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Classes going well?”
    “I’m glad to have Civil Procedure behind me, but it turned out okay. You want some coffee?”
    “No, thanks. How are you doing otherwise?”
    “Well, Torts…”
    “I mean socially.”
    “Fine,” he said, looking somewhat puzzled.
    We both stared at our feet for a few awkward moments before I spoke again.
    “Actually, I wanted to thank you.”
    “Sir?”
    “For checking on Annie—when she was at the Allen Rehab Center. It meant a lot to her that you made the effort. For me, too.”
    Mark’s blush said it all.
    “It was my pleasure, Mr. Bevan. As a matter of fact, we remain in touch.”
    “Seriously? I mean, anything serious?”
    His smile widened as his face grew redder. “No, nothing like that. But I’ll see her in Aspen when my classes end next month. She wants me to guide her up the Maroon Bells.”
    I thought I knew what else that meant, but before I could say anything, he pleaded, “Don’t tell my folks. Okay? Mom wouldn’t approve.”
    My expression told him I knew it wasn’t because she feared either one would topple off the mountain.
    “I’m afraid that cat’s out of the bag,” I said. “When I mentioned to her that you guys seemed to be getting pretty close, she didn’t take it very well.”
    He sighed heavily. “It’s not like Mom to be so closed-minded about Anne. Even my dad doesn’t have a problem with it.”
    “Your mother needs more time,” I suggested unconvincingly. “At any rate, I’m delighted that you and Anne are interested in each other—as friends or whatever.”
    “Thanks, Mr. Bevan.”
    “Mike.”
    “Sir?”
    “Call me Mike. Makes me feel younger.”
    I left him shortly after that, filled with joy in the knowledge that, for once, something seemed to be going right in the personal affairs of my daughter.
    Silly me.

Chapter 4
    I was in a much better mood after that, but before returning to the shop I decided to take another look at the books Ted Follis had donated to the Celtic Center. Seeing all those bright, ardent students at Green Hall had rekindled fond memories of my days on Law Review at Northwestern. A leisurely hour or two sorting through the works of great Irish writers and patriots was just what I needed to restore my belief that I hadn’t been a fool to give up my law career.
    I also wanted to check on Natalie Phelan’s state of mind after O’Halloran’s tragic demise three days earlier. Even under normal circumstances, the redhead could be energetic and delightfully witty one moment, then retreat the next into a shell of silent brooding for no particular reason—a potent mixture of Maureen O’Hara and Edgar Allan Poe. I’d seen enough of my mother’s struggles with manic depression to recognize that Natalie was a prime candidate for a breakdown.
    Josie and I had gotten to know her when she served as a manager next door at Café Provence. Divorced and the sole support of Claire, Natalie struggled with old student loan debts. But she was smart as a whip and the very definition of “multitasker,” who never did one thing if she could accomplish four at the same time. We had helped get her the job at the Celtic Center when the president of its board mentioned to Josie that he had fired their executive director and was desperate to fill the spot.
    It turned out to be a good match. Natalie, who had a degree in finance to go with her natural pluck and ability to charm the socks off the meanest Scrooge, held the line on expenses while adding cultural events to make the Center more relevant. But with Union Station’s continued popularity, rents had risen, so she spent three fourths of her time scratching for contributions. The local Irish community, a generous bunch when the plate was passed at Mass, was tight as a tick outside church doors, albeit for good reason—it’s hard to press Catholic parents who are paying thousands a year for private school tuitions.
    Thirty-five years old, Natalie was gorgeous. Besides having