Patrick stared at the weeping girl his son had once loved to distraction. Torment was etched in every line of her body, torment and anger and sorrow. He hesitated, shattered by what he was seeing, and then with a violent oath he reached out and pulled his daughter-in-law into his arms. "I may be a fool to believe you," he muttered fiercely. "But I do."
Instead of haughtily rejecting his touch, as he half expected her to do, his daughter-in-law put her arms around his neck and clung to him while deep, wrenching sobs racked her slender body. "I'm sorry," she wept brokenly, "I'm so sorry—"
"There, there," Patrick whispered over and over again, holding her tightly, helplessly patting her back. Through the moisture gathering in his eyes, he saw Joe O'Hara get up and walk into the kitchen, and he held her tighter. "Go ahead and cry," he whispered to her, fighting back his rampaging fury at her father. "Cry it all out." Holding the weeping girl in his arms, Patrick stared blindly over her head, trying to think. By the time she quieted, he knew what he wanted to do. He wasn't so sure how to get it done. "Feel better now?" he asked, tipping his chin down to look at her. When she nodded a little sheepishly and accepted his handkerchief, he said, "Good. Dry your eyes and I'll get you something to drink. Then we'll talk about what you're going to do next."
"I know exactly what I'm going to do next," Meredith said fiercely, dabbing at her eyes and nose. "I'm going to murder my father."
"Not if I get to him first," Patrick said gruffly. He drew her toward the sofa, pushed her down, and vanished into the kitchen, returning a few minutes later with a steaming cup of hot chocolate.
Meredith found his gesture completely endearing, and she smiled as he handed it to her and sat down beside her.
"Now," he said when she'd finished the chocolate, "let's talk about what you're going to tell Matt."
"I'm going to tell him the truth."
Trying unsuccessfully to hide his delight, Patrick nodded emphatically. "That's just what you should do. You're still his wife, after all, and he has a right to know what happened. And because he's your husband, he has an obligation to listen and believe you. Both of you have other obligations too—to forgive and forget, to comfort and solace. To honor your wedding vows—"
She realized then what he was getting at, and she paused in the act of putting her cup on the table. Patrick Farrell was the son of Irish immigrants. Obviously he had deep convictions about people being bound to each other for life, and now that he knew the truth about what had happened to his grandchild, he was prodding hard. "Mr. Farrell, I—"
"Call me Dad." When Meredith hesitated, the warmth faded from his eyes. "Never mind, I shouldn't have expected someone like you to want to—"
"It isn't that!" Meredith said, her face burning with shame as she recalled the contempt she'd felt for him before. "It's just that you mustn't get your hopes up about Matt and me." She needed to make him understand that it was much too late to salvage their marriage, but after the pain she'd just put him through, she couldn't bear to hurt him more by telling him bluntly that she did not love his son. What she did want was a chance to explain to Matt about the miscarriage; she wanted to ask for his understanding and forgiveness. And she wanted to give him hers. She wanted that desperately. "Mr. Farrell—Dad—" she corrected herself awkwardly when he frowned, "I know what you're trying to accomplish, and it won't work. It can't. Matt and I knew each other for only a few days before we separated, and that isn't enough time to—to ..."
"To know if you love someone?" Patrick finished when Meredith trailed off into helpless silence. His bushy white brows lifted in mockery. "I knew the moment I laid eyes on my wife that she was the only woman for me."
"Well, I'm not that impulsive," Meredith said, and then felt like sinking through the floor because Patrick Farrell's eyes suddenly gleamed with knowing amusement. "You must have been pretty impulsive eleven years ago," he reminded her meaningfully. "Matt was with you in Chicago for only one night, and you were pregnant. He told me himself you hadn't been intimate with anyone before him. So it looks to me like you must have made up your mind pretty fast that he was the one for you."
"Please don't go into that," Meredith whispered shakily, holding her hand up to fend off his words. "You don't understand how I feel—how I've felt about Matt all this time. Lately, some things have happened between Matt and me. It's all so complicated—"
Patrick shot her a disgusted glance. "There's nothing complicated about it. It's very simple. You loved my son. He loved you. You made a baby together. You're married. You'll need some time together to find the feelings you used to have for each other. And you will. It's as simple as that."
Meredith almost laughed at his gross misstatement of the entire situation, and his brows shot up when he saw that she found his remarks humorous. "You'd better make up your mind about what you're going to do pretty fast," Patrick said, shamelessly trying to force her hand by implying Matt was considering remarrying, "because there's a girl who loves him plenty, and he just might decide to marry her."
She assumed he was referring to the girl whose picture was on Matt's desk, and her heart gave a funny little lurch as she stood up to leave. "The one in Indiana?" He hesitated then nodded, and she tossed a halfhearted smile in his direction as she picked up her purse. "Matt's been refusing to take my calls. I need to talk to him now, more than ever," she said in a voice that implored him for help.
"The farm is the perfect place to do it," Patrick announced, grinning as he abruptly arose. "You'll have plenty of time on the way there to think of the best way to tell him everything, and he'll have to listen. It'll take you only a couple hours to get there."
"What?" she blinked. "No, really. Absolutely not. Seeing Matt alone at the farm isn't a good idea at all."
"You think you need a chaperon?" he demanded incredulously.
"No," Meredith said half seriously. "I think we need a referee. I was hoping that you'd volunteer and that the three of us could meet here, when he gets back."
Putting his hands on her shoulders, he said urgently, "Meredith, go to the farm. You can say all the things you need to say to him right there. You'll never have a better chance," he cajoled her when she hesitated. "The farm's been sold. That's why Matt is there now; he's packing up our personal things. The phone's been disconnected, so you won't be interrupted. He can't get in his car and drive off because he had car trouble on the way there, and his car had to be towed into the shop. Joe's not supposed to pick him up until Monday morning." He saw her begin to waver and he joyously increased the pressure he was applying. "There's been eleven long years of hatred and hurt between the two of you, and you could put an end to it this very night! Tonight! Isn't that what you really want? I know how you must have felt when you thought Matt didn't care about you or the baby, but think how he's felt all these years! By nine o'clock tonight, all that misery could be behind both of you. You could be friends like you used to be." She looked ready to capitulate, yet she still hesitated, and Patrick guessed the reason. Slyly he added, "After you're done talking, you can go to the Edmunton Motel and stay there."