After a lot of debate, internal of course, I've made a decision. You've read about my work on
Shannon's Daughter, you've even seen the cover. How risky is it to show you a sample chapter? Not terribly, or at least that's my hope. Just keep in mind that this is still draft, subject to my proofreader's scrutiny and my own revisions before it's ready for primetime. This bit takes place at the opening of the second chapter in the saga of Kendall Gregg and Peg Shannon, set in 1952 in New York City. They've already met briefly some years earlier, when Kendall was a student at Oxford and Peg was only twelve. Related only in the sense that Kendall's widowed mother married Peg's Uncle Patrick, they are part of the same family, but not actual cousins. While their relationship has thus far been warm, at times intense and even humorous, things are about to escalate to a whole new level.
Cue the lights, and . . .curtain!
Chapter Eight
In the five years before they met again,
Kendall would frequently wonder about the little girl who had made his first
encounter with the Shannons so memorable.
He had reports of course, from his mother, from Adelaide and Maeve and
even Agnes. Now residing in London, the
McGill ladies were a larger part of his social life than he’d have liked, given
a choice. That said, he’d become
accustomed to playing escort when required and learned to tune out much of what
annoyed him most about each of the girls, specifically Maeve’s unceasing
discussion of her romantic escapades and Agnes’s constant censuring of the
same. If those two were actually
sisters, offspring of the same parents, he had difficulty understanding how they
could be such polar opposites. Maeve, he
worried, would end up in serious trouble if she kept up her pursuit of men, in
particular those of dubious reputation, and Agnes would most likely become a
nun.
His only direct contact with Peg had
been a card each December, an engraved Christmas card—apparently one of
hundreds designed for Michael’s annual social and business mailing list—on
which she had hand-written “Happy Birthday, too! Peg.”
He had not responded. After his
return from Ireland, Peg had been so much on his mind, he’d become concerned
for his own mental stability. Leaving
her had been a gut-wrenching experience, one he had taken months to completely
recover from. He had worried about her trip
back to the states, fretted that her father would not take proper care of her
once they were home again, lost sleep countless nights fantasizing about
sailing to New York to rescue her from some unknown but awful state of affairs. Only when he returned to Oxford did he begin
to shake off the effects of his encounter with Peg. He’d thrown himself single-mindedly, and a
little desperately, into his studies and eventually found some relief.
Gradually, the image of her intelligent eyes
and impudent smile had faded. He ceased
to hear the echo of her voice in his mind and the worry stilled to mild concern. She was not his responsibility, and he had no
influence over any aspect of her life, he reminded himself regularly. What had happened during those days in
Ireland—he still wasn’t sure how to label it—had little to do with his real life. It had, however, spurred him to new hope for
that life, for which he was profoundly grateful.
During his remaining two years at
university, he discovered something quite encouraging about himself—a renewed desire
to become a success. Ambition seemed to seize
him by the throat and force him to strive harder than he’d ever thought he could,
with the result that he caught the attention of his teachers and eventually one
of the deans, whose connections with the London Philharmonic led to an
audition. He hadn’t been offered a
chair, that was too much to hope for so soon, but he believed he’d made an
impression, and that had served to further fuel his ambition. With focus and determination, he began to
think he might actually achieve his goals and build a life around his work, if
nothing else.
Patrick Shannon had been wholeheartedly
supportive of Kendall’s ambition, that support taking the form of purchasing a
very fine violin as a graduation gift and providing a temporary monthly
supplement to his meager earnings as first violin with a loosely organized quartet. That, combined with the small income from a trust
fund left him by his father, enabled him to lease a quite decent flat, where he
could give lessons by day, and entertain friends by night. The students, youngsters whose parents at
least had a passing interest in music and funds to waste, and the friends,
mostly female and rarely the sort he’d ever introduce to his mother, kept him
sufficiently occupied to keep his mind off weightier matters. For the first time in years, he was actually
content and felt more his old, optimistic self than he’d ever thought possible.
He’d discovered that there were a
surprising number of independently minded women who admired a musician’s
ambitions while respecting his limited means.
He seemed to attract slightly older women, thirtyish, often married to
by their account boring barristers or businessmen, who liked his looks, his
manners and his skill on the dance floor.
They invited him to clubs and parties and then invited themselves back
to his flat where they took advantage of whatever other talents they felt he
possessed. Often, he was no more than a
shoulder to cry on, a sounding board or someone to sympathize with the humdrum of
their lives. Other times, he was called
upon to provide support of a more intimate nature, which he had learned to do
with sensitivity while resisting any emotional involvement. If he occasionally looked in the mirror and
called himself a pathetic gigolo, the taunt was something he felt he could live
with in the short term in exchange for the material benefits, the meals,
theater tickets and even gifts of clothing and jewelry his grateful friends
provided. It wasn’t as if he had hopes
of finding a nice girl to fall in love with and marry. Perhaps someday he might consider a
relationship of a more permanent nature, but only if he had the good fortune to
find that rarest of creatures, an undemanding and open-minded woman.
**********
In July of 1952 he was called to
audition again for the Philharmonic. Cautiously
hopeful, he’d given what he felt was his best performance, had a nice chat with
the conductor and the concertmaster, and then, with breakneck determination,
finished his packing, wrapped up a final social engagement or two and with his mother
and stepfather, boarded a train for Southampton and from there a boat to New
York City.
Michael Shannon had been in poor health
for the past two years, and unable to make his annual trip to the British
Isles. While the family gatherings in
County Carlow were now a thing of the past, with the farm leased and Adelaide
relocated to London, the siblings had continued to meet at least once a
year. Adelaide and her daughters had
made the trip to New York earlier in the spring, in time for Peg’s debutante
ball, and Patrick had chosen to go in July, planning to meet up with Sean and
Maureen, currently on an extended vacation in Canada. At Patrick’s insistence, and expense, Kendall
was included, with the understanding that Michael would introduce him to at
least a few of his impressive list of associates in New York’s classical music
community.
In the frantic preparations for
departure, Kendall had worn himself ragged.
The stress of the audition alone had cost him sleep, and the social
commitments had been of a nature to further deprive him of rest. In fact, on the morning of their departure,
he had barely sent his bleary-eyed but immensely grateful companion packing,
before the taxi occupied by his mother and Patrick had pulled up to his
door.
“Kendall, you look positively awful,
darling!” had been his mother’s chipper, pre-dawn greeting.
“Sorry, Mother. But I’ve been over-booked this week, trying
to get all the lessons in and then there was the little matter of the
audition.”
“You look as though you haven’t slept a
wink. You really need to relax a bit on
this trip, dear. You can’t burn the
candle at both ends and hope to keep your looks, you know.”
The plausible excuse, which wasn’t quite
a lie, came easily to mind. “I was too
excited to sleep last night, first trip to the states and all. I’m fine, Mum, really. Don’t fuss.”
He added a fond pat of the hand for good measure.
“Leave the lad alone, Eloise. He’s a good-looking single man in
London. Why should he sleep?” Patrick’s wink left him with the
uncomfortable suspicion that his reputation might have sprung a leak.
**********
Despite the fact that he was still not
the steadiest of sailors, even on a luxury cruise ship apparently, he had
enjoyed the crossing, in particular the lively and eclectic society on board,
with the result that he’d lost further sleep.
Upon arrival at Michael’s palatial brownstone, he’d begged off dashing
out for a late lunch and when shown to his room, fallen gratefully across the
bed. A two hour nap, a pounding shower
and he felt almost human and eager to explore what had looked more like an art
gallery than a domicile.
Michael had said something about Peg and
tennis, so Kendall assumed she was expected in later that afternoon. If the flutter in his stomach wasn’t simply
hunger, he admitted he was curious to see what an eighteen-year-old version of
that captivating little girl must look like.
Maybe she was still knobby-kneed and freckled, one of those raw-boned,
athletic types. The tennis would suggest
as much. He couldn’t imagine she’d
blossomed into a real beauty, given the sharp chin and fly-away brows he
remembered. Still, he was pleasantly
anxious to see her again.
He found his way downstairs, studying
the art work on the wall step by step.
The three story entry way was hung from top to bottom with an
astonishing collection of paintings and drawings. He wouldn’t have been surprised to find an
armed guard stationed at the front door.
At the lower landing, he caught sight of a large portrait, framed in
guilt and occupying an obvious place of honor on the wall opposite. The slender young woman, elegantly posed on a
red chaise and wearing a formal gown of white tulle, smiled down with a
strangely familiar gleam in her bright blue eyes. “Peg?” he gasped loudly enough to create an
echo in the stairwell.
At that instant, the front door burst
open and he turned toward the arrival, so quickly that he was momentarily
dizzied looking down the remaining flight of stairs. His initial impression was one of long brown
legs and arms, a swish of very short skirt and twin sapphire lights flashing in
his general direction. He repeated his
question in the same breathless tone.
She came toward him, hand extended, eyes
sparkling, much as she had at their first meeting in Carlow Town five years
earlier. But this Peg, unlike that first
version, came much closer to matching the warm, throaty voice calling his name
as she bounded up the stairs. “Kendall! You’re here!
I was afraid Dad had whisked you away before I could get a look at you!”
He took her hand with the odd thought
that she should become a politician with a handshake like that, reassuringly
firm and insinuating familiarity while leaving an indelible impression on his
palm.
“Peg?” He winched at the catch in his voice. “Good heavens, look at you!”
“Have I changed? You haven’t.
Well, maybe a little, but I’d have known you anywhere. How was your crossing?”
“Fine, although I must admit I’m glad to
be on dry land again. Who knew there was
so much ocean out there?”
She laughed, a trifle nervously he
thought, and glanced around the entry. “Has
everyone abandoned you?”
“They went to lunch. I was frankly too exhausted to join
them.” He wondered if she was
disappointed, as she turned to bounce back down the stairs. For the first time, he noticed her hair. The braids at least were still there, now regally
wound into a crown at the back of her head.
“Would you mind following me to the
kitchen? I’m dying to catch up, but I’m
also dying for a cold drink. We were on
that tennis court for two hours. I’m
parched!” She spun toward the back of
the house, and he sped down the stairs before she could get out of sight. It occurred to him that any normal man’s
response to her invitation would have been that he’d follow her anywhere. That thought set off an alarm bell in his brain
which competed with the pounding pulse in his ears. Nothing could have prepared him for this
version of Peg Shannon, but it wouldn’t do to let her see the effect she’d had
on him.
The kitchen was dim and cool, a
cavernous space with a huge bay window overlooking the garden. Peg pointed to the table in the bay. “If you’re hungry, I could find you something
to eat. I still don’t cook, but there’s
always food in the fridge.”
“No, thank you. I’m fine.”
He took a seat, determined to regulate his breathing before he said much
more.
She poured a bottle of ginger ale over
ice. “Drink, then? If you don’t want ginger ale, there’s coke or
beer.”
“The ginger ale would be fine,
thanks.” He felt awkward, watching her
moving about the room, his eyes insisting on raking her graceful frame. How had she grown into such a vision of
feminine perfection? That shapeless
little girl, all elbows and knees, had developed curves in precisely the proper
places, stretched them to just the right height and filled them to exquisitely
slender proportion. His hands
involuntarily spread over the table cloth, as though performing an exploration
spurred by his wretched imagination.
“There you go. Sure you’re not hungry?” She sat down across from him, sipping her
drink.
“No.
Thank you.” Now that he could
look into her face, with those legs safely hidden beneath the table, he felt a
little calmer. “So, how have you
been?”
“Fine.
Busy. You know I graduated, from
high school, that is. I start Columbia
in September. And I did the whole debutante
thing. That’s almost over, thank God.”
“I got a full report from Maeve. Frankly, I think she was a bit jealous. Agnes, of course, had nothing to say other
than to chastise Maeve for trying to steal your spotlight.”
Peg chuckled softly. “They’re funny. I’m afraid I was so busy I didn’t have much
time to spend with them. Do you see a
lot of them in London?”
“Quite a lot, as a matter of fact. I’ve been designated the official escort for
the two of them. If Maeve would find
herself a suitable chap, I’d be happy to give up the job. So far, she’s managed to cause Aunt Adelaide
to go prematurely gray and Agnes to swear off men forever.” Her chuckle turned to delighted
laughter. “So tell me what else you’ve
been up to.”
“Let’s see. Oh, I turned eighteen last week. You just missed my birthday.” She made a face, much like that funny
nose-scrunching thing the former Peg had favored.
“Did you have a party?”
“Oh, yes.” She rolled her eyes to the ceiling. “I told Dad, what with all the parties we’d
endured already, the deb thing, you know, that I just wanted him to take me
somewhere nice for dinner. Well, he did,
but then when we came home, there were at least a hundred people here, all
shouting ‘surprise’ and blowing noise makers.
It was awful, but I should have known Dad would do something like that.”
Kendall started to relax, relieved to
see that inside the vision, the old Peg seemed to be alive and well. “So you’re all grown up now?”
“Oh, yes. Legal and everything. We had champagne at dinner, and again here at
the party. I’m afraid I don’t have much
of a head for that sort of thing. Now
tell me about yourself. I hear your career
is taking off.”
“I don’t know about taking off. I’ve auditioned for a real job, but I doubt
I’ll get it.”
“The London Philharmonic, very
impressive. Uncle Patrick keeps us
informed. He’s really proud of you, you
know. He’s asked Dad to introduce you to
Bernie Silverman while you’re here. Maybe
you could audition for him. Wouldn’t you
like to come to New York?”
“Bernard Silverman? Good lord, your father’s friends with
Silverman?” His pulse stepped up a beat,
in part due to the mention of such a famous name, and also, he realized, because
watching her eyes as she talked, he’d been drawn into by their glittering blue
depths. There was something dangerously
hypnotic about her eyes, something he’d have to watch out for.
“Oh, yes. Bernie’s a cool guy, very driven, of
course. Did you know he’s the youngest
conductor of a major orchestra in the entire world? And he can’t even keep his suits pressed half
the time. He showed up to dinner last
week looking like he’d slept in his clothes.”
She laughed again, a softly polite but very honest laugh, yet another
means of captivating a man’s attention and causing him to lose his focus,
Kendall noted.
Getting up to pour her ice in the sink,
her expression turned serious. “I have a
huge favor to ask, but if you don’t want to, I’ll understand.”
He swallowed the instant response that
no favor would be too great. Maybe he
hadn’t had enough sleep after all. His
brain seemed to have turned to bizarre thoughts of poetry and flowers. “What sort of favor?”
“There’s a little party tonight at the
O’Halloran’s. Connie’s going away to
college and this is sort of an early farewell before we all split up. Nothing too formal. If you brought a dinner jacket, that would be
great, or just a suit will do. I sort of
told her I’d bring you, if you were willing.
They’re all dying to meet you.”
“Really.
Dying?” He grinned at her
wide-eyed explanation, again seeing the old Peg in her eagerness.
“Of course. I told them all about you.” She looked away, blushing slightly. “Thank goodness you haven’t changed
much. After all I said about how
good-looking you were, I got worried that you might have gotten fat, or started
losing your hair.”
He tossed back his head, laughing out
loud. Thank goodness, here was the girl
he’d known after all. He’d have to get
passed her incredible outward transformation, but there was hope now that he
wouldn’t be reduced to panting and drooling after her for the next two weeks. “I’d be happy to go with you if you’re sure I
won’t embarrass you, old geezer that I am.”
Her smile was practically blinding, full
lips spread over perfect teeth, blue eyes shimmering with pleasure. “That’s super! We’ll leave around seven-thirty. There’ll be lots of finger food and stuff, and
then there’ll be a buffet at midnight.
You might want to eat before we go, though, in case you want to
drink. There’ll be plenty of that too,
I’m sure. Connie’s brother Bill runs a
real bar at all their parties. He’s kind
of a show-off, playing bar-tender with his cocktail shakers and all. There’ll be dancing, too.” She bounced on her toes like an excited
child. “Oh, Kendall, I’m so glad you’re
here!”
“I’m glad you’re glad. I wasn’t sure what to expect. I thought you might have fallen in love with
some college man and. . .well, not have time for your old cousin anymore.”
“Don’t be silly. I’m not going to fall in love with
anybody. Ever. And I’d always have time for you
anyway.” The smile turned affectionate,
complete with scrunched nose. “Now I’m
going to shower. I’m rank! See you later!”
She was gone, leaving a draft of energy
and a slightly earthy aroma in her wake.
He sat at the table for a while, staring out at the manicured garden and
trying to superimpose one image of Peg over the other. She was only eighteen, he cautioned, although
she’d always been mature beyond her years.
Just because she looked like the Hollywood-bred, All American fantasy of
burgeoning sexuality did not change the facts of their relationship. If any other male showed signs of sharing his
primal response to her, he’d be forced to take him by the collar and toss him
to the nearest gutter. A place he would
have to throw himself if he couldn’t keep his mind from wandering up those legs
of hers.
Comments, please!
Thanks to a very skilled photographer who understood how self-conscious I was feeling, the shoot was painless, almost fun, and the results were surprisingly okay. Any woman my age is lying if she says really likes the way she looks to the camera, even in the best pose and focus, but I didn't cringe (maybe just a little, right at first) and I immediately put my two favorites up for my FB friends to see. My face is now all over the place, and shockingly, I'm feeling pretty good about that. We all get older, we all change, and I suspect when we look in the mirror, we all wonder how that happened so quickly. The woman in this picture looks like someone I wouldn't mind sitting down to coffee with or even introducing to my readers. I hope they'll see a love of living in her eyes, and the humor lurking behind those laugh lines, someone who hopes they get as much pleasure from reading her words as she got from putting them on paper. 
