The Favorite Daughter Read online

  Back at her computer, she typed “LGA airport to SAV airport” in the search bar and watched the flights scroll, one by one, then startled as her apartment buzzer squealed. She walked to the intercom and pressed the speaker button. “Hello?”

  “Colleen, you can’t ignore me forever. Let me in, love.”

  Philippe, the sort-of-boyfriend she’d been avoiding since her return from Mexico a week before. This was a relationship she needed to end, a discussion she needed to have about how she didn’t feel the same as he did. He’d been so much fun, taking her to haunts and hidden places in the city she’d known nothing about, introducing her to an Italian social scene that kept her up until the early morning. She’d had a blast, but now he wanted more. More than she was willing to give. But his friendship, his ability to be fully present and listen, well, she did enjoy that part.

  “Darling,” she said, using his language. “Not now.”

  “I have croissants,” he said. “Warm ones from Pastanos.”

  This man knew his way to her heart, or at least her bed. She pushed the buzzer and then opened her studio door to watch him stride up the stairs, but it was her neighbor she saw first: Julia, who wore multiply colored spandex and her bleached hair high in a ponytail, revealing the dark roots.

  “Hello, Colleen,” Julia said in her singsong voice as she pulled keys out of her purse. “How are you today? Not traveling right now?”

  Here was the neighbor who watched Colleen’s every move but had no idea what went on with her own teenage son. “Not right now.” Colleen averted her gaze to see Philippe climbing the stairs with the telltale brown paper bag in his hand.

  “Another friend?” Julia followed Colleen’s gaze to the tall man in dark jeans and black T-shirt, his smile as wide as his face.

  “Your son,” Colleen said, “skipped school today.” She greeted Philippe with a much warmer kiss than she would have if Julia hadn’t been watching.

  Julia slammed shut her apartment door and in the wide hallway where a tenant had painted a bright blue mural of the Brooklyn Bridge, Philippe laughed. “Will you ever give her a break?”

  “Not until she gives me one.” She took the bag from his outstretched hand and together they entered her apartment. She grabbed the croissant and took a bite before they reached the kitchen counter.

  “Colleen.” Philippe grabbed a Travel and Leisure magazine from a leather bag slung across his body. “You did it!” He held it up and pointed at her name on the front cover. “Your name in big bold letters right here.” He dropped the satchel onto a stool and the magazine onto the kitchen counter.

  Colleen grinned and even had the good sense to blush a bit. Yes, finally her name had found its way onto the cover of one of the finest travel magazines. Top Ten Tips for Traveling by Expert Colleen Donohue. There it was, right next to the sailboat tilted against the wind in Barbados, directly under Island Escapes.

  Philippe flipped open to the article and pointed at her professional photo—Colleen leaning against a pillar in some faraway and nameless place with an azure sea in the background. Her hair backlit and lifted lightly by what appeared to be a breeze but had actually been a fan, appeared like a halo. She wore a sarong and sandals—“forced casual,” she called it. “And your photo.” He held up his hand for a high five. “Well done, my love.”

  “Thanks, I’m really proud of that piece.”

  “Well, the advice tips don’t matter so much to me. It’s the stories you wrote to go with them that make it interesting.” He kissed her cheek. “I felt like I knew you better with each one.”

  Colleen ran her fingers along the edge of the counter. “How about the stories where I wrote about the travel mistakes I made?” she asked. “Was it too much?”

  “Nope. Made it even better. I loved it.”

  “Me, too.” Colleen nibbled on the end of her croissant. “If only my piece about Mexico had flowed as easily.”

  Philippe reached her side and pulled her close against his long, lean body. “You can ditch me if you must, but you have to tell me what’s going on. It’s like another woman replaced the one who left for Mexico. Did you pick up a virus there that changed your heart?”

  He was endearing and funny. Why couldn’t she fall in love with the endearing and funny ones? Why did they bore her? Why did she instead want to call Daren, the guy who had constantly stood her up while they’d dated? She smiled at Philippe. “No, I’ve just been so buried in work, and I told you before I left—I’m not sure we’re right together.”

  “You don’t look so well.” He squinted. “Have you been crying?”

  My God, she had been. She touched the edges of her eyes. How had she not realized? “It’s my dad.”

  “You have a dad?”

  “What the hell does that mean?” She moved away, putting space between them. But she knew what he meant. She never talked about her family. “Yes, I have a dad. The best dad in the world.”

  “And what’s wrong?”

  “I’m going home to find out. My brother won’t tell me much until I get there other than Dad might have Alzheimer’s. So it’s either the worst trick in the world to bring me home or . . .”

  “No one would lie about that, would they?”

  “Not Shane.” She shook her head, crumbs falling from the croissant in her hand.

  “I’m sorry, Colleen. What can I do to help?”

  “There’s nothing.”

  “And your mom?”

  “Mother to me. And sadly, I lost her two years ago.”

  “You know what?” He paused and tilted his head in curiosity. “I know nothing about your family. Tell me about them.” He moved closer to her, lowering his voice with the tender request.

  She shrugged, wiping at the edges of her eyes to remove any further evidence of emotion. “It’s not a complicated family as far as families go.”

  He laughed and with his usual dramatic flair threw his arms in the air. “All families are complicated. Two or twenty, they are all complex.” He ran his hands through his messy curls. “So you can’t fool me, Colleen Donohue.”

  She smiled before she knew she had. “True. I just meant that there aren’t that many of us. Mother was an only child and she’s passed. I never knew her parents; gone before I was born, because Mother was a late-in-life baby. Dad only has one sister, and she lives in Virginia. I don’t have any cousins at all. I know this sounds crazy to someone from a family like yours—all those sisters and brothers and aunts and uncles; it’s like you could have your own country.”

  “What about your dad’s parents? Your grandparents?”

  “They were amazing, at least what I remember of them. They died when I was in elementary school. They used to come visit a couple times a year, but we never went to see them.”

  “That’s weird.” Philippe took a croissant from the bag and held it absently in his hands. “My favorite times were visiting my grandparents.”

  Colleen shrugged. “They loved coming to see us.” She took the croissant from Philippe. “Now. Can we stop talking about this?”

  He lowered his voice. “Let me be here for you.” He came closer and moved to place his arms around her.

  She allowed his hug with the shield of the croissant before her. “That’s so sweet, Philippe. But I told you from the beginning I have—”

  “No interest in a serious, long-term relationship.” He stepped back. “I know.”

  “But you thought you could change my mind.” Colleen had been here before, with men who thought she was playing games when she was telling the truth. “Listen. You’re an amazing guy. If I had even the slightest inkling to settle down, it would be with someone like you. Maybe even you.”

  He took the pastry from her, placed it on the counter and kissed her, long and slow and luxurious. She allowed him to draw her closer to the unmade bed at the far end of the room,
but stopped a few steps from the rumpled sheets. “Philippe, not now. You know I adore you, but I have to book my flight and figure out what’s going on with my family. I’m a bit of a mess.”

  His dark hair fell over one eye and he brushed it away, his gaze set on her. “You’re always a mess. It’s one of my favorite things about you.” He kissed her again.

  “That’s what my mother always said.”

  “You’re a beautiful mess then,” Philippe said as sunlight fell through the large windows forming a spotlight on the hardwood floor between them.

  “Philippe, I have to go home tomorrow.”

  “And I didn’t even know you had one.”

  Colleen looked at him and she laughed despite herself. “I don’t have one, really. Home. That’s a misnomer at best.”

  In a swift motion, Philippe picked up the magazine from the counter, flipped to her article and read out loud. “‘Number ten: When you return home, take with you everything you’ve seen and learned.’”

  Colleen stared at Philippe, aware of the obvious: she didn’t know what or where home was anymore.

  “What happened,” he asked, “that you can write about going home and yet never do it?”

  Chapter Three

  Remembrance of things past is not necessarily the remembrance of things as they were.

  Marcel Proust, Remembrance of Things Past

  She felt the air punched from her chest as Philippe held up that article, showing her words that had meant one thing when she’d written them and now meant something altogether new. She flopped onto the couch and he sat next to her, pulling her close. He didn’t ask, but he didn’t have to, because Colleen started to talk, to flatly tell the story she’d never spoken out loud, not once in ten years, the story of her wedding day.

  “Holy shit.” Philippe’s voice held tenderness and compassion despite the profanity. “That really happened?”

  “It really did.” Colleen was dry-eyed. She’d once assumed that if she ever poured out the story, she would fall apart, but maybe the narrative had dried out; maybe it’d lost its power.

  “And then,” Colleen said, “she married him.”

  “Damn.” Philippe shook his head. “No wonder you don’t like to get too close to anyone.” He grinned, but Colleen didn’t find the offhand joke funny. Not one bit. “Sorry, bad timing. So then what happened?”

  Colleen found herself telling the rest of what she knew, what she’d heard from her brother, her parents, or worse, what had been in the texts, e-mails and voice mails from Hallie. Never, not once, had Colleen answered any of them. “I left. No, more accurately, I ran. I grabbed my already packed suitcase and drove away. Hallie is the one who sauntered into the bridal room and told everyone the wedding was off.”

  “Did she tell everyone why?” Philippe asked in a low voice.

  “I have no idea. Then Walter announced in the packed church that I had left the scene—no explanation why, just that I had run.” Colleen shook her head and felt oddly disconnected to the story, as if she were telling Philippe something she’d read in the newsfeed on her computer. “So then my parents had everyone over to our house anyway, because the food and drink had already been prepared under a big white tent in our backyard. The tent Hallie picked out with daisy chains, just like we’d made as kids, falling from the posts.” Colleen shrugged. “Not that I blame Mother and Dad—you can’t waste good food and liquor, I guess. It was a party without a bride and groom. At least Hallie and Walter had the good sense to stay away, or so my brother told me.”

  “Then they married?”

  “Yes. The betrayal goes on and on. They tried to do it quietly—going to the justice of the peace in Watersend six months later—but nothing is quiet in a small town. First comes cheating, then comes marriage, then comes two babies in a baby carriage.”

  “I’m so sorry, love. What about your parents? I mean, weren’t they livid with your sister? It seems like she broke up the family.”

  “If they were angry, and I’m sure they were at some point or on some level, they never told me. But then again, I didn’t speak to anyone at home for a long, long while. When I finally did, they were just glad to hear from me and it wasn’t a subject I would talk about. I’ve made it clear that I never, and I mean never, want to hear about Hallie or Walter or talk about them . . . so I’m not exactly sure what their feelings are about it.”

  “No wonder you don’t want to go home.”

  “That’s the thing, though.” Colleen stood, her heart racing with this first telling of the sordid tale. “I do want to go home. I just don’t want to see her, or Walter, or their offspring. But I do want to go home. I’ve been there a few times over the years, but there’s always been this complicated scheduling nightmare of who comes and goes so I can avoid . . .”

  Philippe stood and pulled her against him, brushed her hair away from her face. “Although I know the answer to this question, I’ll ask anyway—would you like me to go with you?”

  Colleen smiled.

  He nodded, his mouth in a tight line. “You know, it’s amazing that you can tell that tale without crying.”

  “It is, isn’t it?” Colleen said as she touched his cheek. “Listen, you’re so sweet for coming by with my favorite croissant and listening. I’ve never told it before and your kindness allowed me to let it out. Thank you. I promise I’ll call when I return, but I can’t focus on anything else but getting to South Carolina right now.” Colleen kissed him and walked him to the door. “I have to book a flight now.”

  “You’re always on the next plane out. Is that how it’s always going to be?”

  “I don’t know.” She propped the door open with her foot.

  He shook his head. “Someday, Colleen Donohue, I believe you’re going to have to feel something.” And with that he was gone, his shadow retreating down the dark stairwell, his back straight and his hand waving over his shoulder.

  Feel something? Damn, she’d felt plenty, she wanted to tell him. Plenty enough to last a lifetime. Feeling things was overrated at best. She gently closed the door and went straight back to the computer, chose a flight, entered her credit card number and slumped into the couch to text her brother with the information.

  “Whoa,” she exhaled into her empty apartment. She’d told the story; she’d said it out loud; and now, like the aftershocks of an earthquake, Colleen felt the fracture lines inside her chest. There was an ache and need for her family that flowed over her with a panicked sense of lost time.

  When you return home, she’d written in the article, take with you everything you’ve seen and learned.

  But how could she do that?

  This was a question most women would ask their mothers, but two years ago they’d lost a youthful fifty-eight-year-old Elizabeth Donohue to a silent killer—a brain aneurism that had sent her crashing to the family’s dock while she was dragging a crab trap out of the water in preparation for a lawn party that evening. Dad had been cleaning the picnic table. Teamwork, they always said, was an important ingredient in a marriage.

  As the Irish said, two shorten the road.

  Dad had raced to his wife, but it had been too late. It had been too late the millisecond it happened. Elizabeth was gone, the rope still in her hand, a smile on her face and guests on their way for fresh crab.

  Shane had called Colleen that time, also. His voice shattered in grief, he’d told her, “I already bought you a plane ticket home.”

  Colleen had been late, arriving only two hours before the funeral; a late season snowstorm had socked the Northeast and canceled most flights. When she landed, there was no one to pick her up so she’d called a cab and told the driver to take her directly to the church where the funeral service was being held, the same one where she’d once expected to be married. She’d texted Shane. I’ll meet you at St. Paul’s. Keep Hallie away from me.

 
“Lena,” her brother had phoned to say in a whisper, Hallie obviously near. “You can’t avoid her. It’s our mother’s funeral.”

  “I can. I will. I’m here for Mother, and for Dad. And of course for you. But not her. Not Hallie.”

  “She wants to talk to you.”

  “No.” Colleen had closed her eyes so tightly that bright confetti burst in the darkness.

  Somehow she’d managed to avoid her sister for a full two days, during the house visits, funeral and burial. Of course she’d glimpsed Hallie across the room with Walter, who kept her welded to his side, protective or possessive, who could say?

  During this time, remembered arguments between Colleen and her mother had come to mind, one after the other in unrelenting succession, causing Colleen to feel both sick and nostalgic. Regret, that was what death brought in its disorienting wake. Why hadn’t she been closer to her mother? Why hadn’t her mother been closer to her? Why had they argued about everything from how she fixed her curly hair to her decision to become a writer? Why did they argue more than Hallie and Mother? Death, she realized, also brought a litany of why why why, like a whining child.

  Colleen had finally stopped the never-ending reel of questions. That was part of life’s abrupt ending—there would never be answers. Nothing would be resolved.

  There had been loving moments together, of course there had been. When Colleen’s mother had rubbed her back as she coughed with the flu, when she’d kissed Colleen good night and brushed her hair off her forehead—little moments that added up to a quiet conviction that there was love present and available. Yet there was also always the quieter conviction that Mother loved the others better, that Hallie was the favorite Donohue daughter. Dad would adamantly deny this accusation and then collect Colleen in his arms and spin her around, saying, “Who wouldn’t love everything you are?”