Dinner was pleasant. Moira sat beside Michael, and Danny was down the table between Brian and Molly. After the conversation they’d had in front of the kids that afternoon, Moira was a little worried about what Danny might be saying to them. She made a point of rising throughout the meal for more drinks or anything else that might be needed, just to walk by Danny’s end of the table and see what he was saying. She needn’t have worried. He was doing nothing more than telling them about Saint Patrick. As always, Danny was a good storyteller.
“Patrick’s life, you know, is shrouded in mystery,” Danny explained. “He was the son of a man named Calpurnius, who was most probably a wealthy Roman living in Britain. Now the Romans had gone just about everywhere, you know, but they didn’t do much more than skirt the edges of Ireland. The island was very wild at the time, and the people were fierce, and they lived in tribes. They were good-looking, of course, even back then, but they believed very much in magic, and in the wind and the sky and the power of the earth. They were fine seamen, too. So Patrick was a boy growing up in Britain—Wales, many people believe. And he was out late at night when he shouldn’t have been—which is a lesson to the three of you to stay close to your parents and family when you’re out. Patrick wound up being captured by pagan Irish sea raiders and taken across the Irish Sea to be sold as a slave. To a nasty fellow, so they say. Patrick became a shepherd, and he tended his sheep well, but he knew he must escape. It was very dangerous for him, because slaves attempting to escape could be executed at the will of their masters. But Patrick was a brave fellow, and he meant to go. In time, he convinced rivals of his master to help him escape across the sea again, and he came back home. His parents were very happy to see him, of course, but Patrick believed that God had come to him and told him that he must go back and help the Irish people. Patrick knew he had a special calling. His father wanted him to go to be a businessman—”
“Like Daddy,” Shannon said.
“Like Daddy. Being a businessman is certainly a fine enough thing to do in life,” Danny assured her. “But Patrick knew that he couldn’t do what his parents wanted. So he convinced them at last that he must go on to become a man of the Church. Years later, he returned to Ireland to preach a message of peace to the pagans, who were still practicing their strange beliefs. He might have been caught by the mean master he had escaped and put to death, but he came back anyway. Some say God helped him by letting the pagans see certain miracles. Others say that Patrick’s wit and mind were miraculous in themselves, and that his power was in his words and his way with people.”
“Either way, gifts from God,” Granny Jon added.
Danny smiled across the table at her. “True enough. So here’s our good Patrick among these people. He walked all over Ireland, North and South, because they were just one back then, with many kings ruling different areas and sometimes an Ard-Ri, or High King, sitting at Tara. When Patrick came, so legend has it, there was a High King at Tara, and he was a powerful man with deep belief in his pagan priest. The pagan priest wanted to trick Patrick into a fire, where Patrick would burn to death and leave the pagan priest as the most powerful one. But the Ard-Ri wanted the truth, and he forced both his own priest and Patrick to walk through the flames. Patrick proved that his faith in God was the greatest magic in the world, for he passed easily through fire, and the pagan priest who wanted to hurt Patrick was the one who perished in the flames. Ah, but that didn’t end the trials Patrick had to go through. He had trouble with other churchmen, jealous of his success in Ireland. But in the end, Patrick plugged away, sure of his love of Ireland and the Irish people, and sure of his faith in God, and he passed through all his trials, changed Ireland forever, and guess what?”
“What?” Brian demanded.
“He went on to live to a ripe old age, still in his beloved Ireland, and so we celebrate a special day for him every year, even here in America.”
“Saint Patrick’s Day is a public holiday in Ireland, Moira, you know,” Katy said.
She smiled. “Yes, Mum. In Ireland.”
“Did he really pass through fire?” Brian asked Danny very seriously.
“Well, now, I wasn’t there. Is that truth, or legend?” Danny said. “It’s all a matter of belief.”
“Did Saint Patrick bring the leprechauns to Ireland?” Molly asked.
“No, you see, the wee people were always there, living in the magic of the mind,” Danny told her, and winked.
Moira left a bottle of soda in front of the group at the end of the table and moved back to her seat.
Michael leaned close to speak softly to her. “He’s quite a fine storyteller.”
“Oh, yes, he has lots of stories.”
“You’re not so fond of your old family friend?” Michael asked curiously.
She hesitated. She’d never mentioned Danny to Michael before this had all come up. No reason to. They hadn’t torn apart their pasts. She hadn’t given him a questionnaire about his previous relationships or talked about her own. Now she felt guilty.
And still totally disinclined to tell the truth.
“He can be very charming, and very irritating,” she said simply. She looked at Danny. “Like a brother,” she said, loudly enough for Danny to hear.
A slight smile curved his lips. He went on to tell Molly about a special girl leprechaun called Taloola. Moira had heard a lot of Irish fairy tales in her day, but she had never heard that one. She decided Danny must have been making up the story as he went along, creating it especially for the kids.
That was fine. Just as long as he didn’t launch into a speech about the oppression faced by their people over the years.
Moira looked across the table to discover that her grandmother was watching her with a grave expression. She arched a brow. “Pass the colcannon, please, Moira, will you?” Granny Jon said.
Moira obediently passed the food over, wondering why her grandmother had been watching her so strangely.
After dinner, she, Colleen and Siobhan made her mother go sit in the den with Granny Jon. They served them tea there, making a big deal of putting them into the most comfortable chairs, pulling up footrests and making them do nothing but rest. Granny Jon seemed bemused, her mother restless. Once the tea was served, the younger women forced the older women to stay put and went in to clean up the dining room and kitchen. It seemed strangely empty with just the three of them.
“Where are the kids?” Moira asked. “They don’t have the poor little things back down in the pub again, do they?”
“Patrick is putting them to bed.”
“Good,” Moira said to her sister-in-law.
“Yeah, well, usually he’s a good father.”
Rinsing a dish, then setting in into the dishwasher, Moira wondered whether to say something further or to keep her mouth shut.
“Has he been really busy lately?” she asked.
“Yeah,” Siobhan said, handing Moira a plate. She looked as if she was about to say something, hesitated, then shrugged. “I really don’t know what this new deal is. He met these people involved with a charitable association in Northern Ireland. They raise American money for Irish kids who’ve been orphaned, to help them pay for an education.”
“It sounds like a decent cause,” Colleen said.
“Yes, it does, doesn’t it?” Siobhan said.
“I’m lost, then,” Moira murmured. “What’s the problem?”
Siobhan shook her head. “He’s been in Boston an awful lot lately. Times when he hasn’t even stopped by to see your folks.”
“Well,” Moira murmured, surprised to realize she was coming to her brother’s defense, “if he’s just coming in for some quick business, he may not stop to see them because he thinks he’d never get back home if he did.”
“Yeah, sure,” Siobhan said.
Siobhan’s words might have meant that she agreed with Moira or that she didn’t believe a word Moira had said. All that was clear was that she didn’t want to talk about it anymore. And all that Moira knew was that something about her brother’s behavior was troubling.
“Hey,” Colleen said, breaking in on the awkward moment, “I’ve got to tell you, Siobhan, every time I see them, I’m prouder than ever of being an aunt to those little munchkins of yours.”
“Beyond a doubt,” Moira agreed wholeheartedly. “They’re adorable and well behaved, even though they’re still so young.”
“Thanks,” Siobhan said, smiling. “They are kind of worth everything, aren’t they? You’re going to make a terrific parent yourself one day, you know. Whoops, sorry, both of you are going to make terrific parents. I was merely addressing Moira because she’s older,” Siobhan explained to Colleen.
“Thank you for pointing that out,” Moira said.
“Well, you are closing in on the big three-oh,” Siobhan said.
“That’s right, Moira, no matter how old I get, you’ll be older.”
“You’re both so kind,” Moira said.
Siobhan laughed. “So is this Michael thing serious?”
“He’s definitely great to look at,” Colleen said.
“Looks aren’t everything,” Siobhan reminded her.
“But when you’re not speaking to one another, at least the scenery’s nice,” Colleen said.
“He’s not the temperamental type, is he?” Siobhan asked.
“Not at all,” Moira said.
“He’s practically perfect in every way,” Colleen remarked.
“I’d say he’s doing exceptionally well,” Siobhan noted. “I mean, this isn’t an easy household to crash, and he’s holding his own quite nicely.”
“Yes, he is.”
“So is it serious?” Siobhan persisted.
“Could be.”
“You would have great-looking children,” Colleen murmured.
“Just because you’re now the face on a zillion magazine covers, you shouldn’t obsess about looks,” Moira chastised.
“Okay, what a dog you’re dating.”
Moira sighed, Siobhan laughed, and the cleanup went on, the next line of inquiry focused on Colleen’s love life. Moira kept from questioning Siobhan further, because her sister-in-law obviously didn’t want to answer questions, but when they finished and Siobhan excused herself to see to the kids, Moira still felt uneasy.
After Siobhan walked down the hall and left them, Colleen asked Moira, “You don’t think Patrick could be cheating on her, do you?”
“I can’t imagine it,” Moira said. “If he is, he’s a fool.”
“Think we ought to tell him so?”
“I... I think we need to stay out of it, unless one of them decides to talk to us,” Moira said.
“I guess you’re right, except that...”
“You don’t think that...” Moira began.
“What?”
“Patrick wouldn’t be involved in...anything illegal, would he?”
“He’s an attorney! What are you talking about?”
“I know. Never mind. I don’t know what I’m talking about myself.”
“I’m going to head down to the pub and see if Dad needs any help,” Colleen said. She set the dish towel she’d been using on the counter. “He loves it when we’re down there, you know.”
“I know. I’ll just check on Mum and Granny Jon, then be right down,” Moira said.
They went their separate ways. When Moira slipped into the den, she found that her mother had gone to bed and Granny Jon was watching the news. She smiled at Moira, nodding toward the sofa next to the big upholstered chair where she was sitting.
“All cleaned up, eh?”
“Yep, all done. I came to see if I can get you anything else.”
“You know, Moira, thank the good Lord, I’m still mobile.”
“I thank Him all the time,” Moira said earnestly. “You’re very precious to us.”
Granny Jon nodded, smiling. “Thank you. It’s truly good to have you children home. It’s good to be able to take care of yourself, but it’s also very nice to have loved ones who want to do things for you.”
“We’re lucky, too.”
“Oh?”
Moira waved a hand in the air. “I have so many friends whose parents are divorced and don’t really have a home to go back to. Every time they have an important occasion in their lives, they have to figure out how to manage the logistics. I know I’m lucky.”
Granny Jon nodded gravely. “Good. Half the time in life, people don’t appreciate what they have.” She paused. “Don’t be too hard on them for remembering the old country, though, Moira.”
“I... I don’t mean to be.”
Granny Jon was silent for a minute, then she said, “I am very old, you know.”
“Age is relative,” Moira said.
“Yes, but there is a lot I remember, you see. I was a child in Dublin at the time of the Easter Rebellion, you know. I saw the streets in flames. I had friends—little children—who were killed in the crossfire.”
“I’m so sorry,” Moira said. “You’ve never talked about it.”
Granny Jon shrugged. “Dublin is a wonderful city now. And the Irish are a wonderful people. I’m just saying this because...well, sometimes when people are born into violence, scars remain. Sometimes the old-timers can’t help talking about what was—and about what they hope for in the future.”
“Granny Jon, I just can’t believe that bombs and bullets—”
“Bombs and bullets are wrong. The murder of innocents is wrong. I’ll never say otherwise. I just want you to understand how people feel at times.”
“I do understand. Honestly, Granny Jon, I know the history of Ireland. It was impossible to grow up with you and Mum and Dad and not know it.”
“Your father wanted to come here, you know. To America. Not that he didn’t realize that every country had its injustices to fight. But we had family in the North.”
“I understand.”
“I’m not sure if you really do. In the last few years, there have been giant steps taken toward real peace, the ceasefire in 1997, the Good Friday Agreement in 1998. President Clinton spent time in Northern Ireland, working things out. But you know as well as I do that there remain those who wish to die and don’t mind sacrificing the lives of others for their beliefs. You’ve just got to remember, Moira, that we are Irish and proud of it, and that you’re Irish, too.”
Moira stood, then kneeled down by her grandmother, putting her arms around her. “I’m so sorry if I led you to believe that I was ever anything but completely proud of all of you,” she said softly.
Granny Jon pulled away, smiling at her, smoothing her hair. “I don’t say there aren’t problems in Ireland. But you know, though it may well be the greatest country in the world, there are problems in America, as well.”
“I always knew you were wonderful,” Moira told her, “but I don’t think I ever knew before just how incredibly savvy you were.”
Granny Jon grinned. “Sometimes...well, there are times when I’m afraid, too. But get on down to the pub now, girl. Go sing ‘Danny Boy’ for your dad.”
“We sang it last night.”
“Sing it again—it makes him happy.”
“You don’t need anything...”
“If I did, I’d ask.”
Moira smiled and started out of the room.
“Moira?”
She paused in the doorway. “Yes?”
“Remember, the country we’re from is beautiful. The Irish in years past kept the art of books alive. In the Dark Ages, Irish monks worked endlessly to keep the written word going. Some of the finest craftsmen in the world were Irish. There’s a spirit there, as well, in the wind, the sea, the crags and cairns. Legends and stories, art and drama. Remember it all, Moira.”
“I do, Granny, I do. Honestly.”
Granny Jon nodded. “Go on with you, then. Go have fun being with your family. The taping you did today was lovely.”
“Thanks. Hey, would you let me tape you telling the kids a story tomorrow?”
“If you’re sure you want an old woman on your show.”
“I want an incredibly bright and wonderful woman on my show.”
Granny Jon smiled her pleasure. “Go on now.”
“You sure? You’re not watching the television or reading or anything. I hate to leave you alone.”
“I’m thinking, girl. Reflecting. At my age, it’s an interesting occupation.”
Moira nodded and left her, ready to head down to the pub.
* * *
Dan saw the man in the navy sweater at the corner table the minute he came down and stepped behind the bar with Michael McLean.
McLean was evidently wary of him, but the guy was doing everything he could to fit in. He was obviously very much in love with Moira and willing to prove it. Not that he was behaving like a sycophant in any way. He was steady, determined and willing, unafraid to speak his mind and capable of doing so with diplomacy. Actually, Dan reflected, under other circumstances, he might have liked the guy.
They’d come together behind the bar to allow Eamon Kelly time to sit with his old cronies for a while, and solve the future of the free world. Working the bar was easy enough—most orders were for drafts. The pub was busy, but there was still time to watch the floor and talk to the regulars. The band was playing, and the television was on with the sound turned down. It seemed a typical enough night. Something going on everywhere.
The guy in the corner was alone. At a two-seater table, he nursed a single beer. He’d been at it for a while. A nondescript fellow, brown hair cut short, Ivy League look. He might have been an accountant, a banker, a lawyer or a businessman of any variety. White-collar type, though, beyond a doubt.
“They’re at it again,” Michael said, then added a quick, “sorry.”
Dan arched a brow at him.
Michael McLean shrugged. “I forgot how important it is to all of you—every event in the history of Ireland.”
Dan nodded, tuning in to the old men’s conversation. It was a familiar one.
“Well, I ask you again,” Seamus said. “Are you an American?”
“Don’t be daft, man,” Eamon Kelly replied, shaking his head. “Yes, I’m an American. I applied for my citizenship the day I’d been in the country long enough. I’d had a son by then, and Moira was on her way. Katy and I had talked about it long and hard. We’d decided that we were bringing the children up in Boston, and that was that.”
“But you’re still an Irishman.”
Eamon groaned. “I was born an Irishman.”
“So what if America went to war with Ireland?” Seamus demanded.
“America will never go to war with Ireland.”
“But what if it did?”
“Seamus, I’m telling you again, you’re daft, man.”
“You’re missing the point.”
“I’m not missing the point. You’re saying that an Irishman is always an Irishman, above and beyond anything else. The American Irish and the Northern Irish both.”
“But you do think the island should be united.”
“You think the island should be united.”
“Aye, but I don’t know how it’s to come about.”
“That’s why a man like Jacob Brolin is so important. He knows The Troubles backward and forward. He knows that the religious divide is an economic divide, that laws in the past have created half the problems, that the healing has to come from the people. And if you can unite the people, you can eventually unite Ireland.”
“What about those who like their financial ties with England?”
“Why are we arguing about this, Seamus? We both feel the same way,” Eamon said, irritated. The two men looked as if they were about to exchange blows. Dan knew that they often looked this way.
Seamus shook his head, looking sorrowful. “There’s trouble brewing.”
“In my pub?” Eamon said scornfully.
Seamus suddenly lowered his voice. “Do you remember that soldier in seventy-one?”
“I’m a Dubliner, Seamus.”
“But you remember, because you knew him. Family ties, Eamon, and they run deep. The poor kid was a twenty-year-old British soldier. The IRA kidnapped him after a street brawl in Belfast. He lived in Paddy McNally’s house for two weeks, and everyone who met the fellow liked the chap. But the British refused to free a few of the IRA men who had been picked up, so they took that poor kid out and shot him dead, despite the fact that they had all but adopted the lad.”
“And the world condemned the IRA faction that did the deed as terrorists,” Eamon said angrily. “Seamus, what are you going on about? I’m telling you, I can’t solve the problem and I know it. I’m an American, running a pub in Boston. Praying for peace everywhere, like the whole damned rest of the world. The governments of North and South both know that the time of war and revolution is over, that in the small world we live in now, negotiation is the way to go. Jesus, Seamus, how you’re going on. We’ve both seen it. Kids taught to throw rocks from the time they’re walking, rocks that turn into bullets when they’re old enough to tote a gun. We’ve learned to fight with words—”
“Oh, aye. And every time there’s an agreement signed, there’s sure to be a bomb going off somewhere.”
“Excuse me, Seamus, but I was over in Belfast not more than a year and a half ago, and I’m telling you, the Northern Irish want tourist dollars the same as the rest of the world. They’re on the road to change.”
“Most of the Northern Irish,” Seamus muttered.
“Seamus, just what are you trying to say to me?”
Seamus suddenly looked straight at Dan. “I’m saying that the North still has terrorists.”
“And what would you have me do?”
Seamus shook his head suddenly, looking into his beer. “Whispering,” he muttered. “Gaelic. I’ve been hearing it, here in the pub. There’s something going on—I’ve yet to put my finger on it, but I’ve heard... Gaelic.”
“I can still speak the old language myself, Seamus, so what in the Lord’s name does that have to do with anything?”
Seamus looked up and caught Dan watching him.
He lifted his beer. “It’s a fine old language.”
Colleen was at the service end of the bar with a tray, ready to place an order. “Hey, one of you guys want to make a blackbird?”
“I thought Blackbird was the band?” Michael said, setting a Guinness in front of a balding man near the end of the bar.
“The blackbird is an old house specialty,” Seamus told him. “Coffee, two parts Irish cream and one part Irish whiskey. A dollop of whipped cream on top. Haven’t had an order for one in a long time.”
“I know the drink,” Dan said. “I’ll get it.”
“Who asked for it?”
“Some guy over there,” Colleen said, pointing vaguely to the back of the room.
“I’ll make it and take it to him,” Dan said.
“Just make it for me, I’ll take it to him,” Colleen said, rolling her eyes slightly. “We don’t want Dad thinking he’s got to get behind the bar again himself, not when he and Seamus are having such a good time.”
Dan made the drink. Though the bar became more crowded and people were standing behind the stools calling out orders, he watched as Colleen delivered it.
As he had suspected, it went to the man in the navy sweater at the table in the corner.
The pub was a zoo. Well, it was Saturday night preceding the week when Saint Patrick’s Day would fall. As she entered the bar area, Moira was glad that she had come down. Her father was a good businessman; he had planned for the crowd. But it was very busy.
She was surprised to see Michael behind the bar with Danny. He looked a little frazzled, but he was gamely pouring beer and mixing drinks. She slipped up behind him.
“You all right?”
“Fine, I think. Working hard at it, anyway.” He dropped his voice, whispering, “Trying to earn points, you know. Think I can make it into the family circle?”
She laughed, delighted that he was trying so hard. “You have the right background. Good last name. I think you’ll make it just fine. You’re doing an exceptional job. But I had thought you might want to slip away tonight.”
“Moira, if you’d suggested that earlier, we might have had a chance.”
He was watching her with a rueful grin, and she knew he was right. She could never leave when the place was roaring along full tilt, as it was now, and every hand was needed. She slipped her arms around him. “You’re incredible.”
“Don’t press so tightly. I’m suffering the agony of the damned as it is.”
“I can slip out later, you know.” She sighed. “Much later, of course.”
“Now that’s an enticing possibility.”
“You know I mean it, Michael. You’re really wonderful.”
“In more ways than one, if you recall.”
“Vaguely,” she teased. “I’d love to have my memory refreshed.”
“We’ll see,” Michael said, his lips curved in a smile. “Will you really sneak out of Dad’s house?”
“Hey!” Chrissie called. “Is anybody back there actually working?”
“Sorry, Chrissie,” Moira said quickly. She strode to the service area.
“I need a Gibson, extra onions, two Guinness drafts, a Murphy’s, two white wines and a burgundy.”
“Got it,” Moira said.
“Know what? You’re better at this than I am, but I can write down orders,” Michael said. He cast a glance along the bar. “I’ll leave you with good old Danny boy there and work the floor with the others.”
She nodded. It was true; she could make the drinks a lot faster than he could.
Moira took over the service area and was surprised when she heard Danny whispering in her ear a few minutes later.
“He’s racking up some points tonight, eh?”
She turned halfway around while still keeping her attention on the drinks she was pouring.
“What are you talking about?”
“Tall, dark and handsome. Old beady eyes. He’s worming his way in.”
“He’s helping out. And even if he is doing it all to make my father like him, I appreciate the effort.”
“Beady eyes, Moira.”
“Danny, I hear someone calling you.”
“Am I too close? Is that it? Is the memory of what’s really good shooting through your bloodstream? Is your pulse pounding? Let me answer for you. You’re feeling the heat. You’re watching my hands on the taps and remembering just how good they felt on your flesh.”
“Oh, yeah, heat, Danny. I’m under a friggin’ blowtorch.” She leaned closer to him. “Know what I’m really thinking?”
“That I’m to die for?”
“I’m thinking you’re delusional,” she told him.
He grinned. “Maybe, love. Maybe I’m the one with the memories, recalling just how good it feels to have my hands on you. We were good together, eh?”
“That was then, this is now,” she said simply. “Chrissie!” she shouted over the heads of the customers packing the bar. “Was that martini up or on the rocks?”
“Rocks!” Chrissie called.
“I do love you, Moira Kelly,” Danny said softly.
His whisper seemed to touch the back of her neck. Like the stroke of a finger. Suddenly she was filled with memories. She found herself staring at his hands on the taps. A hot flush rushed over her, and she found herself thinking she was a terrible person. But it was true. He was good in bed.
So was Michael. She had been in love with Danny once. Maybe half her lifetime. She’d waited for years for something else. Something real. Michael. She wasn’t a fool. She was mature enough to have learned that what felt good wasn’t always right.
And still...
Danny’s eyes. The curl of his lips, his humor. The way he could laugh with her or at himself. The way he could slip an arm around her, hold her, give warmth and a sense of understanding at just the right moment. And then suddenly turn sensual, purely sexual in a way that left her gasping...
“Seamus needs another draft,” she said, to distract herself from her dangerous thoughts.
“Seamus has had too many.”
“Patrick is back. I see him over there. He’ll walk old Seamus home—he’s just a few blocks away. Give him another draft. He’s having fun with Dad.”
“I think you should have a beer.”
“Maybe I will.”
“Maybe I can get you to have enough of them.”
“Enough of them for what? For you to get me back in bed? Are you bored to tears or something this trip, Danny? Have I become a challenge because Michael is here? Because I really care for someone else after all these years?”
“Because I really love you.”
“Danny, you don’t know the meaning of the word.”
“I’ve always known it, Moira.”
“Moira, do we have Fosters?” Colleen called.
“Only on tap.”
“That’s fine. I need one Fosters, two Buds and a Coors in the bottle with lemon instead of lime.”
“Danny, get me the Coors,” she said. He was too close. She had always liked his aftershave. The scent was subtle, and...
And it filled her with memories.
Maybe she would have that beer. No, maybe she would have a straight shot of whiskey and slap herself in the face.
As she made the drinks for Chrissie, Moira heard the phone ringing. “I’ll get it,” she told Danny as he set the Coors on the serving tray.
“I’ve got it,” he told her.
She heard him answer the phone with the single word Kelly’s.
“Moira, I need two more Buds!” Colleen called. “In the bottle.”
As Moira walked to the cooler, she heard Danny talking. His voice had dropped very low.
She tried to make out the words but couldn’t hear him.
Then she realized that she was hearing him; she simply wasn’t understanding him. He was speaking in Gaelic.
His voice was very low, but tense.
He caught her watching him and grinned, shrugging. But it wasn’t Danny’s usual grin. A moment later, he hung up.
“Who was that?” she asked.
“Oh, just some old-timer. Wanted to know if it was a real Irish pub. I thought I’d convince him that it was.”
She didn’t speak Gaelic. Oh, she knew a few words here and there, but she had never really learned the language. She had taken both French and Spanish in school. Far more useful in the United States.
She decided to lie. “You know, I’ve been taking some Gaelic, Danny,” she told him.
She wondered why he hadn’t decided to be an actor. She was certain that he tensed, but he wasn’t going to allow her to see whatever it was that really bothered him. Or else he was calling her bluff.
“It’s about time, Moira Kelly,” he said. “It’s calming down in here. I’m going to leave the bar to you,” he told her, walking toward the exit.
But he paused and came back and took her suddenly by the shoulders, no hint of amusement in his eyes as they met hers.
“If that’s the truth, Moira, don’t go letting anyone know, do you hear me?”
“Danny—”
“Listen to me for once in your life, Moira. Don’t let anyone know that you understand a single word.”
“Danny, what—”
“I mean it, Moira.”
His fingers were hurting her, they bit into her shoulders so deeply. There was something so serious about his face that she felt a strange whisper of fear seep into her.
“Danny—”
“Please, Moira, for the love of God.”
She suddenly realized she had really never known this man.
She found herself nodding. “All right. Damn it, Danny, stop it, you’re hurting me.”
“Sorry.” His hold eased. “Moira, you’ve got to be careful.”
“Of what?”
“People who are too passionate.”
“And what the hell does that mean? You, Michael, old Seamus there?”
“Anyone and everyone. Do you understand me?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Moira, leave it alone. Just leave it alone.”
She suddenly realized that Michael was watching her from the floor. She wanted to get Danny away from her.
“Leave ‘it’ alone? What ‘it’? Leave me alone.” She tried to back away.
“Moira—”
“I don’t really speak or understand Gaelic, Danny. I know nothing more than good morning, good night, please, thank you and Erin go bragh.”
“Then don’t pretend you do.”
He turned and left the bar area. She stared at him as he went out on the floor. Chrissie asked her for something, and she responded mechanically.
Michael came up to the service area. “Are you all right?” he asked.
“Of course.”
“That looked like a very intense moment.”
“Disagreement over drink recipes,” she lied.
“You look...frazzled.”
“It’s a really busy night.”
“I know. I’m worn out, too.”
“I’ll make this all up to you.”
“I’ll hold you to that.”
“What’s your room number?”
He smiled and gave it to her, then added, “Oh, I need three draft beers.”
“What kind?”
“Buds. And I need another one of those bird things.”
“A blackbird?”
“Yeah, that’s it.”
She laughed and made the drinks. She watched him as he delivered the beers, then took the blackbird to the man at the corner table who had been sitting alone for several hours, listening to the band, nursing his drink.
Michael wasn’t as bad at this as he seemed to think he was. He had talked with the threesome who’d ordered the beers, and he paused long enough to exchange words with the fellow in the navy sweater. Someone called her name at the bar, and she gave her attention to the taps.
When she looked up, she saw Danny walking across the room. She realized that he was approaching the man in the corner. The man in the navy sweater, the one who had ordered the blackbird.
A few moments later, Danny got his coat from the hook by the bar and left the pub.
Not five minutes went by before the man in the navy sweater did the same.
She wondered if the man was known to anyone in the pub. She decided to ask her brother if he knew the fellow.
But looking around, she realized that she didn’t see Patrick anywhere.
Nor, for that matter, did Michael seem to be anywhere on the floor, either. In fact, in a few minutes’ time, it seemed that the bar had half emptied; people who had been there throughout the evening had all seemed to vanish into thin air.
“Damn them all,” she murmured to herself. She couldn’t even see her father anywhere.
A feeling of deep unease settled over her. It was Danny again, damn it. His ridiculous temper after she had lied to him about the Gaelic.
Tomorrow, she decided, she would have it out with him.
“Moira, one more Guinness for me old bones,” Seamus said to her. He was sitting alone. She finally saw her father, who had gone to speak with Jeff by the bandstand.
She poured the drink and brought it to Seamus, then set it down with a disapproving frown. “That’s the last, now, Seamus.”
He nodded. “As you wish, Moira.” She started to walk away. “Moira Kelly,” he called, stopping her. She turned back.
“Moira, be a good girl, eh? See how quiet it’s become? Ominous,” Seamus muttered. “Watch the streets of Boston these days.”
“Seamus, what are you on about?”
“That girl was found dead.”
She sighed, then walked to him, leaned across the bar and kissed the top of his head. “I promise not to go out soliciting, Seamus. I especially promise not to solicit using the Gaelic language. How’s that?”
“Stay close to home,” he told her seriously.
“Seamus...”
“There are always troubles,” he said softly.
They’d all gone daft, she thought.
She poured herself the shot of whiskey she’d been debating about ever since her conversation with Danny and downed it in one neat swallow.
It was so hot—it indeed burned like a blowtorch.
Coming home was never easy, she decided.
“Watch out for strangers,” Seamus said. “Don’t go talking to any.”
“Seamus, this is a public establishment. We serve strangers all the time.”
“And friends, even,” Seamus said sorrowfully. “Sometimes friends...can be stranger than...strangers.”
“Seamus, you are definitely cut off.”
“I am not drunk, Moira Kelly,” he said defensively.
“Then you’re talking like a madman.”
Seamus leaned forward, very close. “There are whispers, Moira.”
“About what, Seamus?”
He sat back, shaking his head and looking around uneasily. As if he had said too much. “You take care, girl,” he said again. Then he stood up, leaving his drink half finished. “Night, lass.”
“Seamus, wait, I’ll get someone to walk you home.”
“Walk me home? Moira, I’m sober, I swear it, and I’ve been walking meself home from this pub more years than you’ve been alive.”
“Seamus, you’re not drunk, but you have had a few. I wouldn’t let you drive tonight, and I’m not so sure you should be walking.”
He lifted a hand in farewell.
“Seamus!”
But Seamus was already across the room on his way toward the door. She couldn’t help but be worried about him. “Chrissie!” she called. “Can you take the bar, please?”
She didn’t wait for an answer but slipped out and hurried after old Seamus. He had made it to the door already. Moira didn’t have a coat handy, but she followed him anyway.
Once outside, she was amazed to see that he had already disappeared. The streets were deserted and cold. Very cold. The chill bit into her.
The night was dark, clouds covering the moon. Beyond the spill of lights from the pub, the street was cast in shadows.
“Seamus?” she called anxiously.
She started down the street, knowing the path Seamus would take to reach his home. Down the block, she turned to the left, stepping into the shadows.
The cold wrapped around her.
As she walked, she cursed herself for the idiocy of leaving without a coat. Then she cursed herself for running out in the darkness at this hour of the night. The sidewalks were slick with a thin sheen of ice. And yet...
It was more than just the dark, icy grip of the Boston winter night that held her, she realized. The chill was inside and out. She had walked these neighborhood streets for most of her life, and the family knew their neighbors. She knew the cold, and she even knew the shadows. She had never felt this kind of unease before, never felt as if the chill were inside her, something that would never go away.
She turned the corner to the left. Ahead, the eaves of an old building cast a spill of total Stygian blackness over the sidewalk. Moira moved against the building, instinctively afraid, seeking the protection of darkness.
She was almost upon the two figures before she realized they were there. And she couldn’t help but hear the exchange of low murmurs. Whispers, the words just barely audible in the stillness of the night.
“So it’s definite. Let the blackbird fly.”
“Which piece?”
“You’ll receive it.”
There was a sudden silence; it seemed to stretch forever, but it was probably no more than the beat of a second. She had stopped walking without realizing it.
Blackbird...
It was as if a giant blackbird had suddenly erupted from the shadow, wings sweeping over the street, brushing her. It was as if the wind picked her up, spinning her around. She found herself moving, catapulted forward. Her feet found no grip on the ice. She went sliding, desperately trying to catch her balance, terrified of the dark presence that suddenly menaced her from behind, darkness rising with a stealthy force. Something struck her hard. She found herself falling to the ground, the shadows rising all around her, the stars glimmering in a sky that had been nothing but cloud and darkness before.