“Naturally. But seriously, angel, if you want to call tonight off—”
“No,” I sigh again, loudly. “No, it’s important. I just don’t know if I like the idea of a Donovan woman in our house.”
“Tara isn’t Maggie, Finch. Remember that. And if it turns out she’s just a—a Trojan horse, sent here to kill you? She’ll have a nasty surprise if she tries.”
“Please, no more death.” I say it before I can stop myself. Death used to be my BFF, a welcome presence. Not so much these days.
He turns me to him, lowering his head to kiss my mouth gently. Tenderly. “No more, angel. In fact, I have some good news for you aboutlife. The baby’s been cleared. She’ll be going home with Frank and Celia this weekend.”
My eyes sting as he hugs me.Happytears.
Finally.
* * *
Tara arrives right on time;she was always very punctual. She’s alone, totally alone, no bodyguards or anything, and she gets dropped off by an Uber rather than a Donovan town car.
All very non-Maggie.
“Are you staying in the suite at the Grand?” I ask, after she’s exclaimed about how wonderful my hair is. Girl has some taste, at least. I lead her into the sitting room, and Luca steps over to the wet bar to fix drinks.
“No, not the Grand,” she says vaguely. “I’m here under—well, not asecret identity, exactly, but I didn’t want everyone knowing I was in New York. It’s so boring to catch up with people one doesn’t really want to see, isn’t it?”
“Whyareyou here?” I ask.
“Finch,” Luca warns quietly from the bar.
But Tara gives me a warm smile. “I meant what I said to your husband. It never sat right with me that you were so cut off from us all after the wedding.Notthat I blame Luca, of course. No. The fault lay closer to home. But perhaps we can put it right.” She accepts a gin and tonic from Luca, and I take my Shirley Temple.
“Perhaps,” I say, when Luca also serves me up a meaningful look.
Tara was kind to me at the funeral. But she’s more like Mom than any of my sisters, and my mother, as well as being kind, was highly manipulative. I recognize it now as a survival mechanism, and I’m glad I learned from her, too. But whatever the reason she developed that skill, it was a dangerous weapon in the end. Tara has inherited our mother’s talent, and that makes her dangerous in turn.
You wouldn’t think it to look at her. She’s delicate in figure, face and voice; long floaty red hair and big blue eyes that always seem far-off and out of focus. She looks a decade younger than her age, and when she asks to see my wedding ring again, her fingers feel like butterfly wings fluttering against my hand.
We drink. We talk. We go to the kitchen to eat, because Luca insisted on the kitchen instead of the formal dining room. I’ve ordered the food from a very special restaurant for tonight. Luca suggested I make something, my pasta puttanesca, maybe, or the meatloaf (which turned out pretty good). But I had a better idea.
“This smells incredible,” Tara says as soon as we enter the kitchen.
“Please, sit,” Luca says graciously, and pulls out her chair for her. “I hope you enjoy the wine. I chose it.”
“God, I know nothing about wine,” Tara says. “All I know is, I like drinking it.” Luca fills her glass and presses her to try some bread and olive oil.
“We’re thinking of starting to import Italian oils and vinegars,” he says. “A little side venture.”
Meanwhile, I serve up theosso bucoand trimmings from a Michelin-star restaurant down the block. “Delicious,” Tara says after her first mouthful.
I nod. “Isn’t it? It was my father’s favorite.”
Her brow creases. “I never knew Pops liked Italian so much.”
I give my loud laugh and both she and Luca start at the noise. “Golly, sis. Notthatfather. No, I mean myrealdad. Augustino Morelli.”
There’s a silence as Tara takes that in, and Luca gives me an agonized glare.
“Well,” she says at last. “He was a man of great taste. This is incredible. Did you make it yourself?”
“No. I’m not much of a cook. I’m more suited to the bedroom than the kitchen.”
