something extra in reserve.
“Idowish our families could be closer,” Tara says, taking my hand. She’s the touchy-feely kind, but she means well, I guess, even if she’s living in her own reality.
“Your oldest sister will make that difficult,” I point out.
“Yes. But Maggie might not always be in control.”
Well, well.
Once again I’ve underestimated a Donovan. I wonder exactly what is going on behind that serene expression. I wonder what she thinks of Finch. Is Tara playingmenow, sounding out the depth of my desperation for allies?
“Perhaps you’d like to come around for dinner next time you’re in New York,” I suggest. I might as well see what she has to offer, and having her on our home ground will give us an advantage.
Tara has plans to be in New York a few weeks from now, so we make our arrangements. “And since you mention it, there’s something you could do right now to make Finch feel more connected to your family,” I add. “And that’s to put a goddamn photo of him up on the board there.”
Tara’s eyebrows shoot up. “Did that bitch—” she starts, and glares hard at the photo board. “Ididadd Howie up there, and a lot more of Mom. She must have…” Her eyes narrow. “You know what? I’ll be right back.”
She slips quietly out of the room, and I watch Finch, wondering. I can hear him talking quietly, too quietly to understand, but…he sounds alright? Less like he’s about to give in to hysterical laughter, at least.
Tara reappears by my side so silently I almost jump; well-honed practice keeps me rock-still. It doesn’t do to lose control of my reactions, especially in front of others. She holds up a handful of photographs and gives me a nod. Together, we retrace our steps and join Finch. I put my arm around him and he leans into me.
“It’s not so bad,” he says.
“Not at all.”
While he smiles at me and leans in for a hug, Tara takes the opportunity to quickly pin up the photographs, including several of them directly over pictures of Maggie, who seems disproportionately represented on the memory board. When she rejoins Finch on his other side, he seems to notice her again. “Is Róisín here?” The middle sister of the three, Róisín, I recall as the shyest at our wedding.
Tara hesitates, but then shakes her head. “That’s a whole story,” she says. “I’ll tell you all about it in New York.”
“New York?” Finch repeats.
In the distance, we hear a loud crash.
“I think it might be time you took your leave,” Tara suggests. “Things are starting to get…rowdy.”
My arm around Finch’s shoulder tightens. “Are you ready, baby bird?”
“I am.” He reaches out to touch his father’s hands. “Bye, Pops. Sorry how things turned out.” Finch looks almost as peaceful as his father does right now, and I wonder what epiphanies he’s come to, standing here.
Tara reaches out and unthreads the rosary from Howard Donovan’s fingers. “This was Mom’s rosary,” she says brittlely. “You should have it, Howie.” She presses it into his hand.
“No, Tara, I can’t,” he protests. “I’m not—I’m not religious.”
