Patrick W. Danahy: Counting Down
the Days
She
was born on Oct. 11, a month too late to get a blurry
glimpse of her father. Grace, she was called.
When Patrick W. Danahy and his wife, Mary, had
discussed girls' names, she suggested Grace. He was
hesitant. But Grace is the patron saint of motorcyclists,
she told him. (No, really. Look it up.) "It'll have to
be," he said. "She'll look out for me when I go out
riding."
Mr. Danahy loved motorcycles, and cars. (He bought
himself an old Porsche for his last birthday, his 35th.)
And mountain bikes. (He did a couple of 100-mile
bikeathons.) "He seized any sunny day," his wife said.
"He wouldn't waste it inside."
But "his girls were his life," she said -- before
Grace, a 2-year-old and a 3-year-old. He did a weekly
countdown with the oldest, saying on Sunday nights, "Five
days to go," and on Mondays, "Four," till he would be
home with them. He would often get up at 4:30 to go to a
gym. And later, from the 90th floor of 2 World Trade
Center -- he was vice president for investor services at
Fiduciary Trust -- he would call and say, "How are my
girls doing?"
He called and talked to them at 8:30 a.m. on Sept. 11,
hanging up just before the first plane hit -- and with no
bikers' saint to protect him.
.
