“Oh, to be sure. You’re the painter, aren’t you? I’m sure it takes tremendous talent to draw advertisements.”

Challenged, Shannon set down her drink. “You don’t really think you’re better at it than I am.”

“Well, I haven’t seen anything of yours, have I? Unless I flipped by in a magazine waiting to have my teeth cleaned.”

Shannon set her own and snatched up one of Maggie’s hunks of charcoal. It took her longer to find a sketch pad and a clean sheet. While Maggie leaned her hip idly on the edge of the bench, Shannon bent over her work.

She started with fast strokes, annoyance pushing her. Then she began to find the pleasure in it, and the desire for beauty.

“Why, ’tis Liam.” Maggie’s voice went soft as butter as she saw her son emerge. Shannon was drawing just the head and shoulders, concentrating on that impishness that danced in his eyes and around his mouth. The dark hair was mussed, the lips quirked on the verge of a laugh.

“He always looks as though he’s just been in trouble, or looking for it,” Shannon murmured as she shaded.

“He does, yes. He’s a darling, my Liam. You’ve caught him so, Shannon.”

Alarmed by the catch in Maggie’s voice, Shannon glanced over. “You’re not going to start crying. Please.”

“Hormones.” Maggie sniffled and shook her head. “Now I suppose I’ll have to say you’ve a better hand than I at drawing.”

“Acknowledgment accepted.” Shannon dashed her initials at the corner of the page, then carefully tore it off. “Fair trade for a paperweight,” she said, handing it to Maggie.

“No, it’s not. The balance has tipped again. I owe you another boon.”

Shannon picked up a rag to wipe the charcoal dust from her hands. She stared at her own fingers. “Tell me about Thomas Concannon.”

She didn’t know where the need had come from, and was no less surprised than Maggie that she had asked. The question hummed for several long seconds.

“Come inside.” Maggie’s tone was suddenly gentle, as was the hand she set on Shannon’s arm. “We’ll have tea and talk of it.”

It was there Brianna found them when she walked into Maggie’s kitchen with Kayla and a basket of soda bread.

“Oh, Shannon. I didn’t know you were here.” And she would never have pictured her there, sitting at Maggie’s table while Maggie brewed tea. “I . . . I brought you some bread, Maggie.”

“Thanks. Why don’t we slice some up? I’m starving.”

“I wasn’t going to stay—”

“I think you should.” Maggie glanced over her shoulder, met Brianna’s eyes. “Kayla’s gone to sleep in her carrier, Brie. Why don’t you put her down for a nap here?”

“All right.” All too aware of the tension in the room, Brianna set the bread down and took the baby out with her.

“She’s worried we’ll start spitting at each other,” Maggie commented. “Brie’s not one for fighting.”

“She’s very gentle.”

“She is, yes. Unless you push the wrong spot. Then she’s fierce. Always seems fiercer because it’s never quite expected. It was she who found the letters your mother wrote. He’d kept them in the attic, you see. In a box where he liked to put things important to him. We didn’t go through it, or some of his other things, for a long time after he’d died.”