She sat on the kitchen sofa with the opened envelope in her hands, savouring the anticipation for another minute or two.
Nine years, almost to the day, since she had taken him to Orla's in the wee hours of the morning, where he hid out until he was well enough to board a train for New York, the place that had always intrigued him, sure he would make it there.
It had also been Orla who'd helped her find out what had really come to pass between Niall and Ryan that fateful night. Her brother-in-law had been at the dance hall, too, at the next table even, and he had seen Niall trying to feel up a girl who had clearly not been interested in him. Ryan had ended up grabbing him by the collar because he'd paid no heed to the girl's resistance, not even when she began to scream in panic.
Not that it would have brought her son back, but it was still a bit of comfort to know that he had simply wanted to do the right thing.
Oh, what would she have done without Orla in all these years, her friend and conspirator, who had played the go-between for Ryan's letters ever since he had left?
She finally pulled out the smaller envelope, ripped it open and extracted the folded sheet of paper.
Sometimes it felt like these letters were all that kept her going.
They hardly ever came more than two or three times a year, but they came, messages from a different world, written in generous flourishes on sheets of whatever paper was at hand. There had been fine cream-coloured vat paper as well as flimsy grey slips so thin that the ink seeped through.
This time, it was pale green stationery, a strangely feminine choice. She wondered what girl he had nicked it from.
When she unfolded it, another, smaller piece of paper fell to the floor, a stiff, yellowish material.
Picking it up, she became aware of the serrated edges.
A photograph!
Her heart beat faster at the sight, and even more so when she saw a second one still tucked inside the envelope.
Despite her excitement, she forced herself to read the letter completely before she took a look at the photos.
Reading her son's words was delicious in itself. She could almost hear his smoky voice speaking to her.
Mother dearest,
Just wanted to tell you I am fine. Really grand indeed!
Imagine, they have at long last recognized your favourite son's talent and finally had the good sense to offer me a leading role! And guess what, it is not even another of those brooding villains on a horse (frankly, I was getting rather sick of everyone saying things like 'nobody smolders as beautifully'). Not another of those roles in which the audience is all too happy in the end to see me die a horrible, well-deserved death. And certainly not one of these abominable walk-on roles!
It is a beautiful part in a strange and wonderful play called "Illuminata". It was written by Tuccio himself, and it is very much unlike everything I've been in before. I'm not even sure I understand it entirely myself, but it is incredibly touching and so beautifully staged. I wish you could be here to see it.
The first night was a big success, and we've been sold out for ten consecutive nights after that. We're all completely beside ourselves!
This also means I'm getting paid decently for once. I will be very glad to send you some money, but only if you allow. I don't want you to get into trouble with that creep I fear you are still married to.
But even if you prefer me not to send any cash, I have a special treat for you today.
We had a photographer over after the dress rehearsal, and I bought some prints and thought it was high time for you to get a photo or two of your successful actor son. I hope you won't be too disappointed at how much I have aged. Myself, I prefer thinking I'm not too bad for a man close to thirty. At least I have no grey hairs yet!
Simone sends her love, too. You know, the girl I told you about. We decided to give it another try together. She can be very difficult and very sensitive, but hell yes, I think I love her! (Oh yes, I can hear you telling me to mind my language. Don't you worry, I usually do, except when I don't.)
Hope all the little ones are well, and, most important, so are you. Don't let the creep get you down. And maybe you'll want Orla to keep the photo for you, just to be on the safe side.
Yours ever,
Ryan
P.S. What do you think of my new name? Orla says it is ridiculous and refuses to address me as Dominique Montfort, but I like to think my father would be pleased.
Maureen couldn't help blinking away some tears, and she found herself shedding some more when she looked at the first photograph.
The scene depicted was slightly disturbing but also very beautiful. There was a tall, slender woman with an ageless, wise face, her hair piled high on her head, wearing a filmy white gown, sitting very upright on a stool or chair at the front of an otherwise bare stage. Beside her on the naked floor knelt a young man in a white tunic, his head resting in the woman's lap, lavish dark curls mussed, eyes closed, a strangely intimate and somewhat sacred image.
Ivy Hollis's words on the night of Ryan and Niall's fight rang through her head. "You was lookin' like one of them statues of the Virgin Mary, them with poor dead Jesus in her lap!"
She had thought the remark rather tasteless at the time, but it did seem fitting in retrospect. She had been a mother grieving for her son for endless minutes, and it had seemed as miraculous as the Resurrection when she realized that he was indeed alive and not even gravely hurt.
And here he was in all his glory nine years later, alive and more handsome than ever.
The second photograph was even better than the first. It almost took her breath away. In this, he was looking just past the camera, a dreamy, thoughtful look in his eyes and tiny almost-smile playing around his mouth, as if he had just remembered a pleasant little secret.
His face had filled out a little, and some of the boyish softness and vulnerability that used to be there was gone, but this was a man at ease with himself and his life, it seemed.
A man very much like his father.
She made herself put the photographs and the letter away when she heard Brendan and Moira coming back from wherever they had been playing.
When they came bursting into the kitchen, asking "What's for dinner?", she had everything well hidden away and was standing at the table chopping onions, just like she did on any other day.
Only Francis noticed that something was different when he came home from work later that night.
"Ma, you've such a lovely smile tonight. You oughta smile like that more often!"