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.