by Jan Moran
“One more, and that’s it, ladies,” Johnny said. A note of authority underscored his gracious host persona.
“Okay, okay.” Snap, snap. “When are you going back to Finley Green?” she asked. Snap, snap, snap.
“That’s in the past.”
“I know you left the group because your wife died, but come on, it’s been years. You have to get back together!” Snap, snap.
“Alrighty, ladies, I think your table is ready now.” Johnny wrapped his arms around the pair and escorted them toward a woman at the front. He jerked his head toward the patio. “Don’t we have a table outside for these two lovely women?”
Niall let out a guarded breath.
“Hey everyone, Niall Finley is here!” The girl was determined to broadcast his whereabouts. “Look, over there! Get your picture with him.”
Heads swiveled in his direction, and a couple of people started toward him. Niall tugged his baseball cap over his forehead and slipped on his sunglasses. Holding up two fingers in a V-sign of peace, he headed for the kitchen door, nodding to Johnny as he left.
He jogged through the rear exit and slid into his old Thunderbird. He was still too raw for the questions, even if people meant well. Most of them did, but others, like that girl, were just selfish, and they didn’t even realize it. His remote house in Hawaii looked pretty good after all.
He might even write down some of the lyrics running through his mind.
If only Fianna were there, too.
Whoa, where did that come from? He shoved the car into reverse.
8
“DARLING, OVER HERE!”
Limping out of the international customs arrival area at the Dublin airport, Fianna turned in the direction of her aunt’s voice and waved. She missed Davina and couldn’t wait to show her the new designs.
Davina wore a flowing blouse of deep purple over her slender frame, and her stylish, wavy platinum hair stood out in the crowd. Her aunt towered above everyone. Fianna grinned to herself. She must be wearing platform shoes, she thought. Maybe she could still talk her aunt into walking the runway.
A woman with gray, blunt-cut hair in a brown tweed jacket stood next to her aunt. Fianna’s heart sank at the expression of disapproval on her mother’s face. Her eyes were glued to Fianna’s bare shoulder. She hadn’t even said hello, and already Mary Margaret Fitzgerald had found displeasure in her daughter’s traveling outfit. Fianna pushed her black jersey blouse up over her exposed shoulder, wincing at the movement.
She’d worn a comfortable jersey outfit from her sportswear collection for the twelve-hour trip. She had twisted and jammed her long frame into a coach seat all the way from Los Angeles. It would take at least a day to stretch out and adapt to the time change. She angled through the crowd, rolling her suitcase behind her.
“Hi Mam,” Fianna said, bending to hug her mother and kiss her on the cheek. Their relationship had been strained for years, but Fianna hoped they could improve it during this visit.
“My, look what Los Angeles has done to you. You’re so thin.” Her mother rubbed her arm, inching Fianna’s blouse even higher on her shoulder.
Davina wrapped her arms around her and swayed back and forth. “What do you mean? She looks fabulous, Mary Margaret.”
“Hush, Dervil Nora. She’s my daughter and I’ll decide how she looks.”
Fianna watched Davina bristle. The two sisters could not be more dissimilar. Davina had changed her name from a traditional Irish name, Dervil Nora, to Davina when she’d started modeling.
“It’s Davina, I’ll thank you. Has been for years.”
“You’re still Dervil here,” her mother shot back.
“I’ll not answer to it. My name was legally changed years ago.”
“And from a fine name, too, it was,” Mary Margaret said with a huff.
Fianna had heard this argument all her life. “Seems they ran out of names by the time they got to you, Aunt Davina.” Her mother and Davina were the oldest and youngest, respectively, in the family, with six others in between. She could hardly remember all the names of her cousins. The babies just kept coming, while she and Davina were the single hold-outs.
“You must have a lot of luggage,” Davina said. “I can’t wait to see your collection. The photos from the show were a little dark.”
“I shipped the collection ahead. It arrived yesterday, and I’ll have it delivered to the hotel.”
“Well, come on, then,” her mother said. “We haven’t got all day. Your father is waiting outside and I have a corned beef cooking. I can’t understand why you’re not spending more time at home with us.”
Davina winked at her. “She’ll be fine with me, Mary Margaret. We’ll be like two girls at a slumber party in a hotel room.”
They made their way to the car, and when Fianna saw her father she fell into his arms. “Dad, I’ve missed you terribly.”
“Fianna, my flower, sure and it’s good to see you.” He swung her off her feet and twirled her around as he had when she’d been a little girl. Ryan Fitzgerald was tall and barrel-chested, a tree-trunk of a man, as Davina often said. Fianna’s height came from both sides of the family.
Her father lifted her suitcase into the boot with ease, slid into the Audi, and started for the family home in the country.
Davina had booked into a hotel in Dublin, where the runway show would be, and insisted Fianna stay with her.
Fianna was relieved. Her family house was bursting with younger siblings, and her older sister Emily had moved home with her four children while her husband looked for work. She’d visit, but it was more family closeness than she wanted with the runway show so close at hand. Besides, her sister Lizzie was bound to be frazzled over the wedding.
Although Fianna had offered to create Lizzie’s wedding gown, their mother had overridden the decision and chosen a different bridal designer. From the photos Fianna had seen, the dress was like a fluffy meringue pie, which wasn’t her style anyway. Fianna had been a little hurt until she’d seen the dress, and then she was glad her name wasn’t on such a creation.
The runway show was to be first, followed by the wedding. After that, as long as she survived, Fianna would be on the first flight back to Los Angeles. She loved her family, but she’d always been the artistic loner, sketching and sewing while her brothers and sisters were outside playing and roughhousing.
Fianna gazed out the window and watched the windswept countryside fan out before her. As they drove south toward County Cork, she took in the sights and smells and sounds of her early childhood. Her father fiddled with the radio. It had been several years since she’d heard the lilting accents of her homeland on the radio.
Sprawling hillsides covered with emerald green moss waved across the edge of the horizon, with the occasional tree hardy enough to sink its roots silhouetted against the cloudy sky. Sporadic rain showers swept across the roads. She inhaled the sweet scent of peat moss burning in fireplaces of thatch-roofed cottages.
Her father wheeled onto the graveled road that led to Fitzgerald Manor, which had been in the family for generations. Built in 1798, the three-story stone home sat on a grassy rise, which made it look all the more imposing. Centuries-old ash, beech, and oak trees dotted the lawn, a badminton court was set off to the side, and a lake sparkled in the distance. In many ways she’d had been a magical childhood, exploring secret caves in nearby mountains, gamboling across the hillsides, and running free with her siblings under wide Irish skies.
Until she and her mother began to butt heads, and she’d moved to New York with Davina.
An extra wing had been added in the late nineteenth century for the expanding family, and Ryan, as the oldest heir, kept it open to all Fitzgerald family members in need. As long as they could tolerate the rigidity of Mary Margaret, that is.
With her sister and husband in residence, and their four children, plus wedding guests, tonight Fianna and Davina would share a bedroom the little girls usually slept in.
Fian
na walked past a low rock wall and stepped through the red front door. An arched Palladium window stretched overhead. The house was never locked. “What if someone wanted to call by and we weren’t home?” her father would always say. “Sure, and they’re welcome to stay and have a cup of tea or a pint before they go on their way.”
Not much has changed, Fianna noted. Inside were polished wood floors and colorful floral rugs. The Fitzgerald family crest hung above a marble fireplace. Next to that were photos of the Pope and Mother Mary, as well as John F. Kennedy, thirty-fifth president of the United States and a favorite son of Ireland. The Kennedy family hailed from County Wexford. They shared a lineage with an old clan, the FitzGeralds of Desmond, a fact that Mary Margaret made sure everyone remembered.
Her father had managed the family’s funds well, and her family seemed comfortable, but the upkeep and repairs on the rambling manor home were expensive.
A commotion sounded on the staircase. “Fianna!” Her name was screamed out as “fee-ina,” in the Irish way, instead of “fee-ahna,” as was customary in America, and to which she’d grown accustomed.
“Lizzie!” Her younger sister flung herself into her arms and the two girls spun around.
Her sister was a smaller strawberry blond version of herself. Growing up, Lizzie had always been the pretty, angelic one, and Fianna had been the angular, gangly redhead with dramatic tendencies.
“Are you nervous yet?” Fianna asked, laughing.
Lizzie’s aquamarine eyes widened, and Mary Margaret answered for her. “Of course not. Lizzie was born to this match.”
Fianna lowered her eyelids and waited a beat.
Her mother wasn’t wasting any time. “Shane’s cousin Doyle is still asking after you. What a fine family they have.”
“Well, that didn’t take long,” Ryan said with a chortle. “I thought he was seeing another girl.”
“That little tart?” Mary Margaret waved her hand, dismissing the idea. “Lots of girls would be happy to have Doyle, but he’s always had his eye on you, Fianna.”
“Mam, we’ve been over this. I’m no longer interested in Doyle.” The heir to a fortune, he was from a long line of O’Donnells, descended from an ancient, powerful family that included Kings, Dukes, Earls, and Barons. Doyle had an assortment of inherited titles, but to Fianna, there was something distinctly less than stately about him.
They had dated when they were younger and again during her return visits to Ireland, but the last time she’d seen him, his intensity had unnerved her. “You should spend some time with Doyle,” Mary Margaret said, brushing a speck of lint from her tweed jacket. “You’re not getting any younger. Look at Lizzie here, younger than you, and already starting her life.”
“My life is in progress, and I’m quite happy with it.” Fianna bristled and turned to Davina for support. Her mother was like some 1950s relic, only concerned about making good matches for her daughters and carrying on family names with titles and fortunes and scads of children. Mary Margaret had been disappointed with their eldest sister, Emily, who had run away to marry to her childhood sweetheart. Everyone loved her husband Charles and their four adorable children, but her husband had fallen on hard economic times.
Her mother seemed determined to make up for Emily’s mistake and see Lizzie and Fianna married into top families. They had four younger brothers, too.
“When this fashion phase passes,” Mary Margaret said, “you’ll wish you had taken the O’Donnell name, you will.”
“It’s hardly a phase,” Davina said. “It’s her profession. And she’s quite good.”
Lizzie shot Fianna a look, and she could see terror in her sister’s watery eyes. “Lizzie, let’s take a walk. I’ve got to stretch my legs after that plane trip, and I can’t wait to hear about your wedding plans.” She steered her sister through the house and out the rear door.
“Let’s walk by the water,” Lizzie said, hurrying toward the lake. “No one will bother us there.”
Fianna glanced at Lizzie, who wore her wavy hair loose around her shoulders. She wore an ivory sweater with slim green plaid pants and loafers. She’d always been her sweet, kind little sister, the one who always tried to keep the peace in the family, and as a result, the one who often acquiesced to their mother’s desires. Her normally smooth forehead was furrowed.
As they approached the lake, Fianna asked, “What’s wrong, Lizzie? Aren’t you happy?”
“I’ve been too busy to think about it. Shane and I have known one another forever, but the engagement happened so quickly. It was at Christmas time, and it was so romantic.”
“Are you having second thoughts now?”
“It’s too late for that. Our mams are in high gear planning this wedding. I guess it’s just a case of nerves. It’ll pass.”
Fianna knew it was a big bash. The wedding of the season, her mother had said. “And what if it doesn’t? It’s not too late, Lizzie.”
A wan smile softened Lizzie’s knotted forehead. “Not for someone like you, Fianna. You’ve always spoken your mind. It wouldn’t surprise anyone. And you live in America. But me… what would I do?”
“Exactly what you want to do.” Fianna hooked her arm through her sister’s as they skirted the small lake.
“I don’t even know what to want, besides get married and have children.”
Fianna paused. “I thought that was what you wanted.”
Lizzie blew out a breath. “Sure, someday. But all of a sudden, the wedding is here, now, expected, and I feel like I’m suffocating. I know there’s more of life to experience. Will I ever get that chance? Or will I become an instant baby-maker like Emily?”
Lizzie kicked a stone with the tip of her tasseled loafer. “I’m scared of being stuck here forever, raising the next generation of O’Donnells before I ever get to do anything, go anywhere, or discover who I am. And his mother is worse than ours, if you can believe it. She’s a world-class screamer.”
“Have you thought about postponing the wedding until you’re certain this is what you want?”
“But I’m really fond of Shane.” Words tumbled from Lizzie’s mouth as her luminous eyes widened even more. “I’m so confused, I adore him, really I do, but I don’t know if this is love. If I call off the wedding, will I regret it later?”
“Maybe it’s a chance you have to take.”
“I want to know for certain.” Lizzie stared into her eyes. “Have you ever been in love?”
Fianna shook her head. She’d dated other men, but she’d never experienced the jolt of electricity and awareness that had coursed through her when Niall’s lips touched hers. Was that love?
Or merely emotional relief? They’d nearly died, after all.
Fianna had the same question Lizzie did. All across the Atlantic, Niall had crept into her mind. While she was sketching, or gazing across the clouds, or trying to sleep. She could close her eyes and feel the length of his body curved into hers, the night air cool on her skin, the sound of his steady breath warm on her neck. She could still taste his kiss while they were waist deep in frigid salt water, the current threatening to yank them apart and pull them under.
She hadn’t even known Niall a day. Who was he? She’d never met anyone like him before. Was that the thunderbolt that lifelong partners often spoke about?
And would she ever see him again?
A gust of wind caught her hair, slapping it across her face. Fianna brushed away unruly strands tangled in her lashes and gathered her thoughts. “Honestly, Lizzie, I don’t know. Only you can make that decision. But if you have doubts—”
A deep voice boomed behind them. “Doubts about what?”
Fianna and Lizzie whirled around.
“Shane, what are you doing here?”
A lean, well-toned red-haired man with an engaging grin caught Lizzie by the waist and kissed her. “Hey Fianna, we heard you were arriving today.” He jerked his head behind him toward a dark-haired man with hooded eyes. “Doyle wanted to see you,” h
e added with a grin.
“Fianna, it’s been too long.” He stepped forward to hug her.
“Hello, Doyle.” She quickly offered her hand.
A slow smile spread across Doyle’s face. He took her hand and held it. Too long, in fact. “Still friends, Fianna?”
“I don’t see why not, Doyle.” Friends, but nothing more. Doyle had a way of suffocating a woman. He’d never supported her decision to pursue a career in fashion.
“So what doubts are you having, love?” Shane wrapped his arm protectively around Lizzie.
Lizzie shot a look at Fianna before answering. “Doubts about… my dress. It’s so… voluminous.”
Fianna squeezed her hand. “I’m happy to help any way I can.”
“Thank you, Fianna. I know I can always count on you.” Lizzie’s eyes were pleading.
Shane’s eyes lit up. “Could you fix it for her, Fianna? You’re a designer.”
“Um, I can look at it.”
Doyle fell into step beside them. “So you’re still sewing, are you? That’s a fine skill to have.”
Fianna shot him a frown, and then lifted her chin in defiance. “It’s more than that. I have a runway show planned in Dublin. And lots more after that.” Why did most men assume she was a seamstress who took in mending?
Her words barely registered with Doyle. He shook his head. “How will you do that and have a family?”
Fianna just stared at him. Have I stumbled into the last century? She knew plenty of successful women who had careers and families.
“Well, I’m impressed.” Shane kissed the top of Lizzie’s head. “If Fianna is going to fix your dress, you should get started today. We haven’t long until the wedding. And we have the rehearsal dinner and party to think about.”
“Rehearsal?” Fianna glanced at Lizzie.
“Didn’t you know?” Lizzie scrunched her nose. “I thought Mam told you. It’s the entire wedding party.”
“You can be my date again,” Doyle said, a grin spreading across his face. “I daresay we’ll pick up where we left off.”
“Why, that’s perfect.” Shane gave Fianna an enthusiastic hug before she could protest. “Won’t that be grand, then? The four of us can ride together. Just like old times.”