collect rocks.”
“We haven’t time today.” But the sting of being unfairly compared to Beattie undermined him. “Och, I’m being a grouch. Go on, Lucy. Find your pretty rocks.”
Her warm fingers left his, and she dashed off to the edge of the road. He watched her with a grin, aware as he always was that the child made him into an idiot. Every time he looked at her, even thought about her, his heart turned to warm water. The night she was born—a collection of hellish imagesof blood and bodily contortion that he could not forget when he looked at Beattie—it was as though Lucy had emerged directly into his hands, as though she were telling him, “I’m yours, never let me go.”
They arrived at the bottom of the hill. The store was late-afternoon quiet. The larger woman, Lesley, was bringing in the news banners while Jean counted out the cash register inside. Lucy ran off to the back corner to look at the dolls, and Henry approached the counter.
Jean looked up, unsmiling. “Mr. MacConnell? I do hope you’ve come to pay your bill.”
Henry wasn’t one for smiling or charming people. He spoke plainly and with dignity. “I am unable to pay at this point. I want to extend our credit until April thirty, when I expect to pay it in full.” There. Not so hard to say, so why did Beattie balk at it?
“No.”
Henry winced. “I’m sorry?”
“No. I’m not in the business of extending credit to bad debtors. Many people are in financial difficulties, Mr. MacConnell.
Genuinely.
But yours is the only family who asks for more than we can give you.”
The rage began to build within him. What did she mean “genuinely”? Had Beattie told them about his gambling debts? Could she not keep her mouth shut? The silly, young fool! His hands balled into fists, and he wanted to smash the cabinet they rested on, to hear the satisfying shatter of its glass.
“I can see you don’t like what I’m saying to you,” Jean said,“but nothing you can do can change my opinion. Unless you give me some of the money I am owed.”
Henry gathered himself. He nodded once, then wordlessly turned on his heel. He marched up to the back corner where Lucy was gazing with huge, round eyes at a collection of little dolls up out of her reach.
“Daddy,” she said, “the baby.”
He looked and saw a tiny baby doll, smaller than his hand, dressed in red. Lucy looked at him with pleading eyes. He cursed himself. If he hadn’t lost so much to Billy—damn Billy, damn him for everything!—he’d be able to buy this little toy for his child. But instead . . .
Henry checked behind him. Jean was counting her money, Lesley was still outside, the back corner was dark.
In one swift moment, the doll was in his pocket. He herded Lucy out quickly, shushing her excited laughter. He swept her up in his arms and hurried down the hill to the empty marketplace, where they sat together and she made a game out of checking every one of his pockets until she found the doll.
Then she threw her little arms around his neck and shrieked with happiness.
As Lucy played with her dolly, as the plane tree leaves scattered about them, as the boats slowly bobbed on their moorings in the harbor, Henry’s anger subsided until he felt quite normal again. And a little embarrassed. Stealing toys for his daughter. Is that what he had been reduced to? Once he had known what to do with himself, with life. But then Beattie had come along, with her wide blue eyes and her soft whiteskin . . . For a long time, she had seemed to be his greatest love. Now, though, she was his greatest regret.
Especially now that Molly had found him. Especially now that Molly had written to tell him her father in Ireland had finally died and left her a small fortune. She still wanted him back, despite everything. That was the kind of person Molly was. She was good: a heart handmade by angels.
He shook himself. That was not his life anymore. This was. He watched Lucy a little longer, smiling
“We haven’t time today.” But the sting of being unfairly compared to Beattie undermined him. “Och, I’m being a grouch. Go on, Lucy. Find your pretty rocks.”
Her warm fingers left his, and she dashed off to the edge of the road. He watched her with a grin, aware as he always was that the child made him into an idiot. Every time he looked at her, even thought about her, his heart turned to warm water. The night she was born—a collection of hellish imagesof blood and bodily contortion that he could not forget when he looked at Beattie—it was as though Lucy had emerged directly into his hands, as though she were telling him, “I’m yours, never let me go.”
They arrived at the bottom of the hill. The store was late-afternoon quiet. The larger woman, Lesley, was bringing in the news banners while Jean counted out the cash register inside. Lucy ran off to the back corner to look at the dolls, and Henry approached the counter.
Jean looked up, unsmiling. “Mr. MacConnell? I do hope you’ve come to pay your bill.”
Henry wasn’t one for smiling or charming people. He spoke plainly and with dignity. “I am unable to pay at this point. I want to extend our credit until April thirty, when I expect to pay it in full.” There. Not so hard to say, so why did Beattie balk at it?
“No.”
Henry winced. “I’m sorry?”
“No. I’m not in the business of extending credit to bad debtors. Many people are in financial difficulties, Mr. MacConnell.
Genuinely.
But yours is the only family who asks for more than we can give you.”
The rage began to build within him. What did she mean “genuinely”? Had Beattie told them about his gambling debts? Could she not keep her mouth shut? The silly, young fool! His hands balled into fists, and he wanted to smash the cabinet they rested on, to hear the satisfying shatter of its glass.
“I can see you don’t like what I’m saying to you,” Jean said,“but nothing you can do can change my opinion. Unless you give me some of the money I am owed.”
Henry gathered himself. He nodded once, then wordlessly turned on his heel. He marched up to the back corner where Lucy was gazing with huge, round eyes at a collection of little dolls up out of her reach.
“Daddy,” she said, “the baby.”
He looked and saw a tiny baby doll, smaller than his hand, dressed in red. Lucy looked at him with pleading eyes. He cursed himself. If he hadn’t lost so much to Billy—damn Billy, damn him for everything!—he’d be able to buy this little toy for his child. But instead . . .
Henry checked behind him. Jean was counting her money, Lesley was still outside, the back corner was dark.
In one swift moment, the doll was in his pocket. He herded Lucy out quickly, shushing her excited laughter. He swept her up in his arms and hurried down the hill to the empty marketplace, where they sat together and she made a game out of checking every one of his pockets until she found the doll.
Then she threw her little arms around his neck and shrieked with happiness.
As Lucy played with her dolly, as the plane tree leaves scattered about them, as the boats slowly bobbed on their moorings in the harbor, Henry’s anger subsided until he felt quite normal again. And a little embarrassed. Stealing toys for his daughter. Is that what he had been reduced to? Once he had known what to do with himself, with life. But then Beattie had come along, with her wide blue eyes and her soft whiteskin . . . For a long time, she had seemed to be his greatest love. Now, though, she was his greatest regret.
Especially now that Molly had found him. Especially now that Molly had written to tell him her father in Ireland had finally died and left her a small fortune. She still wanted him back, despite everything. That was the kind of person Molly was. She was good: a heart handmade by angels.
He shook himself. That was not his life anymore. This was. He watched Lucy a little longer, smiling
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