Page 37 of Fifth Avenue Fling

Mrs. Dalton’s daughter needs to recover ASAP.

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Go lasadh solas na bhFlaitheas ar d’uaigh.

May the light of heaven shine on your grave.

I stare at the Irish blessing and photo of Harlow on her tombstone, stuck in time.

Smiling, carefree and excited about what the world had to offer her. Excited that she was a mother.

Except I took all that from you, Harlow.

I took your hopes and dreams and your future.

You had so many dreams.

To be a mother to our beautiful daughter.

To prove that the kid from the wrong side of Queens was worthy of the New York Ballet.

To retire in a small village on the coast of Ireland, with your children around you.

I took it all from you.

I’m sorry I failed you.

I’m sorry I failed Teagan.

Time heals all wounds. Isn’t that right, Harlow?

Wrong.

Teagan’s nearly thirteen, Harlow. A teenager.Ican’tbelieve our littlegirl is growing upsoquickly.

I don’t know why I’m telling you, you’d never forget that. I’m taking her to see some pop star with floppy hair for her birthday, but knowing Teagan,she’ll have gone off him and be madly in love with some other runt.

She’s still wearing makeup, covering up her beautiful face, but when I say anything about it, we fight. I need you more than ever. It was easier when I was checking the closet for monsters. Now I need to check that she hasn’t hidden her phone under the bedsheets so she doesn’t spend all night on it.

We have another replacement for Mrs. Dalton. My nannies wouldn’t run away if you were here. My nannies wouldn’t be needed if you were here. Not that I’m allowed to call her a nanny. Teagan says she’s too old.

I think you’d like this one, although she seems like a loose cannon. She’s testing my patience. You were always more forgiving than I am.

I need you to talk back.

But of course, she doesn’t, because the dead leave you alone with your own tortured thoughts.

I lay the fresh flowers on the grave. Visiting Harlow’s grave is the only time I visit Queens. Sometimes with Teagan, often alone.

No one knows about my spontaneous midday trips here. I need to come, but it’s too painful to stay.

“Bye, Harlow,” I say quietly. I clench my jaw and walk back to my driver.

TEN

Clodagh

What the hell is a huntsman pie? Is that like a chicken potpie but with Australian spiders instead of chicken?

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