The Property of a Lady - Elizabeth Adler [100]
“To you, Shamus O’Hara,” she said, managing a smile, “and thank you for a lovely day.”
“It’s not over yet,” he promised, “not by a long chalk.” He gazed admiringly at her as she studied the menu. “You surely look a picture in that hat, Missie,” he said gently. “You are the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen.”
“Yes,” Azaylee said importantly, “I told her so.”
O’Hara grinned. “And you, young lady,” he said, tugging her braid, “had better watch out, because when you are as old as Missie, you’re gonna be a knockout.”
“What’s a knockout?” she asked.
“Wait and see.” he replied, taking a small parcel from his pocket. “Here, I almost forgot.”
“A present?” she asked hopefully.
He nodded, “A present just for you, beauty.”
She stroked the pretty red tissue paper, awed. “It’s lovely,” she said, her high childish voice trembling with excitement.
O’Hara looked at Missie and then back at the child, “Presents have to be opened,” he told her, “so you can see what’s inside.”
She pulled off the paper carefully, smoothing out the creases before opening the box, gasping when she saw what was inside. “Oh, oh, look, matiushka.” She gasped. “Just look.”
It was a doll, petite and perfect in every detail, from its porcelain face to its soft blond hair, its sweet little lace-trimmed coat and bonnet and tiny kidskin boots.
“What shall you name her?” Missie asked, smiling as Azaylee stroked the doll’s face lovingly.
“I’ll call her Anouska,” she whispered, picking her up and holding her to her chest. “Anouska.”
Missie felt as if she had been struck by lightning; in all this time Azaylee had never once mentioned her mother. She had hoped she had forgotten.
“But this is an American doll,” she protested quickly. “Don’t you think she should have an American name?”
Azaylee’s eyes had that familiar faraway look.
“How about Kathleen?” O’Hara suggested. “It’s a good Irish name, and the name of my own mother.”
“Yes, we should let O’Hara choose,” Missie agreed quickly. “Why not call her Kathleen?”
Azaylee hugged the doll to her cheek, closing her eyes and smiling. “Kathleen Anouska,” she said. “Kathleen Anouska O’Hara.”
O’Hara grinned as he poured more champagne. “The little one’s got the right idea,” he said, glancing significantly at Missie.
She looked away as the waiter appeared with their soup. “It smells delicious,” she said evasively.
O’Hara smiled. “It is,” he promised. “This restaurant is one of the best in New Jersey. I’ve been coming here a few years now, ever since I started some business interests in the area.”
Missie realized suddenly that she was enjoying herself. The good Italian home cooking was ambrosial after her meager meals, and the wine went to her head; she felt mellow and relaxed as she listened to O’Hara’s story of his life in Ireland and his beginnings in America.
“And now there’s another beginning,” he said, lighting a grander cigar than usual, watching as she sipped her coffee.
Azaylee yawned as the kindly Italian waiters plied her with candies and tiny amoretti in flimsy pink and blue wrappers, snuggling down on her big chair and hugging her new doll.
O’Hara stroked her hair gently and said, “There’s a side of me you haven’t seen yet neither, Missie. I’m a serious man and also a man of ambition. And that’s what I want to tell you about today. But first I have something to show you, so let’s be on our way.”
He paid the bill with a flourish. After picking up the sleeping child, he carried her in his big arms, just as she carried her own little doll, and they left the restaurant with smiles and thanks and please come back again soon. He laid Azaylee down on the backseat, covering her with a plaid rug, and said wistfully, “It’d be grand to have a little girl like that, just grand.” Then he helped Missie politely into the car, climbed in himself, and turned the car in the direction of the hills.
“Where are we going?” she asked as he threaded his way through rough country lanes, heading even higher.
“Not far,” he said, smiling. “Just you be patient now.”
They drove for another ten minutes, winding