Chapter 9
Saturday dawned overcast, but mercifully dry, and Maggie woke up slowly, stretching lazily. At last, she was going to spend a day seeing London, touring the Tower and Buckingham Palace and all the other tourist traps. As much as Ciaran could fit into an afternoon, she would see it all. At the end of the day, though, she was going to have to deal with a situation she had never encountered before. Standing in the shower, she searched in the quiet corners of her mind, to face her fear that Ciaran would ask to spend the night. Cindy was right, and Maggie was beginning to see that after thinking things over. No matter how fantastic a lover Ciaran proved to be, she would still feel used. No casual sex for the very pious Saint Maggie, she thought, it would never be pleasurable. She had made up her mind on the airplane, as she looked at her reflection, that she would give herself to a man if her body gave her the right signals, if the heat of desire warmed her hips. Now that the signal was burning and the moment was approaching, Maggie held back. One more thing was required; there had to be something more than one night. If Ciaran could give her that, they would dream of the world together.
Of course, sympathy sex was another matter, and she pondered this other issue as the shower pulsed on her head. She might find it enjoyable because it was like giving to the needy, a donation of an hour or so of her time and the recipient would be ever so grateful. Bea had certainly made it sound like Trevor was destitute, but that seemed highly unlikely. He was a household name in Great Britain, and the man had two Tony awards collecting dust in his two-hundred-year old house. As Maggie thought about it, she came to the conclusion that actresses must be throwing themselves at his feet and giving him anything he wanted so that they could be seen in his company. Unless, of course, he had erected a shrine to his late wife in their bedroom, and that would scare anyone away. She could picture a gold-leafed chapel to Mrs. Harwood, its vigil candle kept burning like an eternal flame. Thinking about Trevor’s never-ending devotion made Maggie terribly sad, even envious. She had not thought about Franco for days now; she had been enjoying herself so much that he never popped into her thoughts.
She waited in the lobby for Ciaran’s arrival, with the desk clerks sneaking an occasional peak at the woman who had become the center of the back stairs gossip. Mr. Towson personally escorted her through the kitchen to a rear entrance where she could slide into the back seat of a car without being seen. It seemed so ridiculous to sneak around, but for the tour guide it was all part of his life in the public eye.
“So, Maggie, where do we start?” he asked after he greeted her with a friendly kiss on the cheek. He was going to take his time in courting her so that he would not scare away this sweet, shy kitten. Nervous as a kitten was how he would describe her at that moment, their first time alone.
“Buckingham Palace, I think, and then can I see Hyde Park? No, wait, Westminster Abbey first, is that all right?” Maggie was too excited, and there were too many things to see.
Ciaran took her hand, smiling at her enthusiasm. He loved that about her, a warm breeze of life that he felt on his cheek whenever he was next to her. He told the driver to head to Westminster Abbey, through the impossible congestion of London traffic.
“After the Abbey we should stop for lunch, then we can drive to the Palace. But if you see something along the way, call out and we can stop.”
“Excuse me for sounding like a schoolgirl, but what is that?” she asked as they drove past the Old Admiralty Building. Ciaran leaned over, his arm across her shoulder, and pointed out the government buildings as they came into view.
“Look, there’s Number 10,” he pointed towards the Prime Minister’s residence. “And Parliament on your left.”
As her head turned towards him, Ciaran had an urge to kiss her. With any other woman, he would do what he wanted, but he could not treat Maggie like tonight’s piece of ass. She commanded his respect, when she had so much respect for herself. Besides, Ciaran understood that Maggie reaped no benefit for her career or her personal life by being seen with him. She was sitting next to him because she wanted him for the sake of his company alone. This had rarely happened before, but Ciaran recognized the way his heart raced a little faster, the way his fingers felt as if they were on fire with her hand in his. He was falling in love with Maggie.
Walking through the aisles of the ancient monument, Ciaran considered himself the most fortunate man alive with Maggie on his arm. She was reading all the plaques, knowing the names of Great Britain’s brightest lights with her deep love of history. In Poet’s Corner he held her as close as he dared, his arm around her waist as he pointed out the statue of Shakespeare that graced the resting place of Shelley and Longfellow. “How did that Yank sneak in here?” he whispered with a silly grin.
All around them, the sounds of twittering and chirping meant that Ciaran was recognized by the other visitors. Maggie did not know that murmur, for she was an anonymous editor who could go anywhere she wanted and never be noticed. She would learn to recognize those whispers soon enough, Ciaran expected, when their romance became public knowledge. It was nearly two o’clock, and time to leave for lunch, time to run off before the crowd grew bolder and began to ask for photos or autographs.
“I never realized how much was here, Ciaran,” she said as they left. “It’s impossible to judge the size of a building by reading the guide book.”
“After dark we should drive over the Tower Bridge. It’s really a sight,” he said as he helped her into the car. He gave the driver an address and they set off for a quiet little restaurant in Kensington.
It was obvious that he had been there before, many times, judging by the way that the staff treated him. A bottle of wine was brought to the table without an order being placed, as if Ciaran began his seduction with a light pouilly-fuisse, a script to be followed to ensure an award winning performance. The gold chargers were removed as the wine was served, accompanied by a small hors d’oeuvre of thinly sliced smoked salmon nestled on perfectly crisped triangles of toast.
“You know by now that I’ve never been a choirboy,” Ciaran began, his boyish grin utterly captivating. “My doctor has given me a good going-over, make sure I didn’t pick up anything over the years.”
“And he gave you a clean bill of health, by the look on your face,” Maggie said pleasantly. Behind her gentle eyes, he detected a softening of feminine resistance, as if the smell of testosterone was hypnotizing her.
“It’s past time for me to start a family,” he said, suddenly too shy to meet her eyes. “I’ve had my fun, Maggie, but I want some little Doyles to follow after me.”
“And you’ll never regret it, no matter what happens to you,” she went on, starting to sound like Ciaran’s older sister Molly. “My son has meant the world to me. If not for Joey, I think I would have just let myself die after my husband’s heart attack. Without my boy to look after, Ciaran, I would have given up on this world after Franco died.”
Ciaran Doyle nearly fell out of his chair. He had found a pot of gold to be sure, a loving and adoring woman who was married to one man until God called him home. She was truly a treasure, keeping her vows and then thinking about throwing herself into the box with her husband’s lifeless body. Not a bitter divorcee or a heartless hag, Maggie was a lovely Catholic girl who knew how to make a marriage work, who would transfer all her love and devotion to her next husband. He had every intention of being a loyal husband, but if he should slip he could count on Maggie to find a way to forgive him. A trip to the confessional, where God erased his sins, and that would repair the damage if he sincerely tried to love only her.
There was a limit to his ability to restrain himself, and Ciaran gave in to a burning desire, a kiss that was returned with enthusiasm and lust that was held in check by the presence of strangers at other tables. Maggie had a strong sense of propriety, and Ciaran was thrilled to discover that she possessed such a vital quality. His ideal wife had to meet a few stringent requirements, and as the day wore on, he became convinced that Maggie was as close to perfect as he would find.
They spent the entire day together, talking like old friends who were completely comfortable with each other. In Ciaran’s mind, this was real love, not all the passion and romance that he showered on his sexual partner, but the kind of affection that people found after years of marriage. His sister Molly and her husband had that kind of relationship, and for the first time Ciaran was beginning to understand what Molly had been talking about for so many years. He did not have to seduce Maggie in the back seat of the car as they drove to the Tower of London; he only needed to hold her hand to be happy.
At the end of the day, the car pulled up to the service entrance of the Strand House Hotel and Maggie had to face up to the one thing that she had been nervously pondering all day long. He was not asking, but she could tell that he was expecting an invitation and she forced her mouth to speak words she had never expected to have the guts to say. “Come on up for a drink, Ciaran,” Maggie said firmly, confident that he would not turn her down while half wishing that he would.
“You’ve got the devil in you, Maggie Griffith,” he said, a broad grin lighting up his face.
He took her hand and walked to the desk, asked for the key to Maggie’s room as bold as could be, and ordered a bottle of champagne with a wink at the desk clerk. In the elevator, he put an arm around her shoulder, whispering in her ear that she was taking a chance on damaging her reputation with the gossip that was sure to follow.
“No one knows me here,” she whispered back, “and how could anyone back home ever know? You don’t mind your name in the gossip columns, and that’s the only name that anyone will care about. Ciaran Doyle and some dull housewife from Chicago, what will your fans think of you?”
“They’ll think I have led a good woman astray. You shall have to make a confession, Mrs. Angiolini,” he bellowed in the elevator, imitating a burly parish priest to perfection, throwing in a strong brogue to make the picture complete, “for such a sin as fornication.”
Maggie was giggling as the door of the elevator opened, and she could barely suppress a loud guffaw when she saw the elderly couple that was waiting to board, with their mouths hanging open in disbelief. Ciaran wished them a very good evening as he held the door for them, winking at the old gentleman with a suggestive look while the shocked old biddies could not find the button for the lobby fast enough. The show continued when the waiter brought in the champagne, with Ciaran pretending to zip his fly as though he had been caught at an inconvenient time. It only made Maggie snicker even more, entertained by his foolishness and amused by the suggestion of illicit activity that would make tongues wag in the staff room.
“Shall I alert housekeeping, Mr. Doyle?” the waiter asked quietly as Ciaran handed him a tip.
“For clean sheets, do you mean? No, not this time. She’s been married so long, you see, that she doesn’t care to do it in bed. Don’t worry, though, I’ll be sure to put a towel down on the sofa to protect the upholstery. The top of the desk might need a cover as well. Good night.”
Maggie was sitting in bed, stretching out her tired legs. They had walked for hours, tramping through Westminster Abbey and Parliament’s halls, followed by a quick swing through the Victoria and Albert Museum, with a promenade across the Tower Bridge after dark to finish off the day. He poured champagne and handed her a glass before sitting down next to her. With a tender smile, he offered a toast to continued friendship. At that moment they were almost like an old married couple, comfortable with each other but not needing physical contact to be satisfied. They sipped champagne, leaning back against the headboard, quietly resting after a busy day.
Maggie downed her glass more quickly than she wanted to, but it was nerves and not thirst that bent her elbow. The room lights seemed to be blazing and she thought only of finding some discreet way to turn them off before she had to get out of her clothes. Fixated on her dilemma, she was brought back to reality by Ciaran’s tongue, which was gently probing her mouth. A wonderful sensation was lost to her because she was not so sure that she really wanted to do this after all. His hand was on her neck and Maggie knew that it was just a matter of time until his fingers were wrapped around her breast, and half of her brain wanted to take those fingers and move them to her chest while the other half wanted to run away.
He never detected the tension in her lips, not when he was preoccupied with his speech. “Did you ever wish that you had more than the one boy?” he asked, kissing her neck as he removed the glass from her sweating hand.
“I was lucky to have the one,” she said, but her eyes reflected a deep sorrow. “After I lost the last one, the doctor told me I was done, no more babies. I lost three before Joey, and then I was pregnant again one more time after he was born. I miscarried again but I was hemorrhaging and the doctor was going to perform a hysterectomy but I refused. Oh, my God, Ciaran, I told him that I’d rather die in one piece than be cut up, and my husband was furious with me for being so stupid. I was lucky, though, because the doctor was able to stop the bleeding without an operation, but in the end, well, a snip or two and a bit of string to tie things up, and Joey was our only child. Besides, I’m almost forty, too old to chase a toddler. I’m closer to being a grandmother.”
His heart began to break. For the first time in his life Ciaran was in pain from a deep hurt. Be careful what you pray for, his grandmother used to say, because you may get it. He prayed for a woman to love, but he forgot to add a codicil, that she be young and fertile. Ciaran was in love, he had no doubt of that, but he also knew that Maggie would never be his wife. When they talked to the priest, when Father Kelly asked if there was any impediment to having a family, she would say, yes, Father, I am sterile but he wants children. A good Catholic girl like Maggie would not marry a man who wanted a son that she could not give him; it was practically a sin. She would not marry him for his fame or his money, for those things meant nothing to her.
A sigh escaped from his throat; his dreams of the years to come had faded away. He kissed her again, but this was a pleasant goodbye to plans made and plans foiled, followed by an embrace that greeted a new course, an acknowledgment that they could only be lovers and a wish that they would remain friends. He took Maggie in his arms and held her warmly, letting go of what could never be and enjoying her company for as long as he could have it.
“Thank you, for being honest with me,” he said. “Having a family is the most important thing to me right now. I think that God listens to you, will you pray for me, that I find a wife who is as wonderful as you?”
“You don’t need my prayers, Ciaran, you only have to look in the right places. Somewhere in this world are dozens of girls who are looking for a man who wants to be a father, not a man to lift them into the limelight. Find a mirror that reflects your light, and stay away from the flames that burn as brightly as you.”
“How did you ever become so wise?” he asked. Taking a lover, rather than a wife, required a shift in strategy. Ciaran had no doubt that Maggie felt something for him, an affection that he could nurture and cultivate. Rather than build up the emotion for a lifetime together, they would only need enough to sustain a brief affair. A one-night stand was out of the question, since Maggie deserved more of his time and consideration. If he had been honest with himself, he might have admitted that he did not want it to end with one night, not when it would take him more than one night to get over the loss of a dream. “Can you share a little of your wisdom with me?”
“A long time ago, I was in western Nebraska, in the Badlands. Scottsbluff, where they used to film western movies. There’s an enormous rock that seems to rise up out of nowhere, like a giant table, and I went up to the top. I looked out over the plains, miles of empty land, and I opened my ears and listened to the wind, and I opened my heart and I listened to God. Standing up there, I felt so insignificant in the universe, but we all matter to God, don’t we? That keeps me on the ground where He put me.”
“You’re the first person I’ve ever met with her head in the clouds and her feet firmly planted in the sod. You’re an Irish girl, Maggie; it’s in your blood. Generation after generation in America can’t erase it.”
“I promise you, one day you’ll find a nice girl who doesn’t know about Ciaran Doyle the movie star. She’ll pull you out of the clouds when you get too high and mighty and put your feet back on the earth, and when you’re seventy-five you’ll be surrounded by grandchildren, and you’ll be the happiest man in the world.”
Ciaran sighed, a little sad. “I’ve done half the girls in London, not to brag but I like the ladies. Never kept one for long, though, but I think I was afraid that they would get tired of me, so I left them first. Will you answer a personal question for me?”
“If I can, sure.” Maggie said, snuggling against his chest and finding great comfort there.
“After you were married for a long time, did you ever get tired of making love with your husband? The same man, every time, was that always a joy for you?”
“Yes, Ciaran, even after years and years it was always a joy, even when it took more work to keep the fires burning. When my husband got sick, and we couldn’t do it anymore, I never had any desire to be with another man, because I only wanted to make love with Franco. That’s marriage, Ciaran, not like the movies you make, but it’s really better.”
“Ah, Maggie, after all my running around I’ll never find a girl who would want to give me one again, not after the way I treated some of them. I’ve been a bastard, and that’s the honest truth, using so many women for pleasure. I think I’m getting my punishment now.”
“Who would you want to give you a fresh start?” she asked, rolling over onto her stomach to settle into a comfortable chat.
Her face was a mask, as blank as she could make it. There was no reason for her to have seen this coming, and if she had, she would have told him before they got this far. Marriage was not right, and precisely because he wanted children. Their conservative religious training made them of one mind. Ciaran would not ask for her hand because he realized that she would not give it, and Maggie did not have to turn him down because he knew already. In a span of a few hours, he had found and lost a treasure. She had lost something, maybe, but she felt strongly that she was finding something important. Her new life was taking shape, like clay in her hands, but she was not sure what shape she was going to form.
“Where’s the good in dreaming? How can I get someone back when I never bothered to ring her up after?”
“If there is someone, it can’t hurt to try. Think back to your early days when the directors would say thank you and goodbye after an audition. What’s a little more rejection?”
“More pain, more misery,” he chuckled. Maggie hugged him with genuine affection, to give him a gentle squeeze or a dollop of courage. He did not want to be alone right now, any more than Maggie wanted to be alone in a lifeless hotel room. He needed her presence, as much as she needed him at her side, longing for the feeling of security that came when you were together with someone you could trust.
“I felt like a boy again today,” he said. “We had fun together, didn’t we?”
“I had a wonderful time, thank you. It’ll be hard to leave all this behind. There’s just so much excitement in London. Not at all like my little house in the suburbs. I like it, the bustle and everything.”
“Maggie, if you could still have babies,” he said, shifting around until his head was in her lap, “would you have married me?”
“If I were a young woman, say, ten years ago, yes, I would have married you.”
“We’d be under the covers right now.”
“You would not be in my room, Mr. Doyle, until the ring was on my finger,” she said, smiling happily as she gently stroked his hair. The gesture was nearly automatic, something that she did to Joey when he came to his mother with a heart full of perplexing problems. It felt like that now, with Ciaran, as they talked over the issues that weighed heavily on his mind.
“The nuns must have taken you away and locked you in the convent when you were a child,” he laughed. “Why buy the cow when the milk is free, Miss Griffith?”
“Don’t make fun of the old girls, they spoke the truth, and here’s the proof. You took me to a restaurant that had white tablecloths, and that reminded you of bed sheets and gave you impure thoughts.”
“I still want you, Maggie.”
“I’ll never miss what I didn’t have, but I can always dream about what might have been. We’ll make a clean break, that way it won’t hurt quite so much. When it’s time for me to go home, we won’t have to give up something that we can’t keep.”
“You can always keep the memories.”
“Sometimes a memory can be a curse and not a blessing. Like looking in the window of the toy store when you have no chance of buying the pretty doll on display. It’s better to walk away, shed the tears and move along.”
“Don’t be shedding tears over me, Maggie, you’ve shown me something tonight and I’ll always be grateful to you. I finally see what it is that I’ve been looking for in my life, and I’m going to get it. Meet the new Ciaran Doyle, family man.”
“It’s a lot of work, don’t forget, not all champagne and passionate love, not after a couple of years. There’s more heartache than you can imagine, and struggle, but at the end of the day, you’ll find it was worth all the trouble and effort.”
“Promise me that we can still be friends, Maggie. When my wife throws me out of the house, can I call on you to explain to me what I did wrong?” he joked lightly.
Marriage looked pretty frightening, even with Maggie’s gentle description, but she had survived it, battle-scarred but still standing tall. Even Trevor Harwood had made it through, on his feet though stooped by the weight of his sorrow. Doyle’s siblings would complain from time to time, harping on some problem or disagreement, but now Ciaran understood what kept them married. It was the warmth and comfort of the person who loved you, even if you had just acted like a perfect idiot. Through Maggie, he was given a glimpse of married love, the peace that came from lying next to a woman and not having to say a word because of the bond between husband and wife.
Ciaran never noticed that he fell asleep, not until he woke up at three o’clock in the morning. Maggie was still there, with his head cradled in her lap, but she was looking out the window with tears running down her cheeks. Somehow, he sensed that her tears were falling on his behalf, as if Maggie was mourning over the hurt that she had inflicted. He blamed himself for building up her expectations, rushing through a courtship because he was in a hurry to have children. None of it was her fault, and it was painful for him to see her crying over his broken heart when he had done the damage. Even though it hurt, knowing that he had come close to reaching the summit, Ciaran felt worse because Maggie had to suffer as well. It was not the sort of memory he wanted her to take home to Chicago.
Without conceit, he knew that she had another reason to cry. Ciaran could feel how much she wanted him, but for some reason she would not give in to her desire. She had turned him down, but it was not because she was hurt or angry with him. In a way, she had explained to him that she did not want to make love just then, but he was not quite sure why. Perhaps she had asked for a time to mourn, with a time to love promised for some elusive and misty future that he could not see clearly. Maggie was not quite like other women he had known, and she was not so easy to understand. Not knowing what he should do next, Ciaran decided it was best to back off and try a different approach.
“I’d better go,” he said as he sat up. He kissed the drops from her cheeks as he apologized for the grief he had brought down on her.
“Don’t be sorry, Ciaran, don’t ever be sorry,” she said with surprising strength. “You woke up something in me that was asleep for a long time. I’ll be in your debt for the rest of my life, for making me see that things can’t be what they used to be. Honestly, it isn’t sorrow you gave me, but a beautiful memory. One day, when I’m an old granny, I can look back on this night and remember that the most wonderful man from Manchester wanted me to be his wife.”
“Go on, it only means I’m not a fool. It’s Valentine’s Day, you know. I brought you a gift, a little memento.”
He handed her a small carton that he pulled from his coat pocket, prettily wrapped in green paper. With a grin, Maggie ripped open the package, the first Valentine’s gift she had received since she met Franco. Nestled inside the wrapping was a small box made of porcelain, shaped like a heart and only large enough to store a few pairs of earrings. The tiny shamrocks that decorated the white china lid were distinctive to anyone of Irish descent.
“Oh, Ciaran, a piece of Belleek,” she sighed. “It’s so beautiful, the prettiest piece I have ever seen. Thank you for the gift, I’ll always think of you when I look at this.”
“You’ve done something special for me too, Maggie. I know what kind of woman I want, someone as gentle and loving as you. Say a prayer that I find her, and I’ll pray for you, to find the right man. What will it be, do you still favor a boy like me?”
“I think it’s time for me to change my ways. Maybe I should switch to someone who’s dull and stodgy.”
“You’ve come to the right country to find dull men by the carload,” he laughed. “We can try the House of Lords on Monday, and you can have your pick.”
He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her goodnight, a gentleman at the end of a delightful evening. As Maggie closed the door behind him, he touched his other pocket, the one with the engagement ring tucked into another small box wrapped in green paper. In the quiet of a hotel corridor in the dead of night, he could hear her sobbing behind the door, alone in her room.
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