Matters Of The Heart

Chapter 3

Fiona Casey, the assistant her agent had hired for her, showed up at Hope’s hotel room at nine o’clock the next morning. She was a bright, funny, redheaded girl, who was totally in awe of Hope. She was a graduate photography student at the Royal Academy of Arts, and supported herself by doing freelance work. She was equally impressed that they would be shooting Finn O’Neill, and stumbled all over herself, carrying Hope’s equipment out to a rental van. They were due at Finn O’Neill’s house at ten o’clock. Hope hadn’t heard from him again, so she assumed he was healthy enough to do the shoot.

The driver the hotel had provided for her with the van drove them the short distance to an elegant mews house at a fashionable address. The house was tiny, as they all were on the narrow backstreet, and as soon as she struck the brass knocker on the door, a maid in a uniform appeared and let them in. She led them into a doll-sized living room near the front door, which was crammed with weathered antique English furniture. The bookcase was overflowing, and there were stacks of books on the floor, and glancing at them, Hope could see that many of the books were old, either leatherbound, or on closer inspection, first editions. This was clearly a man who loved books. The couches were comfortable, covered in leather, and very old, and there was a fire burning brightly in the grate, which seemed to be the only heat source in the room. It was cold, except when one stood close to the fire. And in close proximity to the sitting room was a dining room painted dark green, and a small kitchen beyond. Each of the rooms was very small, but had lots of charm.

They sat there for nearly half an hour, waiting for Finn, as both Fiona and Hope got up to stand near the fire, chatting quietly in whispers. The house was so minute that it seemed awkward to speak too loudly, for fear that someone would overhear them. And then, just as Hope began wondering where he was, a tall man with a mane of dark hair and electric blue eyes burst into the room. The house seemed ridiculously small for a man his size, as though if he stretched his arms he could touch the walls and span the room. It seemed an absurd place for him, particularly after she had looked up his ancestral home in Ireland on the Internet after Paul mentioned it to her.

“I’m so sorry to keep you waiting,” Finn said in an ordinary American accent. She didn’t know why, but after all she’d read about O’Neill and his ties to Ireland, she almost expected him to have a brogue, except that they had spoken on the phone the night before, and he had sounded like any other educated New Yorker, although he looked more European. Whatever his ancestry, he was in fact as American as Hope. And his cold sounded a lot better. He coughed a few times, but no longer sounded as though he were dying. In fact, he looked surprisingly healthy and full of life. And he had a smile that melted Fiona on the spot, as he had the maid offer her a cup of coffee while he invited Hope to join him upstairs. He apologized to Fiona for disappearing with Hope, but he wanted to get to know his photographer a little better.

She followed him up a narrow winding staircase, and found herself in a cozy but larger living room, filled with books, antiques, objects, mementos, old leather couches, and comfortable chairs, and there was a blazing fire in the fireplace. It was the kind of room where you wanted to tuck yourself in and stay for days. Every object was fascinating and intriguing. Some were from his travels, and others looked as though he had treasured them for years. The room was full of personality and warmth, and despite his large frame and long limbs, it somehow seemed the perfect place for him. He let himself down into the embrace of an overstuffed old couch, and stretched out his long legs toward the fire with a broad grin at Hope. She saw that he was wearing well-worn, very elegant black leather riding boots.

“I hope I wasn’t rude to your assistant,” he said apologetically. “I just thought it might be nice to get acquainted, before we get to work. I’m always self-conscious about being photographed. As a writer, I’m used to observing everyone else, not to having others watch me. I don’t like being in the limelight.” He said it with a boyish, slightly lopsided smile that immediately won her heart. He had an immense amount of charm.

“I feel exactly the same way. I don’t like being photographed either. I like being at the shooting end myself.” She was already thinking about where she could photograph him best. She almost preferred him right where he was, stretching out comfortably in front of the fire, his head slightly thrown back so she could see his face. “Are you feeling better?” He appeared so healthy and vital that it was hard to believe he’d ever been sick. He still sounded a little hoarse, but he was full of energy, and his blue eyes danced when he laughed. He reminded her of the fairy tales of her youth, and looked like the perfect handsome prince, or the hero in a book, although most of the subjects of his work were fairly dark.

“I’m fine now,” he said blithely, and then coughed a little. “This house is so small, I always feel somewhat foolish in it, but it’s so comfortable and easy, I could never give it up. I’ve had it for years. I’ve written some of my best books here.” And then he turned to point to his desk behind them. It was a wonderful old partner’s desk, which he said had been on a ship. It dominated the far corner of the room, where his computer sat on it, looking strangely out of place. “Thank you for coming over,” he said kindly. He seemed truly grateful, as the maid walked in, carrying a silver tray with two cups of tea. “I know it was a crazy thing to ask you to do, on Christmas week. But they needed the shot, and I’m finishing a book next week, and due to start another right after, so I’ll be back in Dublin working. Meeting you in London now made more sense.”

“It was fine actually,” Hope said easily, helping herself to one of the cups of tea. Finn took the other one, and the maid instantly disappeared back down the stairs. “I had nothing else to do,” she said, as he examined her carefully. She was younger than he had expected, and better looking. He was startled by how tiny and delicate she was, and the strength of her violet eyes.

“You’re a good sport to come over here right before Christmas,” he commented, as she looked at the light and shadows on his face. He was going to be easy to photograph. Everything about him was expressive, and he was a strikingly handsome man.

“London is fun this time of year,” Hope said with a smile as she set down her cup of tea on the regimental drum he used as a coffee table. A stack of beautiful old alligator suitcases sat to one side of the fireplace. Everywhere she looked there was something to admire. “I usually ignore the holiday, so it was fun to come over here. The assignment was a nice surprise and came at a good time. What about you? Will you be spending Christmas in Ireland or here?” She liked getting to know her subjects before she started work, and O’Neill was easy and relaxed. He didn’t seem like a difficult person, and he was open and accessible as he smiled at her over his cup of tea. He was extremely charming and appealing.

“No, I’m going to stay here and go back afterward,” he answered. “My son is flying over the day after Christmas. He goes to MIT, he’s a bright kid. He’s a computer whiz. His mother died when he was seven, and he grew up with me. I really miss him now that he’s in college in the States. It’s more fun for him here in London than in Dublin. And then he’s going skiing with friends. We’re very close,” Finn said proudly, and then looked at her intently. He was curious about her. “Do you have kids?”

“No.” She shook her head quietly. “I don’t.” He was surprised. She looked as though she would. She didn’t look like one of those career women who had decided not to have children. She seemed more motherly and there was a noticeably gentle softness about her. She was soft-spoken and seemed nurturing and kind.

“Married?” He glanced at her left hand, and there was no ring.

“No,” and then she opened up a little. “I was. My husband was a cardiovascular surgeon at Harvard. Heart-lung transplants were his specialty. He retired ten years ago. We’ve been divorced for over two years.”

“I think retiring destroys people. I’m going to keep writing until they carry me out. I wouldn’t know what else to do with myself. Was retiring hard on him? It must have been. Heart surgeons are always heroes, particularly at Harvard, I imagine.”

“He had no choice. He got sick,” she said quietly.

“Worse yet. That must have been tough for him. Cancer?” He wanted to know about her, and as they talked, she watched the movement of his face, and the bright blue of his eyes. She was glad they were shooting in color-it would have been a shame not to get the actual color of those eyes. They were the bluest she’d ever seen.

“No, Parkinson’s. He stopped operating as soon as he found out. He taught for several years after that, but eventually, he had to give that up too. It was very hard on him.”

“And probably on you too. That’s a brutal disappointment for a man in the midst of a career like that. Hence the divorce?”

“That and other things,” she said vaguely, glancing around the room again. There was a photograph of Finn with a handsome young blond boy, who she guessed was his son, and he nodded when he saw her looking at it.

“That’s my boy, Michael. I miss him now that he’s at school. It’s hard getting used to his not being around.”

“Did he grow up in Ireland?” She smiled at the image. Like his father, he was good-looking.

“We lived in New York and London when he was small. I moved to Ireland two years after he left for college. He’s an all-around American kid. I never really was. I always felt different, maybe because my parents weren’t born in the States. All they ever talked about was moving back. So eventually, I did.”

“And Ireland feels like home?” she asked as their eyes met.

“Now it does. I reclaimed my family’s ancestral house. Restoring it will take me the next hundred years. The place was falling apart when I got it, and parts of it still are. It’s an enormous old Palladian home built by Sir Edward Lovett Pearce in the early 1700s. Unfortunately, my parents died long before I got it back, and Michael thought I was nuts to take it on.” There was a photograph of it on the mantelpiece, and he handed it to Hope. It was a gigantic classic house, with a large stone staircase in front, and rounded side wings with columns. In the photograph Finn was in front of the house, astride an elegant black horse. He looked very much the lord of the manor.

“It’s an amazing house,” Hope said with admiration. “It must be quite a project to restore.”

“It has been, but it’s a labor of love. It will be my legacy to Michael one day. I should have it in decent shape by then, providing I live for at least another hundred years to do it.” He laughed as he said it, and Hope handed back the photograph. Now she was sorry she hadn’t shot him there. In comparison to the remarkable Palladian palace, his London mews house suddenly seemed ridiculously small, but all his publisher wanted was a head shot, and for that the cozy room they were sitting in was good enough.

“I’d better get my assistant started,” Hope said, standing up. “It’ll take us a while to set up. Do you have any preference about location?” she asked, glancing around again. She had liked the way he looked when he was sitting on the couch, relaxing and talking about his Dublin house. And she wanted to shoot him at his desk as well, and maybe a couple of shots standing next to the bookcase. It was always hard to predict where the magic would happen, until they connected as she worked. He seemed like an easy subject; everything about him was open and relaxed. And as she looked into his eyes, she could sense that he was the kind of man you could trust, and rely on. There was a feeling of warmth and humor about him, as though he had a good understanding of people’s quirks and the vagaries of life. And there was a hint of laughter in his eyes. He was sexy too, but in a distinguished, aristocratic way. There was nothing sleazy about him, even though her agent had warned her that he was something of a womanizer. Seeing him, that was easy to understand. He was enormously appealing, seemed very caring, and was a gorgeous hunk of man. And she suspected that if he turned the charm on at full volume, he’d be hard to resist. She was glad she wasn’t in that position, and was only working with him. He had been very complimentary about her work. She could tell from questions he had asked her, and things he referred to, that he had Googled her. He seemed to know the entire list of museums she’d been shown in, some of which even she didn’t remember most of the time. He was very well informed.

Hope went back downstairs and helped Fiona sort out the equipment. She told her what she wanted, and then went upstairs to show her where to set up the lights she’d be using. She wanted to photograph him first on the couch, and then at his desk. As she watched Fiona set up, Finn disappeared upstairs to his bedroom, and he reappeared an hour later when Hope let him know that they were ready. She sent the maid up to tell him, and he came back downstairs in a soft blue cashmere sweater the same color as his eyes. It was a good look on him, and his trim form looked sexy and masculine in the sweater. She could see that he had just shaved, and his hair was loose but freshly brushed.

“All set?” She smiled at him, picking up her Mamiya. She told him where to sit on the couch, Fiona gave them a light reading as the lights flashed beneath the umbrella, and Hope set down the Mamiya and took a quick Polaroid to show him the pose and the setting. He said it looked great to him. A minute later, Hope started shooting, alternating between the Mamiya, the Leica, and the Hasselblad for classic portrait shots. She took mostly color, and a few rolls of black and white. That was always her preference for a more interesting look, but his publisher had been specific about wanting color and Finn said he preferred it too. He said that it felt more real to his readers and made it easier for them to connect with him, than in an arty black and white shot on the back of the book.

“You’re the boss,” Hope said, smiling, as she looked into the camera again and he laughed.

“No, you’re the artist.” He seemed completely at ease in front of the camera, moving his head and changing his expression by fractions, as though he had done this a thousand times before, which Hope knew he had. The photograph they were taking was for his eleventh book, and so far, all of them for the past twenty years had been best sellers. At forty-six, he was an institution in American literature, just as she was in her field. It would have been hard to decide which of them was more famous or more respected. They were an even match in their reputations and skills in separate fields.

They shot for an hour, as she praised him for good moves and the right turn of his head, and she was almost sure she had gotten the winning shot in the first half hour, but she knew better than to stop there. She had Fiona move the light setup to his desk, and suggested he take a half-hour break, and maybe put a white shirt on, but leave it open at the neck. He asked if she’d like to stop for lunch then, but Hope said that if he didn’t mind, she’d prefer to continue working. She didn’t want to break the mood, or to get slow and lazy after lunch. She found that it was usually better to stay on it once she and her subject were working well together. A long lunch or a glass of wine could break the spell for either or both of them, and she didn’t want that to happen. She was delighted with what they were getting. As a portrait subject, Finn O’Neill was a dream and he was fun to talk to. The time was speeding by.

Half an hour later, he was back in his living room, in the white shirt Hope had asked for, and sat down at his handsome partner’s desk. Hope moved the computer away because it looked so incongruous in that setting. He was a delightful subject, fooling around, telling jokes and stories about well-known artists, writers, his house in Ireland, and the outrageous stunts he had pulled on book tours in his youth. At one point he had tears in his eyes when he talked about his son and bringing him up on his own, without a mother after her death. There were so many magical moments while she talked to him that Hope knew she would have a multitude of great shots to choose from, each one better than the last.

And then finally, after a few shots of him leaning against an antique ladder in front of the bookcase, they were through. And just as she said it, he exploded in laughter with a look of joy and release, and she stole one more shot of him, which could just turn out to be the best one. Sometimes that happened. And he gave her a warm hug as she handed her Leica to Fiona, who took it reverently from her hands and set it on a table with the others. She unplugged the lights and began to break down the equipment and put it away, as Finn led Hope downstairs to the kitchen.

“You work too hard! I’m starving!” he complained as he opened the refrigerator and turned to her. “Can I make you some pasta or a salad? I’m about to keel over from starvation. No wonder you’re so small, you must never eat.”

“Usually not when I’m working,” she admitted. “I get too involved in what I’m doing to think about it, and it’s so much fun doing the shoot.” She smiled shyly and he laughed.

“Most of the time I feel that way about working on a book, although at times I hate it too. Particularly rewrites. I have a nasty editor, and we have a love-hate relationship, but he’s good for the books. It’s a necessary evil. You don’t have that with what you do,” he said enviously.

“I have to edit myself, but I have clients to deal with who commission the work, like your publisher, and museum curators, who can be pretty tough, though it’s different than doing rewrites must be for you. I’ve always wanted to write,” she confessed. “I can barely write a postcard-for me it’s all visual. I see the world through a lens, I see into people’s souls that way.”

“I know, that’s what I love about your work, and why I asked the publisher to get you to do the photo for the book jacket.” He laughed then as he expertly made an omelette for them both, moving like a tornado in the tiny kitchen. He had already made the salad while they talked. “I hope my soul doesn’t wind up looking too black in the shots you took,” he said, pretending to look worried, as she looked at him intently.

“Why would it? I didn’t see any signs of a black soul, or a dark spirit. Is there something I missed?”

“Maybe a little friendly hereditary craziness, but it’s harmless. From what I’ve read about my Irish relatives, some of them were fairly nuts. But not dangerously so, mostly eccentric.” He smiled at her as he said it.

“There’s no harm in that,” Hope said benignly, as he put their omelettes on separate plates. “Everyone has a little craziness in them somewhere. I spent some time in India after my husband and I split up, trying to figure things out. I guess you could say that was crazy too,” she said, as they sat down at the beautiful mahogany table in his cozy dark green dining room. There were paintings of hunting scenes on the walls, and one of birds by a famous German artist.

“How was it?” Finn asked with interest. “I’ve never been to India myself. I’ve always wanted to go.”

“It was fantastic,” Hope said as her eyes lit up. “It was the most exciting, fulfilling time I’ve ever spent. It changed my life forever, and how I look at everything, including myself. And there are some of the most beautiful spots on earth. I just opened an exhibit of some of the photographs I took there.”

“I think I saw a couple in a magazine,” Finn said as he finished his omelette and started on his salad. “They were photographs of beggars and children, and an incredible one of sunset at the Taj Mahal.”

“I went to some incredibly beautiful lakes too. They’re the most romantic places you could ever dream of, and some other places were the saddest. I stayed at Mother Teresa’s hospital for a month, and I lived at a monastery in Tibet, and an ashram in India, where I found myself again. I think I could have stayed there forever.” When he looked into her eyes, he saw something very deep and very peaceful, and beyond it, deeper than that, he saw two bottomless pools of pain. He could see that Hope was a woman who had suffered. He wondered if it was only about the divorce and her husband’s illness. Whatever it was, he could tell that she had been to hell and back, and yet she was incredibly balanced and peaceful, as she looked across the table at him with a gentle smile.

“I’ve always wanted to do something like that,” he admitted to her, “but I never had the courage. I think I was afraid I might have to face myself. I’d rather face a thousand demons.” It was honest of him to admit it and she nodded.

“It was wonderfully peaceful. We weren’t allowed to speak in the monastery. It was amazingly restful and healing. I’d like to go back sometime.”

“Maybe you need to have some fun instead.” Finn looked suddenly mischievous as he said it. “How long are you here for?” He sat back in his chair and smiled at her. She was mysterious and intriguing.

“I’m going back to New York tomorrow,” she said, smiling at him.

“That’s not enough time to spend in London. What are you doing for dinner tonight?”

“Probably sleeping, after a bowl of soup from room service,” she said with a grin.

“That’s ridiculous,” he said with a look of stern disapproval. “Will you have dinner with me?”

She hesitated and then nodded. She had nothing else to do, and he was interesting to talk to. “I didn’t bring any decent clothes with me,” she said, looking apologetic.

“You don’t need them. You can wear a pair of pants and a sweater. You’re Hope Dunne, you can do whatever you want. Will you have dinner with me tonight at Harry’s Bar? As far as I’m concerned, it’s the best Italian food in the world.” She knew it well, but didn’t go there often. It was one of the most elegant dinner clubs in London, and anyone and everyone who was important would be there. Women would be dressed in elegant, stylish cocktail dresses, and the men wore dark suits. And he was right, the food was superb.

“I’d love to. Are you sure you won’t be embarrassed that I didn’t bring anything dressy with me?” She felt faintly awkward, but liked the idea of having dinner with him. Among other things, he was intelligent, interesting, and quick. She hadn’t been bored with him for a minute all day. He was knowledgeable on a multitude of subjects, well read, well educated, and brilliant. The opportunity to spend a few hours with him and get to know him better was hard to resist. She had come to London just for him. And Paul had left that day.

“I’d be honored to have dinner with you, Hope,” Finn said honestly, and looked as though he meant it. She was the most interesting woman he had met in years. “You can tell me more about India, and I can tell you all about Ireland,” he teased her. “And what it’s like to restore a three-hundred-year-old house.”

Finn told her he would pick her up at the hotel at eight-thirty, and a few minutes later she and Fiona left, after the driver carried out all their equipment. Fiona had been quietly reading a book in the small sitting room, after the maid gave her a sandwich for lunch. She didn’t mind waiting for Hope, and had loved working with her that day.

Fiona got all the equipment organized for Hope back at the hotel, and put away her cameras. It was five o’clock by the time she left, and she said it had been a great day. And after that Hope lay down on her bed for a nap, thinking about her conversation with Finn, and his invitation for that night. It was one of the things she liked best about doing portraits. The work itself wasn’t exciting, but the people she met were. He was such a talented man, as most of her portrait subjects were. She had always loved his work, and it was fascinating discovering the man behind it. He wrote somewhat eerie, even frightening books. She wanted to ask him more about it that night. And he seemed to be just as interested in her work.

She fell asleep for two hours, and woke in time to shower and dress for dinner. As she had warned him, she wore black pants and a sweater, and the only pair of high heels she had brought with her, and was relieved that she had brought a fur coat. At least, she wouldn’t totally disgrace him at Harry’s Bar that night. She couldn’t compete with the fashionable women there, but she looked sober, and simple, and decently dressed. She wound her hair in a bun, and put on just a little makeup and bright red lipstick before she left her suite to wait for him downstairs.

Hope was sitting in the lobby when Finn walked in promptly five minutes later, in a dark blue suit, and a beautifully cut black cashmere coat. He was a striking figure and heads turned as he greeted her and they walked out together. Several people recognized him as he escorted her to the Jaguar he had left at the curb. This wasn’t the evening she had planned on before she met him, but it was fun being out with him, and she smiled broadly as they drove away.

“This is great. Thank you, Finn,” she said warmly, and he turned to her with a smile. The restaurant was only a few blocks away.

“I’m looking forward to it too. And you look terrific. I don’t know what you were worried about. You look very chic.” It had been a long time since she had been out to a fancy dinner. She didn’t do much of that anymore. She rarely went out in the evening now, except to museum parties, or her own gallery shows. Dinners like the one at Harry’s Bar were more part of Paul’s old world, and no longer hers. She was part of a more artistic crowd in New York, that was more in keeping with her work. They went to little bistros in Chelsea and SoHo, never fashionable restaurants.

The headwaiter greeted Finn warmly, and obviously knew him well. He led them to a quiet corner table amid well-dressed diners from a variety of countries. She could hear people speaking Italian, Arabic, Spanish, Russian, German, and French as well as English. And Finn ordered a martini as soon as they sat down. Hope ordered a glass of champagne, as she looked around. The same cartoons were on the walls. Nothing had changed since the last time she’d been there with Paul. It had been years.

“Tell me how you got started taking pictures,” Finn asked as their drinks were served, and Hope took a sip of her champagne.

She laughed at the question. “I fell in love with cameras when I was nine. My father was a professor at Dartmouth, and my mother was an artist. My grandmother gave me a camera for my birthday, and it was love at first sight. I was an only child, so I was good at entertaining myself. And life was pretty quiet in New Hampshire when I was growing up. As long as I had a camera in my hands, I was never bored. What about you?” she asked him. “When did you start writing?”

“Just like you. When I was a boy. I was an only child too, so I read all the time. It was my escape.”

“From what?” she asked with interest. Their art forms were different, but their creative talents were nonetheless a bond.

“A lonely childhood. My parents were very close, and I think I felt left out a lot of the time. There wasn’t a lot of room for a child in their lives. They were older. My father was a doctor, and my mother had been a famous beauty in Ireland. She was fascinated by his work, and a lot less interested in me. So I developed a rich fantasy life, and spent all my time reading. I always knew I wanted to write. I wrote my first book at eighteen.”

“Was it published?” she asked, impressed. And he laughed as he shook his head.

“No, it wasn’t. I wrote three that were never published. I finally got published with my fourth. I had just graduated from college by then.” She knew he had gone to Columbia and then later Oxford. “Success didn’t come till a lot later.”

“What did you do until you were published?”

“Studied, read, kept writing. Drank a lot.” He laughed. “Chased women. I got married fairly young. I was twenty-five, it was right after my second book came out. I worked as a waiter and a carpenter too. Michael’s mother was a model in New York.” He smiled sheepishly at Hope. “I’ve always had a fatal weakness for beautiful women. She was a terrific-looking girl. Spoiled, difficult, narcissistic, but she was one of the prettiest women I’ve ever seen. She was young too, and things fell apart very quickly when we had Michael. I don’t think either of us was ready to have a child. She stopped modeling, and we partied a lot. I didn’t have a lot of money, and we were both miserable.”

“How did she die?” Hope asked gently. What he was describing sounded more like a divorce in the making than a tragic loss for him, and she wasn’t far off the mark.

“She was hit by a drunk driver, coming back from a party in the Hamptons late one night. We’d been separated off and on before, and thank God, she always left Michael with me when she went somewhere like that. She was twenty-eight years old, and I was thirty-three. We probably would have gotten divorced eventually. But I still felt awful about it when she died. And suddenly I was alone with my son. They weren’t easy years. But fortunately, he’s a great kid, and he seems to have forgiven me most of the mistakes I made, and there were quite a few along the way. I’d lost my own parents by then, so there was no one to help us, but we managed. I took care of him myself. It made us both grow up.” He smiled the smile that was half-boy, half-handsome prince that had been melting women’s hearts for years. It was easy to see why. There was something so honest and open and ingenuous about him. He didn’t try to hide his flaws or his fears.

“You never remarried?” Hope was fascinated by his life story.

“I was too busy with my son. And now I feel like it’s too late. I’m too selfish and too set in my ways. And since Michael has been gone, it’s the first time I’ve been on my own. I wanted to savor it for a bit. And being married to a writer isn’t much fun. I’m chained to my desk most of the time. Sometimes I don’t leave the house for months. I couldn’t ask anyone to take that on, and it’s what I love to do.”

“I feel that way about my work too,” she agreed. “It’s all-consuming at times. My husband was very good about it, and very supportive. And he was busy too. Very busy, at the height of his career. Being a doctor’s wife can be lonely too. But it wasn’t for me.” She hesitated for a minute and looked away, and then smiled wist fully at Finn. “I had other things to do.” He assumed that she meant her work, which made sense to him. She had produced an enormous amount of work over the years.

“What did he do after he had to retire?”

“He taught, at Harvard. The academic world was familiar to me, because of my father, although Harvard was more competitive than Dartmouth, loftier maybe, and a little more cutthroat. Teaching wasn’t enough for Paul, so he helped to start two companies that made surgical equipment. He got very involved in that, and he did very well with it. I think it’s what saved him for the first few years, when he couldn’t practice anymore. It took some of the sting out of being sick, for a while anyway, to succeed at something else. And then he got worse. And a lot of things changed. It’s hard to see him so sick at his age. He’s still a relatively young man.” She looked sad as she said it, remembering how he had looked at lunch the day before, having trouble walking and feeding himself, and he was still so dignified and strong, even if he was frail.

“What does he do now? Do you miss him?”

“Yes. But he didn’t want me taking care of him. He’s very proud. And everything changed for us, after he was sick… and other things that happened. Life sweeps you away at times, and even if you love someone, you can’t find your way back again. He bought a sailboat three years ago, and lives on it a lot of the time now. The rest of the time, he’s in London, and he goes to Boston for treatment, and then to New York for a few days. It’s getting harder for him to get around on his own. Being on the boat is easier for him. His crew takes good care of him. He left for the Caribbean today.”

“How sad,” Finn said pensively. It was hard for him to understand why Paul had let Hope get away. And from the way she talked about him, Finn could tell that she still loved her ex-husband and cared about what happened to him. “I guess it wouldn’t be a bad life for a healthy man. I suppose if you’re sick, nothing is much fun anymore.”

“No, it’s not,” Hope said softly. “He’s part of an experimental program treating Parkinson’s at Harvard. He’s been doing fairly well until recently.”

“And now?”

“Not so well.” She didn’t offer the details, and Finn nodded.

“So what about you, when you’re not running off to Tibet and India and living in monasteries?” He smiled as he asked the question. They had both finished their drinks by then.

“I’m based in New York. I travel a lot for my work. And I go to Cape Cod when I have time, which isn’t often. Most of the time, I’m flying around taking photographs, or working on museum shows of my work.”

“Why Cape Cod?”

“My parents left me a house there. It’s where we spent summers when I was a child, and I love it. It’s in Wellfleet, which is a charming, sleepy little town. There’s nothing fancy or fashionable about it. The house is very simple, but it suits me, and I’m comfortable there. It has a beautiful view of the ocean. We used to go there for summers, when I was married. We lived in Boston then. I moved to New York two years ago. I have a very nice loft there, in SoHo.”

“And no one to share it with?”

She smiled as she shook her head. “I’m comfortable the way things are. Like you, it’s difficult being married to a photographer who’s never home. I can do things now that I never did when I was married. I float all over the world, and live out of a suitcase. It’s the opposite of what you do, locked in a room, writing, but it’s not very entertaining for someone else when I travel or even work. I never thought about it as selfish,” as he had said about his own work, “but maybe it is. I don’t answer to anyone now, and I don’t have to be anywhere.” He nodded as he listened, and they ordered dinner then. They were both having pasta, and decided to skip the first course. It was interesting to learn about each other’s lives, and he told her more about his house in Ireland then. It was easy to see how much he loved it and what it meant to him. It was part of his history and the tapestry of his life, woven into his being and dear to his heart.

“You have to come and see it sometime,” he offered, and she was curious about it.

“What sort of doctor was your father?” she asked him over their pasta, which was as delicious as he had promised, and as she remembered. The food there was better than ever.

“General medicine. My grandfather had been a landowner in Ireland, and never did much more than that. But my father was more industrious, and had studied in the States. He went back to marry my mother, and brought her over with him, but she never adjusted well to life away from Ireland. She died fairly young, and he not long after. I was in college then, and I always had a fascination with Ireland because of them. Their being Irish made it easy for me to get the nationality when I wanted it.

“And tax-wise, it made sense for me to give up my U.S. citizenship eventually. You can’t beat no income tax for writers. That was a pretty appealing setup for me, once the books were doing well. And now that I have my great-great-grandparents’ house back, I guess I’m there forever, although I don’t think I’ll ever be able to convince Michael to move there. He wants a career in the high-tech world when he graduates from MIT, and there are plenty of opportunities in Dublin, but he’s determined to live in the States and work in Silicon Valley or Boston. He’s an all-American kid. It’s his turn to find his way now. I don’t want to interfere with him, although I miss him like crazy.” He smiled ruefully at Hope as he said it, and she nodded and looked pensive. “Maybe he’ll change his mind and move to Ireland later, as I did. It’s in his blood. And I would love it, but he’s not interested in living in Ireland now.”

He wondered why she had never had children, but didn’t dare ask her. Maybe her husband had been too involved in his medical career at Harvard to want them, and she had been too busy attending to him. She was so gentle and nurturing that she seemed like the sort of woman who would do that, although she was deeply involved in her own career now. She had said they’d been married for twenty-one years.

Exchanging their histories and talking about their artistic passions made the evening go quickly, and they were both sorry when the evening came to an end and they left the restaurant after a predictably delicious dinner. Hope had indulged herself with the candies and chocolates Harry’s Bar was known for, after dinner. And Finn confessed that he was always sorely tempted to steal the brightly colored Venetian ashtrays, when they had had them on the tables, when smoking was still allowed. She laughed at the image of his sneaking one into the pocket of his well-tailored dark blue suit. She couldn’t see him do it, although she had to admit, it might have been tempting. She had always liked their ashtrays too. They were considered collectors’ items now.

He started to drive her back to Claridge’s after dinner, and then hesitated before they got there.

“Can I talk you into one more drink? You can’t leave London without going to Annabel’s, and it’s almost Christmas. It’ll be lively there,” he suggested, looking hopeful, and she was about to decline, but she didn’t want to hurt his feelings. She was tired, but game for one more glass of champagne. Talking to him was delightful, and she hadn’t had an evening like this in years, and doubted she would again anytime soon. Her life in New York was quiet and solitary and didn’t include nightclubs and fancy dinners, or invitations from handsome men like Finn.

“All right, just one drink,” she agreed. And Annabel’s was packed when they walked in. It was as busy and festive as he promised. They sat in the bar, had two glasses of champagne each, and he danced with her before they left and then drove her back to Claridge’s. It had been a terrific evening, for both of them. He loved talking to her, and she enjoyed his company too.

“After a night like this, I wonder what I’m doing, living in solitude outside Dublin. You make me want to move back here,” Finn said as they got back to her hotel. He turned off the engine, and turned to look at her. “I think I realized tonight that I miss London. I don’t spend enough time here. But if I did, you wouldn’t be here, so it wouldn’t be any fun anyway.” She laughed at what he said. There was a boyish side to him that appealed to her, and a sophisticated side that dazzled her a little. It was a heady combination. And he felt the same way about her. He liked her gentleness, intelligence, and subtle but nonetheless lively sense of humor. He’d had a terrific time, better than he had in years, or so he said. He was also charming, so she didn’t know if he was telling the truth, but it didn’t really matter. They had obviously both enjoyed it.

“I had a wonderful time, Finn. Thank you. You didn’t have to do all that,” she said graciously.

“It was great for me too. I wish you weren’t leaving tomorrow,” he said sadly.

“So do I,” she confessed. “I always forget how much I like London.” The night life there had always been great, and she loved the museums, which she hadn’t had enough time to visit at all on this trip.

“Could I talk you into staying for another day?” he asked her, looking hopeful, and she hesitated, but shook her head.

“I shouldn’t. I really ought to get back, and I have to edit your pictures. They’re working on a pretty tight deadline.”

“Duty calls. I hate that,” he said, looking disappointed. “I’ll call you the next time I come to New York,” he promised. “I don’t know when, but I will, sooner or later.”

“I won’t be able to give you a night as nice as this.”

“There are some good places in New York too. I have my favorite haunts.” She was sure he did. And in Dublin too. And probably everywhere he went. Finn didn’t seem to be the sort of man to sit around at home at night, except when he was writing. “Thank you for having dinner with me tonight, Hope,” he thanked her politely as they got out of the car. It was freezing cold, and he walked her into the lobby as she held her coat tightly around her in the icy wind. “I’ll be in touch,” he promised, as she thanked him again. “Have a safe trip back.”

“Enjoy your holidays with Michael,” she said warmly, smiling up at him.

“He’ll only be here for a few days, and then he’ll be off skiing with his friends. I only get about five minutes with him these days. It’s of the age. I’m damn near obsolete.”

“Enjoy whatever time you get,” she said wisely, and he kissed her cheek.

“Take care of yourself, Hope. I had a wonderful day.”

“Thank you, Finn. So did I. I’ll send you the proofs of the pictures as soon as I can.” He thanked her and waved, as she walked into the lobby alone, with her head down, thinking. She had had such a nice time, far more than she’d expected. And as she got in the elevator and rode up to her floor, she was genuinely sorry to be leaving the next day. After London, it was going to seem very dull now to go up to the Cape for Christmas.