The Family Way (Molly Murphy, #12)

“It does sound tempting.”


“Well then, what are we waiting for?” He took down my hat from the peg in the front hall and opened the door. Then he said, “What in heaven’s name?”

I came to see what he was staring at. A procession was approaching us down Patchin Place—waiters with black suits and white dickeys, each baring a covered dish. At the back of the procession came Sid and Gus, one carrying flowers, one wine.

“We decided that we were not feeling inspired enough to cook you a good meal tonight. Besides, Giovanni’s Italian Restaurant prepares a better meal than we do,” Gus said. “Go and lay the table before it gets cold. I hope you like gnocchi.”

Even Daniel had to laugh. “Molly said she’d try to make things a little less exciting around here,” he said as the waiters passed us, one by one, into the house. “I don’t think somehow that’s ever going to happen.”

*

The next day I sat down to the sad task of writing to the family in Ireland, bringing them the news about Maureen. I spared them the most heart-wrenching details, telling them that she died after giving birth to a baby at the convent. That would be distressing enough for them, I realized. Still, I suppose it’s always better to know the truth than to spend one’s life worrying, isn’t it? And I waived my fee. Then I suggested that if they wanted to repay me, they might like to light a candle and say some prayers for my brother’s soul. Then I decided that I’d go to church and do the same. I had abandoned my religion for so long, but suddenly I felt a strong need for it.

When Daniel came home that night he reported that Sister Mary Vincent had denied having anything to do with the other kidnappings and bitterly regretted the one she had carried out. Daniel didn’t know what would happen to her. She had knowingly harbored fugitives, after all. And only a few days later Daniel’s men were lucky enough to catch a low-level gangster in the act of stealing a baby. So that case was closed, Lower East Side parents could breathe easily again, and Daniel got the credit. Oh, and Martha Wagner’s baby was returned to her, so all ended well. Just not for my brother.





POSTSCRIPT


William Joseph Sullivan was born on September 14, 1904. He came into the world bawling, his little fists clenched and ready for a fight. He had his father’s shock of dark hair and dark blue eyes. So Sister Jerome would have been disappointed in her anticipation of my red-haired child.

Liam is a good baby, eating and sleeping well, and the household runs smoothly, thanks to Aggie, whom I acquired from the convent maternity home. I could have had the efficient Gerda, I suppose, but I thought she might turn out to be a trifle too bossy for my liking. And a little too efficient as well. It would be like having my mother-in-law in the house. I took Aggie initially out of pity—she seemed such a scrawny, undernourished little scrap with nowhere in the world to go, but she has turned out remarkably well. It seems she grew up looking after any number of young siblings and knows exactly what to do to quiet a fussy baby. A lucky find indeed. Which gives me time on my hands, of course. Not always a good thing for me as I start looking for things to occupy me outside of the home.

At Liam’s baptism my old friend Miss Van Woekem came up to congratulate us. “This seems to be the year for babies,” she said. “I’ve just had a visit from a young cousin who lives out in Westchester County. Harriet Mainwaring. She also has a beautiful baby. Looks a little like you, my dear, come to think of it. Such an Irish face.”