The Moores certainly did come in all sizes and shapes, Maggie reflected as she looked about the room. She watched two octogenarians in animated conversation, and narrowed her eyes, mentally framing them through the lens of the camera she now wished she had brought. The snow white hair of the man, the coquettish smile on the woman’s face, the pleasure they were obviously taking in each other’s company-it would have made a wonderful picture.

“The Four Seasons will never be the same after the Moores are finished with it,” Liam said as he appeared suddenly beside her. “Having a good time?” he asked, but then without waiting for an answer, introduced her to yet another cousin, Earl Bateman, who, Maggie was amused to note, studied her with obvious and unhurried interest.

She judged the newcomer to be, like Liam, in his late thirties. He was half a head shorter than his cousin, which made him just under six feet. She decided there was something of a scholarly bent reflected in his lean face and thoughtful expression, although his pale blue eyes had a vaguely disconcerting cast to them. Sandy haired with a sallow complexion, he did not have Liam’s rugged good looks. Liam’s eyes were more green than blue, his dark hair attractively flecked with gray.

She waited while he continued to look her over. Then, after a long moment, with a raised eyebrow, she asked, “Will I pass inspection?”

He looked embarrassed. “I’m sorry. I’m not good at remembering names and I was trying to place you. You are one of the clan, aren’t you?”

“No. I have Irish roots going back three or four generations, but I’m no relation to this clan, I’m afraid. It doesn’t look as though you need any more cousins anyhow.”

“You couldn’t be more right about that. Too bad, though, most of them aren’t nearly so attractive as you. Your wonderful blue eyes, ivory skin and small bones make you a Celt. The near-black hair places you among the ‘Black Irish’ segment of the family, those members who owe some of their genetic makeup to the brief but significant visit from survivors of the defeat of the Spanish Armada.”

“Liam! Earl! Oh, for the love of God, I guess I’m glad I came after all.”

Forgetting Maggie, both men turned to enthusiastically greet the florid-faced man who came up behind them.

Maggie shrugged. So much for that, she thought, mentally retreating into a corner. Then she remembered an article she had recently read that urged people who felt isolated in social situations to look for someone else who seemed to be even more desperate and start a conversation.

Chuckling to herself, she decided to give that tactic a try, then if she ended up still talking to herself she would slip away and go home. At that moment, the prospect of her pleasant apartment on Fifty-sixth Street near the East River was very attractive. She knew she should have stayed in tonight. She’d only been back a few days from a photo shoot in Milan and longed for a quiet evening with her feet up.

She glanced around. There didn’t seem to be a single Squire Moore descendant or in-law who wasn’t fighting to be heard.

Countdown to exit, she decided. Then she heard a voice nearby-a melodic, familiar voice, one that spurred sudden, pleasant memories. She spun around. The voice belonged to a woman who was ascending the short staircase to the restaurant’s balcony area and had stopped to call to someone below her. Maggie stared, then gasped. Was she crazy? Could it possibly be Nuala? It had been so long ago, yet she sounded just like the woman who once had been her stepmother, from the time she was five until she was ten. After the divorce, her father had forbidden Maggie to even mention Nuala’s name.

Maggie noticed Liam passing on his way to hail another relative and grabbed his arm. “Liam, that woman on the stairs. Do you know her?”

He squinted. “Oh, that’s Nuala. She was married to my uncle. I mean I guess she’s my aunt, but she was his second wife, so I never thought of her that way. She’s a bit of a character but a lot of fun. Why?”

Maggie did not wait to answer but began to thread her way through the clusters of Moores. By the time she reached the stairs, the woman she sought was chatting with a group of people on the balcony level. Maggie started up the stairs but near the top paused to study her.

When Nuala had left, so abruptly, Maggie had prayed that she would write. She never did, though, and Maggie had found her silence especially painful. She had come to feel so close to her during the five years the marriage had lasted. Her own mother had died in an automobile accident when she was an infant. It was only after her father’s death that Maggie learned from a family friend that her father had destroyed all the letters and returned the gifts that Nuala had sent to her.

Maggie stared now at the tiny figure with lively blue eyes and soft honey-blond hair. She could see the fine skein of wrinkles that detracted not a bit from her lovely complexion. And as she stared, the memories flooded her heart. Childhood memories, perhaps her happiest.

Nuala, who always took her part in arguments, protesting to Maggie’s father, “Owen, for the love of heaven, she’s just a child. Stop correcting her every minute.” Nuala, who was always saying, “Owen, all the kids her age wear jeans and tee shirts… Owen, so what if she used up three rolls of film? She loves to take pictures, and she’s good… Owen, she’s not just playing in mud. Can’t you see she’s trying to make something out of the clay. For heaven’s sake, recognize your daughter’s creativity even if you don’t like my paintings.”

Nuala-always so pretty, always such fun, always so patient with Maggie’s questions. It had been from Nuala that Maggie had learned to love and understand art.

Typically, Nuala was dressed tonight in a pale blue satin cocktail suit and matching high heels. Maggie’s memories of her were always pastel tinted.

Nuala had been in her late forties when she married Dad, Maggie thought, trying to calculate her age now. She made it through five years with him. She left twenty-two years ago.

It was a shock to realize that Nuala must now be in her mid-seventies. She certainly didn’t look it.

Their eyes met. Nuala frowned, then looked puzzled.

Nuala had told her that her name was actually Finnuala, after the legendary Celt, Finn MacCool, who brought about the downfall of a giant. Maggie remembered how as a little girl she had delighted in trying to pronounce Finn-u-ala.

“Finn-u-ala?” she said now, her voice tentative.

A look of total astonishment crossed the older woman’s face. Then she emitted a whoop of delight that stopped the buzz of conversations around them, and Maggie found herself once again enfolded in loving arms. Nuala was wearing the faint scent that all these years had lingered in Maggie’s memory. When she was eighteen she had discovered the scent was Joy. How appropriate for tonight, Maggie thought.

“Let me look at you,” Nuala exclaimed, releasing her and stepping back but still holding Maggie’s arms with both hands as though afraid she would get away.

Her eyes searched Maggie’s face. “I never thought I’d see you again! Oh, Maggie! How is that dreadful man, your father?”

“He died three years ago.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, darling. But he was totally impossible to the end, I’m sure.”

“Never too easy,” Maggie admitted.

“Darling, I was married to him. Remember? I know what he was like! Always sanctimonious, dour, sour, petulant, crabby. Well, no use going on about it. The poor man is dead, may he rest in peace. But he was so old-fashioned and so stiff, why, he could have posed for a medieval stained-glass window…”

Aware suddenly that others were openly listening, Nuala slid her arm around Maggie’s waist and announced, “This is my child! I didn’t give birth to her, of course, but that’s totally unimportant.”