what?"
Conor had blushed. "Feminine?"
"I like it," she'd said, loath to admit blue gingham didn't seem the ideal choice for a man like Conor
Nolan.
"You do?" His quick words were almost boyish.
"Yes," she had answered. "Very much so."
"That's all I need to know!"
Sitting there looking at the sofa, Rhianna couldn't help but wonder if he hadn't bought it just to please
her. Maybe with the thought of her ultimately sharing it with him.
She'd never gotten the chance. Conor had purchased it on their last date.
Grief squeezed her chest, brought stinging tears to her eyes.
"Stop it," she told herself, getting up. If she let herself dwell too long on that night, she'd scream.
Instead, she looked about the room.
The furniture was just as he had left it. Nothing had been moved; nothing much had been changed.
There were a few light patches on the walls where once the portraits of Conor's Irish grandparents had
hung. The Ormolu clock was gone from the mantel; the oaken trunk that had sat beside the sofa was
missing. Irish's sister now had possession of those things.
"Do you believe that bitch?" Stephen Trevor, Irish's attorney had bit out. "She must have hired some
two-bit thief to break into the house and get what she wanted! I'm going to have that bitch arrested
and…"
"No," Rhianna had stopped him. "Let her have what she wants and be done with it."
"But he didn't _want _her to have those damned pictures, Rhianna! Or the clock. Or the goddamned
steamer trunk, for that matter!"
"They were her grandparents, too, Steve," she'd tried to remind him, but the irate lawyer had not been
mollified.
"I'll have her ass in court so fast…"
"If Conor had had kids, Steve, then I'd be all for jumping on her shit, but there's no one left in their
family but her and her mother, and Maeve Nolan has Alzheimer's. Just let Caitlin have what she feels
belongs to their family and be done with it." Rhianna had sighed heavily. "I don't want to always be
looking over my shoulder, waiting for her to spring a lawsuit on me."
Despite Steve's outrage and his vehement protests, Rhianna had held firm and no more was mentioned
about the missing family heirlooms.
She wandered into the kitchen, flipping on the light switch. Evening was coming down in shifts of
ever-darkening shadows.
The kitchen was spotless and that was an insult. Conor had been a typical bachelor and never once in
all the time she'd known him, had the sink been free of a mound of dirty dishes.
"Why don't you use the dishwasher?" she'd once asked with exasperation.
"I don't _like _dishwashers," Conor had proclaimed. "I _like_ washing the dishes by hand. It's
peaceful."
"Peaceful?" she'd repeated, questioning the man's sanity.
"Soothing," he'd said, nodding. "Almost seductive."
Rhianna had poked at a crusted plate, her mouth twisted in disgust. "Obviously not seductive enough
to lure you into doing it all that often."
And the refrigerator was bare.
Where was his favorite beer? The outrageously expensive bloody Mary mix, sliced limes, and celery
stalks he always kept for her? The slowly rotting lettuce, mushy cucumbers, and evil-looking black
radishes? The sour 2% milk and crumb-encrusted tub of margarine? The crinkled aluminum foil-wrapped
containers of God-only-knew-what? The dozens of packets of malt vinegar from a greasy fish-and-chips
place he'd been addicted to that always fell from the egg shelf when you opened the refrigerator door?
"What on earth are you going to do with all this goddamned malt vinegar?" she'd once asked with
amazement.
Conor had shrugged. "Pickle something?"
Rhianna shut the refrigerator door and sat down at the gleaming red-and-white chrome table. She ran
her hand over the scratched surface, listening to Conor's voice coming at her from the range where, in her
mind, he was stirring a pot of Mulligan stew.
_"I found it at the dump," he explained as he added carrots to the blue enamel pot._
_"And why, pray tell," she
Conor had blushed. "Feminine?"
"I like it," she'd said, loath to admit blue gingham didn't seem the ideal choice for a man like Conor
Nolan.
"You do?" His quick words were almost boyish.
"Yes," she had answered. "Very much so."
"That's all I need to know!"
Sitting there looking at the sofa, Rhianna couldn't help but wonder if he hadn't bought it just to please
her. Maybe with the thought of her ultimately sharing it with him.
She'd never gotten the chance. Conor had purchased it on their last date.
Grief squeezed her chest, brought stinging tears to her eyes.
"Stop it," she told herself, getting up. If she let herself dwell too long on that night, she'd scream.
Instead, she looked about the room.
The furniture was just as he had left it. Nothing had been moved; nothing much had been changed.
There were a few light patches on the walls where once the portraits of Conor's Irish grandparents had
hung. The Ormolu clock was gone from the mantel; the oaken trunk that had sat beside the sofa was
missing. Irish's sister now had possession of those things.
"Do you believe that bitch?" Stephen Trevor, Irish's attorney had bit out. "She must have hired some
two-bit thief to break into the house and get what she wanted! I'm going to have that bitch arrested
and…"
"No," Rhianna had stopped him. "Let her have what she wants and be done with it."
"But he didn't _want _her to have those damned pictures, Rhianna! Or the clock. Or the goddamned
steamer trunk, for that matter!"
"They were her grandparents, too, Steve," she'd tried to remind him, but the irate lawyer had not been
mollified.
"I'll have her ass in court so fast…"
"If Conor had had kids, Steve, then I'd be all for jumping on her shit, but there's no one left in their
family but her and her mother, and Maeve Nolan has Alzheimer's. Just let Caitlin have what she feels
belongs to their family and be done with it." Rhianna had sighed heavily. "I don't want to always be
looking over my shoulder, waiting for her to spring a lawsuit on me."
Despite Steve's outrage and his vehement protests, Rhianna had held firm and no more was mentioned
about the missing family heirlooms.
She wandered into the kitchen, flipping on the light switch. Evening was coming down in shifts of
ever-darkening shadows.
The kitchen was spotless and that was an insult. Conor had been a typical bachelor and never once in
all the time she'd known him, had the sink been free of a mound of dirty dishes.
"Why don't you use the dishwasher?" she'd once asked with exasperation.
"I don't _like _dishwashers," Conor had proclaimed. "I _like_ washing the dishes by hand. It's
peaceful."
"Peaceful?" she'd repeated, questioning the man's sanity.
"Soothing," he'd said, nodding. "Almost seductive."
Rhianna had poked at a crusted plate, her mouth twisted in disgust. "Obviously not seductive enough
to lure you into doing it all that often."
And the refrigerator was bare.
Where was his favorite beer? The outrageously expensive bloody Mary mix, sliced limes, and celery
stalks he always kept for her? The slowly rotting lettuce, mushy cucumbers, and evil-looking black
radishes? The sour 2% milk and crumb-encrusted tub of margarine? The crinkled aluminum foil-wrapped
containers of God-only-knew-what? The dozens of packets of malt vinegar from a greasy fish-and-chips
place he'd been addicted to that always fell from the egg shelf when you opened the refrigerator door?
"What on earth are you going to do with all this goddamned malt vinegar?" she'd once asked with
amazement.
Conor had shrugged. "Pickle something?"
Rhianna shut the refrigerator door and sat down at the gleaming red-and-white chrome table. She ran
her hand over the scratched surface, listening to Conor's voice coming at her from the range where, in her
mind, he was stirring a pot of Mulligan stew.
_"I found it at the dump," he explained as he added carrots to the blue enamel pot._
_"And why, pray tell," she
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