Minding Frankie - Maeve Binchy [41]
Then, just as she was about to face the fact that he had left her, he wrote about this simply beautiful restaurant he had heard of in Honfleur, where the seafood was to die for. They must sneak away there for a weekend of self-indulgence soon. No date was fixed—just the word “soon,” and when she was starting to think that it meant “never,” he said that there was a trade fair next month in Paris that they could both go to and fish for ideas and then run off to Honfleur. They might even dream up a whole Normandy season for the restaurant while they were there.
It was an unsettling life, to say the least.
Lisa couldn’t seem to get on with other work. She kept changing or improving the proposals she had done for Anton—ideas that had never been discussed or even acknowledged.
She was doing all right at school. Nothing like Noel, of course. That man was like something possessed. He said that he made do with four and a half hours’ sleep. He laughed it off, saying that he would probably get less when the new baby arrived. He was so calm and accepting about it all.
“Did you love her, this Stella?” Lisa had asked.
“I think ‘love’ is too strong a word. I like her a lot,” he replied, struggling to be honest.
“She must love you, then, to leave you in charge,” Lisa said.
“No, I don’t think she does. I think she trusts me. That’s all.”
“Well, that’s a big part of life. If you trust someone, you’re halfway there,” Lisa said.
“Do you trust this Anton you talk about?”
“Not really,” Lisa said, with a face that closed the door on any further conversation about the topic.
Noel shrugged. He was off anyway up to the hospital to visit Stella.
Three days later, Declan Carroll was in the delivery room holding Fiona’s hand as she groaned and whimpered.
“Great, girl. Just three more.… Just three …”
“How do you know it’s only three?” gasped Fiona, red-faced, her hair damp and stuck to her forehead.
“Trust me, I’m a doctor,” Declan said.
“You’re not a woman, though,” Fiona said, teeth gritted and preparing for another push.
But he was right—there were only three more. Then the head of his son appeared and he began to cry with relief and happiness.
“He’s here,” he said, placing the baby in her arms. He took a photograph of them both and a nurse took a picture of all three of them.
“He’ll hate this when he grows up,” Fiona said, and John Patrick Carroll let out a wail in agreement.
“Only for a while and then he’ll love it,” said Declan, who had had his fair share of a mother who showed pictures of him to total strangers at the Laundromat where she worked.
He left the delivery ward of St. Brigid’s and headed for oncology. He knew what time Stella was going down for surgery and he wanted to be there as moral support.
They were just putting her on the trolley.
“Declan!” she said, pleased.
“Had to come and wish you well,” he said.
“You know Noel. And this is his cousin Emily.” Stella was totally at ease, as if she were at a party instead of about to make the last journey of her life.
Declan knew Emily already, as she came regularly to the group practice where he worked. She filled in at the desk as a receptionist or made the coffee or cleaned the place. It was never defined exactly what she did except that everyone knew the place would close down without her. She also helped his mother in the Laundromat from time to time. No job seemed too menial for her, even though she had a degree in art history. He tried to think about her as they stood in a little tableau waiting for Stella to be wheeled to the operating theater. It helped to concentrate on the living rather than on Stella, who would not be in their number for much longer.
“Any news of your baby yet, Declan?” Stella asked.
Declan decided against telling her of his great happiness with his brand-new son. It would make things even worse for the woman who would never see her own child.
“No, not a sign,” he lied.
“Remember they are to be friends,” Stella urged him.
“Oh, that’s a promise,” said Declan.
Just at that moment