The two of them descended the spiral staircase to the ground floor foyer. The brass handrail gleamed, reflecting the shifting clouds outside the tall windows.
The main doorbell rang suddenly. Before anyone could answer, the oak door swung open, and Mary burst in like a whirlwind.
She was clearly "dressed up" with careful attention, yet under her dark green plaid school uniform skirt, she wore a pair of patched old work trousers—an incongruous mix. The pant legs were rolled up, revealing sturdy Oxford shoes and slender ankles.
Her fiery red hair was tied haphazardly in a ponytail, streaks of dried paint clinging to the ends, giving her the look of a tiny mad artist who had just escaped a studio.
"Brother!" The sheet music she carried scattered across the floor, but she paid it no mind, rushing to grab Shane's sleeve.
The onyx cufflinks of his suit shimmered in the light from the crystal chandelier.
"Where's my room? Where's the piano?" Her bright green eyes—now unmistakably lively—flashed with excitement. "You said it would have a river view!"
Shane bent to pick up the scattered music sheets, smiling softly. The top book was Chopin Etudes, with his teacher's red-ink annotation: "Extremely talented, yet uninhibited; urgently needs guidance and discipline."
"It's on the sixth floor, the entire top duplex," he said, feigning sternness, though a gentle smile lingered. "But before you go, you need to change out of that… 'ensemble.'"
Mary had already shot toward the elevator like an arrow. When the doors opened, she froze.
The nearly six-meter-high living room revealed three floor-to-ceiling windows with steel frames, presenting a flowing panorama of the Manhattan skyline. Sunlight poured through, casting geometric light patterns on the teak floors.
Fearing to dirty the new house, Mary kicked off her shoes. Her shadow stretched long in the sunlight, her face reflecting the same awe she had felt at Carnegie Hall years ago in the Lower East Side alleyway.
"This… this is ten times bigger than the blueprints!" she exclaimed, her voice echoing across the hall.
She dashed down the corridor, opening the white-carved piano room door. Inside, a twelve-square-meter space awaited: a piano stool, a music stand, and empty floor space ready for the Steinway. Walls were covered with geometric acoustic panels, and a small balcony jutted out, offering a perfect river view.
Shane leaned against the doorframe, watching the sparkle in his sister's eyes. "The piano will arrive at three this afternoon."
Mary looked around in awe before throwing herself into Shane's arms, her fiery ponytail tracing an arc through the air.
The fresh scent of mint shampoo carried Shane back to the days in their tiny Lower East Side room, when they slept on newspaper beds and Mary scrubbed the floors until her hands turned red. A lock of her damp hair brushed his shoulder.
"Do you remember that first apartment?" she whispered, muffled against his chest.
"Yes," Shane replied softly, his hand resting on her thin back through her uniform. "I said one day… we'd have a better life."
He felt the tiny, oxidized tin hairpin in her hair—the one she had insisted on buying at the flea market in Cork Harbour. A stubborn relic of their past, now pinned in her fiery hair like a marker on the river of time.
"Want to see your bedroom?" Shane asked, regaining a gentle smile.
Mary's bedroom, on the lower duplex level, featured light blue wallpaper adorned with silver musical notes. A four-poster bed had custom Irish lace hangings shipped from Dublin. A breeze flowed through the half-open window, making the sheer curtains sway. The desk faced the sunlit Gothic spires of St. Margaret's Girls' School, gilded by the afternoon light.
Mary ran her hands across the furniture in awe. Sunlight through the lace created shimmering patterns on the floor. At that moment, all Shane's hardships and careful planning settled into tranquility.
Then Mary discovered the walk-in closet. Glass display cases lined an entire wall with musical manuscript reproductions from Beethoven to Debussy. A phonograph and vinyl records rested below.
"Mr. Henry Hill's collection," Shane explained. "True talent deserves the best soil."
Mary ran her hand reverently over the glass, then pointed to the master bedroom with dramatic excitement. "Brother! Let's see if the jacuzzi is really… as exaggerated as the blueprints!"
The central jacuzzi gleamed with brass-plated faucets. Mary spread her arms wide. "This… could fit our entire school choir!"
"Mr. Cassidy?" the doorman's voice came faintly through the brass speaking tube. "Mr. Henry Hill has arrived."
Old Henry entered, leaning on an ebony cane, dressed in a rare light-gray three-piece suit. The gold chain of his pocket watch swayed gently.
"Good location, kid," Henry said, eyes lingering on the river view. "Much better than I had at your age."
He handed a long rectangular package, a housewarming gift. Shane carefully opened it to reveal a 1901 New York Stock Exchange membership certificate, engraved with "Henry James Hill" and a unique serial number, bearing the official steel seal.
"The witness to my first pot of gold," Henry murmured, his voice distant. "I had meant to leave it for… someone deserving." His gaze swept past Shane, lingering momentarily on Tom, then softened.
Shane noticed the faint pain behind Henry's eyes. He knew about Henry's grandson, lost after the crash. The thought tightened his throat.
"Dinner is ready," Shane said, shifting the topic. "Linda has prepared your favorite Yorkshire pudding, roast beef, and mint sauce."
"Of course," Henry nodded, moving toward Mary. He handed her a gilded invitation. "Next Saturday, Carnegie Hall. Horowitz's private salon, followed by a reception."
Mary trembled as she accepted it. Henry patted her back awkwardly, his usually sharp eyes softened with tenderness—a look Shane had never seen.
Outside, laughter erupted as Mikhail lit Polish incense, smoke curling in the sunlight. Tom and Linda arranged a long table of twenty covers, covering repurposed pier crates with pristine white linens.
The menu reflected their multicultural household: Yorkshire pudding, roast beef, Polish pierogi, Russian sturgeon caviar, Irish stew, and seafood chowder.
Glasses clinked, and Shane noticed Henry discreetly dabbing his eyes. Joy and hope mingled in the room.
"To the new home!" Volker shouted.
"To Shane!" came the chorus, the sound ringing into the crisp Brooklyn evening.
Former soldiers, Irish immigrants, and a Wall Street veteran—all found a beacon in 79 Ridge Boulevard, guiding these wandering souls home.