he was the kind of woman that men looked at twice. And women, too, for that matter.

It was not that Madelana O’Shea was very beautiful. She was not. But she had what the French call je ne sais quoi, that indefinable something that made her special and different and caused heads to turn wherever she went.

Tonight was no exception.

She stood outside Harte’s department store on Fifth Avenue, patiently waiting for the radio cab she had ordered from her office a short while before. It was eight o’clock on a Thursday and the store was still open. Everyone who hurried in and out stole a glance at her, obviously wondering who she was, for she had style and there was a touch of regality in her bearing.

A tall young woman of about five feet eight, and slender, she had a willowy figure and legs that were long and shapely. Her thick, chestnut-brown hair was shoulder length, worn full and loose around her heart-shaped face. This was a little too bony to be called pretty, but the smooth forehead and high, slanting cheekbones, sharp as blades, gave her the look of a thoroughbred, as did the finely drawn aristocratic nose sprinkled faintly with freckles. She had a wide Irish mouth, with a full, somewhat voluptuous bottom lip, and a lovely smile that filled her face with radiance, but it was her eyes that fascinated and compelled. They were large, widely set, and of an unusual pale grey the colour of chalcedony, their marvellous transparency emphasized by the dark brows arched above them. They were highly intelligent eyes, and filled with a determination that could turn steely at times, but there was also laughter in them and sometimes a hidden recklessness.

Madelana had a flair for clothes and wore them well. She looked smart in anything she put on, gave it her own cachet; it might be the way she knotted a scarf, snapped down the brim of a hat, wrapped a length of Oriental silk into a unique cummerbund or twisted antique beads around her long and slender neck. And it was this great personal chic in combination with her svelte good looks that made her appearance so arresting.

The evening was stifling, humid as only New York in the middle of summer can be, and everyone seemed worn down and wilted in the oppressive weather as they toiled up Fifth, or stood at the edge of the sidewalk, looking for a yellow cab or waiting to cross to the other side.

But not Madelana O’Shea. Her tailored cream silk tunic, with its simple round neckline and three-quarter length sleeves, worn over a straight black silk skirt, was as crisp as it had been when she had set out for work that morning, and she looked cool and untouched by the heat, and as elegant as usual.

The burgundy radio cab pulled up in front of the store, and she hurried forward with an ease and lightness of movement that bespoke her childhood ballet and tap lessons. She was limber, and had the agile grace of a dancer, and this, too, was part of her immense appeal.

After opening the taxi door, she put the large Harte’s shopping bag on the seat and slid in next to it.

‘West Twenty-Fourth Street, right, miss?’ the driver said, moving off down Fifth.

‘Yes, between Seventh and Eighth, in the middle of the block, please.’

‘Okay, miss.’

Madelana sat back, rested her hands on the black patent bag in her lap, her mind racing as it almost always did, no matter where she was or what she was doing.

Ever since Monday afternoon, when Paula had called from the south of France to tell her she was going to Australia, she had felt as if she had been running in a marathon. She had had to complete her current work, cancel her business appointments for the next few weeks, along with the few personal dates she had made, plan ahead for a possibly protracted absence from the store, and select appropriate clothes and accessories for the trip.

And then Paula had arrived in New York on the Concorde, early on Wednesday morning, and had come directly to the store. The two of them had worked like demons for two solid days, but they had accomplished miracles, and they would have a relatively normal business day tomorrow, before leaving on Saturday on the first leg of their journey. Tonight she would go over the files of papers she had stacked in the shopping bag and finish working on them, and tomorrow night she would pack.

I’m ahead of the game, Madelana thought with sudden relief, and nodded to herself, feeling gratified. She glanced out of the window, hardly noticing the tawdry glitter and squalor of Times Square with its hustlers and peddlers and drug addicts and pushers and undercover cops and hookers on the make. As the cab slid swiftly through this clamouring rinky-tink wedge of real estate and headed on downtown towards Chelsea, her mind focused on the trip to the other side of the world.

They were going first to Sydney, then on to Melbourne and perhaps even to Adelaide after that, before returning to Sydney where they would spend most of their time. From what Paula had told her, they had a lot of work to do, and it would be a gruelling two or three weeks. But the prospect did not daunt her. She and Paula O’Neill worked well together, had always seemed to understand each other right from the beginning, and they were compatible.

It struck her, and not for the first time, how strange it was that she, a poor Irish-American Catholic girl from the South, and an aristocratic Englishwoman, heiress to one of the world’s great fortunes and a noted international business tycoon, could have so many things in common, could be so similar, and in so many ways. They were both workaholics and had boundless energy, were sticklers for detail, disciplined, dedicated and driven, and extremely well organized. In consequence, they did not grate on each other’s nerves, or create problems for each other, and they seemed always to be in step. It’s like dancing with Fred Astaire or Gene Kelly, she thought and smiled inwardly, liking her analogy.

In the year she had been Paula’s personal assistant, she had not put a foot wrong and she did not intend to, not ever, and especially not on their forthcoming trip to Australia. Paula was the key to her future. Her goal was to become President of Harte’s store in New York one day, and with Paula’s help she would achieve it.

Ambition. She was loaded with it, she knew this only too well, and she was pleased that she was. She considered it to be a plus not a minus. It had goaded her on, helped her to arrive where she was today. Her father had occasionally complained that she was too ambitious. But her mother had merely smiled her lovely Irish smile at him, and behind his back had winked at her and nodded maternal approval and encouraged her at every opportunity.

She wished her parents were still alive. And her little sister, Kerry Anne, who had died when she was four. And Joe and Lonnie. Her two brothers had been killed in Vietnam. She missed them so very much, just as she missed her baby sister and her parents, and at times she felt as though she had no roots, no centre to her life, with all of them gone from her. They had been close knit as a family, and very loving of each other. She considered her losses over the past few years, thought of her sorrow, and her heart clenched. Resolutely, she pushed the pain away.

Madelana took several deep breaths, keeping absolute control of herself and her emotions, as she had taught herself to do after her father had been buried four years ago. Only when he was lying in the ground did her sense of aloneness truly overwhelm her, and only then did she fully comprehend that she no longer had any family left, except for Aunt Agnes, her father’s sister, who lived in California and whom she hardly knew.

The cab drew up outside the Residence Jeanne D’Arc. She took the receipt from the driver, said goodnight, grabbed her shopping bag and alighted. She ran swiftly up the steps and into the building.

The minute she walked inside, Madelana felt herself relaxing.

This place was so familiar and cosy and welcoming…she had lived here in one of the rooms when she had first come to New York, had stayed for three years. It had been her home. She still thought of it as home, even though she now had her own apartment uptown in the East Eighties.

She crossed the small entrance foyer and turned right, heading for the office.

‘Hello, Sister Mairéad,’ Madelana said to the nun behind the counter, who was in charge of the office this evening. ‘How are you?’

‘Why, Madelana, it’s nice to see you, and I’m just fine, very fine indeed,’ the sister replied, the faint Irish lilt echoing softly in her voice, her rose-apple cheeks dimpling with pleasure. The sister had had a soft spot for Madelana when she had lived here, and she was always delighted to see this lovely young woman who was such a credit to her parents, God rest their souls, and who in every way exemplified her good Catholic upbringing.

‘Sister Bronagh’s expecting me,’ Madelana said with a smile, and put the large Harte’s bag on the counter, took out a gift-wrapped package and looked at the sister. ‘Can I leave my shopping bag with you, please?’

‘Of course you can, Madelana.’

‘It’s full of my papers from work, so please put it somewhere safe, won’t you? It’d be more than a disaster if it got mislaid.’

‘Now don’t you be fretting yourself about it, I’ll keep it safe, and you know there’s no need to be worrying about anything you leave here. Sister Bronagh said for you to go to the garden. She’ll be up to join you in a few minutes. I’ll let her know you’ve arrived.’ Sister Mairéad beamed and nodded to herself and picked up the phone, began to dial.

‘Thank you, Sister,’ Madelana murmured, and swung around, heading for the small, box-like elevator that would take her up to the fifth floor and the stairs that led to the roof of the building.

Surprisingly, the roof garden was empty.

Usually in the summer, on pleasant evenings, some of the girls who lived at the residency came up here to chat and socialize with each other, and with the sisters, to share a drink of wine or juice, or read a book or simply be alone.

It was a charming spot, planted with rambling ivy, and there were vines growing on trellis panels, and window boxes of bright red and pink geraniums, and pots of yellow and peach begonias, and the sisters grew vegetables up here. Scattered about were chairs and several small tables, and the atmosphere was inviting and suggested conviviality.

She paused to look at the statue of the Blessed Virgin, surrounded by masses of flowers as it generally was in the summer, recalling how often she had tended the flowers when she had been living here. She had always thought of this spot as a little oasis, a lovely patch of green-growing things in the middle of the concrete canyons of Manhattan, and it had given her a feeling of wellbeing, had nourished her soul.

Gliding forward, she went to one of the tables, put down the gift and her handbag, and seated herself in one of the chairs facing uptown. Straight ahead of her, in her direct angle of vision, were the Empire State and the Chrysler Buildings thrusting up above the higgledy-piggledy roofs and chimney pots of Chelsea and the less-distinguished skyscrapers of the city.

Dusk was already falling, and the lavender-and-grey tinted sky was changing as a deep cobalt blue seeped in like ink and slowly extinguished these paler hues. The lights that washed over the towers of the two dominating buildings had been turned on, but the grandeur of the architecture would not be properly visible until the sky was pitch black. Then these towers would be thrown into relief, would shimmer magnificently against the dark velvet backdrop of the sky, and it was a sight that never failed to make her catch her breath in delight.

Even in winter, Madelana had enjoyed coming up here when she had lived at the residency. Wrapped in warm clothes, she had huddled in a sheltered corner, admiring these two extraordinary edifices and a skyline that stunned with its unique beauty.

The Chrysler, with its Art Deco sunburst motif on its elegant tapering tower, was only ever flooded with clear white light that gave it a pristine beauty and underscored the purity of its design, whereas the Empire State changed its colours to suit the season and the holidays. At Thanksgiving, the two tiers and the slender tower above were flooded with amber, gold and orange; at Christmas with red and green. The lights changed to blue and white for Chanukah and other Jewish holidays, became yellow at Easter, green on St Patrick’s Day, and red, white and blue for the fourth of July. And if the Chrysler Building really was the more beautiful of the two, then certainly the Empire State was the most eyecatching when it blazed with a celebratory selection of its rainbow colours.

‘Good evening, Madelana,’ Sister Bronagh called as she walked across to the table, carrying two glasses of white wine.

Madelana sprang up at the sound of her voice.

‘Hello, Sister.’ She hurried forward, smiling, and took the glass being offered to her, and the two women clasped hands affectionately, before sitting down together at the table.

‘You’re looking extremely well,’ Sister Bronagh said, peering at her in the gathering dusk.

‘Thank you, I feel good.’

They touched glasses and sipped their drinks.

‘This is for you, Sister,’ Madelana said, after a moment, and slid the gift across the table.

‘For me?’ Sister Bronagh glanced at it, raised a brow, her warm hazel eyes suddenly twinkling merrily behind her spectacles, her face wreathed in smiles.

‘That’s why I came tonight…to bring you the present and to say goodbye. I won’t be able to come to your farewell party next week. I’ll be in Australia by then.’

‘Australia! My goodness, so far away, Madelana. But exciting, I think, for you. I’m so sorry you won’t be at the party…your absence will be noticed. It always has been, when you haven’t been able to make one of our little get togethers. And thank you for the gift, it was thoughtful of you.’

‘You’re quite welcome.’ ‘May I open it now?’

‘Of course,’ Madelana said, laughing, enjoying her obvious delight in the small token she had brought.

Sister Bronagh untied the yellow ribbon, dispensed with the wrapping paper and lifted the lid of the Harte’s silver cardboard box. Underneath the layers of tissue paper were three different-sized toilet bags made of deep blue silk and trimmed with a lighter blue welting.

‘Oh, how lovely they are!’ Sister Bronagh exclaimed, taking one out, turning it over in her hands, opening the zip, looking inside. Her small, birdlike face was bright with sudden happiness and she took Madelana’s hand resting on the table and squeezed it. ‘Thank you so much, my dear, they’re just what I need.’

‘I’m glad you like them. I wanted to get you something that was pretty but also useful.’ Madelana grinned at her. ‘I know you…how practical you are. Anyway, I thought these would be perfect for travelling.’ She rested her elbows on the table. Her fingers toyed with the glass of wine. ‘When do you leave for Rome?’

‘On the tenth of September, and I’m becoming excited about going. It’ll be a challenge, helping to run the residency over there. It’s situated not very far away from the Vatican, and that’s an added joy for me, being so close to the Holy See.’ There was a lovely glow about her as she continued, ‘I must confess to you, Madelana, I was thrilled when Sister Marie-Theresa picked me to be the one to go.’

Madelana nodded. ‘Everyone here at the residency is going to miss you, though, me included.’

‘Oh and I shall miss you, too, Madelana, and the other old girls who still come to see me, and the ones living here now, and the sisters.’ There was a brief pause. A fleeting sadness touched Sister Bronagh’s eyes, and they grew moist, and then she cleared her throat quickly, sat up, straightened the collar of her white blouse. She gave Madelana a warm smile. ‘Tell me about your trip to Australia. It’s rather sudden, isn’t it?’

‘Yes. I’m going on business with my boss, Paula O’Neill. We’re leaving for Los Angeles on Saturday morning, and we’ll spend the night there, since she thinks we’ll both be in better shape if we break the trip instead of flying direct. We take the Qantas flight to Sydney at ten o’clock on Sunday night.’

‘And how long will you be gone?’

‘Two or three weeks, perhaps even four. Paula may have to leave me behind to follow through for her. We’re going out there because of the boutiques in the hotels. She’s concerned they’re not being run properly. The manager has been sick, and her assistant seems to either panic or flounder on alternate days.’

‘You’ve done well at Harte’s, Madelana, I’m proud of you.’

‘Thank you. Anyway, my career’s very important to me, as you know…’ Madelana stopped, and there was a hesitation in her manner, and she looked down at her hands resting on the table. Shortly, she went on in a more muted, thoughtful tone, ‘But working so hard these past few years has also helped me to keep grief at bay, to come to grips with my losses…’ Her voice suddenly trailed off.

The sister reached out, took Madelana’s hand in hers, and there was a sense of comfort in this gesture. ‘Yes, I know it has. But then so has your great faith, Madelana. Always remember that God has His reasons, and that He never gives us a burden that is too heavy to carry.’

‘Yes, you’ve told me that many times before.’ Madelana tightened her grip on Sister Bronagh’s hand. There was a short silence between them. She lifted her head then, and smiled faintly at this devout and gentle middle-aged woman who had been so warm and loving to her when she had lived here, who had singled her out for special attention.

‘I couldn’t let you leave for Rome without coming to see you, Sister Bronagh, to thank you from the bottom of my heart for helping me to get through so much pain and sorrow, for making me feel so welcome when I first arrived. You gave me courage.’

‘No, no, I didn’t, Madelana,’ the sister said swiftly. ‘The courage was within you, already part of you then. As it is now. And as it will always be. If I did anything at all, it was simply to show you that it was there, to make you understand that all you needed to do was to reach inside of yourself, and to draw on it.’

‘Yes…But I’ll never be able to thank you enough for all you’ve done for me. And for all you’ve taught me – especially about myself.’

‘You were always very special to me, my child,’ Sister Bronagh replied in a soft voice. ‘If I had not chosen this way of life, had not chosen to be in service to God, to do His work, and if I had married and had had a daughter, I would have wanted her to be exactly like you.’

‘Oh Sister Bronagh, what a beautiful thing to say, thank you, thank you so much!’ Madelana experienced a sudden rush of emotion as her genuine feeling for this woman rose up in her and there was the unexpected sting of tears behind her eyes and she blinked them away, not wanting to break down. She realized how much she would miss Sister Bronagh after the nun had departed for her new job in Rome.

Now Madelana said, ‘Your belief in me has been so important, Sister, it’s mirrored the belief my mother had in me. She encouraged me the way you have. I’ll try never to let you down.’

The sweetest of smiles brushed across Sister Bronagh’s pale mouth and she said slowly, to give greater emphasis to her words, ‘The important thing is never to let yourself down, Madelana.’