by Allison Parr
He didn’t move as I came up by his side. I followed his gaze to the stones he studied so carefully.
Martin O’Connor. Ellen O’Connor. Kathleen O’Connor. Mary O’Connor. Sean O’Connor.
I swallowed over the sudden lump. “You okay?”
He shrugged. “It’s not like they were real to me. I mean—”
“I know.”
He nodded. “But it’s sort of funny—all of their names written out. And—” He nodded at the newest-looking stone, still sharp cornered and smooth.
Patrick O’Connor.
The bottom of my stomach fell out. “Ah.”
“And then—it’s like no one else ever left. I feel— Would my dad have wanted to be here? Should he have been?”
I didn’t know what to say or do. I wanted to comfort him, but wasn’t sure how. I reached down and laced my fingers through his, and stepped sideways until our arms lined up against each other.
He squeezed my hand, and we stood there, staring at the O’Connors.
“What happened to your dad?”
The tension seemed to drain out of Mike’s body, and he leaned slightly into me. “Car crash. The other driver was drunk.”
“That’s awful.”
“Yeah.” He shrugged. “What can you do? You can be the best driver in the world, and it doesn’t matter if someone smashes into you.” His fingers squeezed mine. “My mother sat down on the kitchen floor and just started crying when they told her. I’d only heard her cry once before. I waited until everyone was asleep and then I broke into his whiskey collection.” He took a deep breath. “On the third night I found Lauren there, and then I poured out all of them.”
I leaned into him. “You were a good brother.”
He shook his head. “I left them six months later for college.”
I turned my head up so I could see him, staring stony-eyed across the graves. I reached up to touch his cheek, so he turned to look at me. “And do you still feel guilty?”
His eyes tore through me, wide with remembered pain. “I feel guilty about how happy I was to leave.”
We heard the clearing of a throat and looked up, our hands falling apart. In the still, silent cemetery, it seemed only right that the only person was a thin man with thinner white hair, dressed in a well-worn brown tweed suit. He nodded at both of us, but it was clear his attention latched onto Mike. “You’ll be Brian’s son.”
Mike looked swiftly at me, and then gave the older man a bright smile. Back to normal, friendly Mike O’Connor, without any trace of sadness or discomfort. “Yeah. I’m Mike O’Connor.”
“Darrell MacCarthy. Used to give your da lifts to school.” He glanced my way. “And this young lady is...?”
“Natalie Sullivan.” I extended my hand to grip his firmly.
“Ah, you also have family here?”
“Oh, no, I’m Irish in name only.” That didn’t sound as eloquent out loud as it had in my head, so I grimaced and then wished I had some capability to keep my emotions off my face, and that the older man didn’t think I was grimacing at him.
But Mr. MacCarthy had already returned his attention to Mike, whose smile looked a little fixed to me. He wasn’t asking, as I would have, for every last hopefully rapscallion recollection Mr. MacCarthy could whip up about his father. I remembered Mike saying I don’t talk about Kilkarten when we first met, and I wondered if he didn’t talk about his father, either.
Except that he just had, with me.
In any case, the silence kept stretching, so I hurried to fill it, because who liked silences? Silences were for black holes. “I do specialize in Irish history, though. I’m an archaeologist.”
At my overly bright tone, MacCarthy focused on me. “The one Patrick hired? I thought you’d be a bit older.”
Well. Patrick hadn’t hired me. The brightness corroded. “Well, I’m not.”
Beside me, Mike’s smile eased into a slightly more natural version, and he nodded to Mr. MacCarthy. “We should get going but—it was nice to meet you.”
Mr. MacCarthy wasn’t done, even though Mike had already turned away. “Where are you off to?”
I hesitated, unwilling to walk off on this old man. “Um...”
Mike’s hand reached back and wrapped around my mine, tugging me gently after him. “To pay a call,” he said over his shoulder as I stumbled to catch up, “on my dear Aunt Maggie.”
* * *
A pair of main streets cut through the village, lined with two story buildings painted pale yellows and blues and greens. Ivy climbed up the level walls and low peaked slate roofs. All the signs were written in Gaelic as well as English, a language of curlicues and accents.
Maggie O’Connor lived at the far side of the village, so we walked past O’Malley’s Restaurant, the village pub and a café with outside seating. Several patrons looked up with curiosity as we passed, and Mike’s hand tightened on mine.
And then we were before a lavender house nestled between two off-white ones. Window boxes filled with white flowers hung beneath long, thin panes of glass, and the door itself was painted blue. I sighed happily before knocking.
The door opened immediately.
Maggie O’Connor stood five-feet tall, with thick black hair gathered at the nape and streaked through with silver. I put her somewhere in her fifties, and she gave me the same puzzled look most women her age gave me, like some dusty corner of their mind recognized my face from when they’d been seventeen and poured over fashion magazines.
“Mrs. O’Connor.” I let loose my brightest smile. “I’m Natalie Sullivan. Thank you so much for seeing me today.”
Her expression cleared of confusion and settled into polite curiosity. “Ah, the archaeologist. Would you like a cup of tea?”
“Yes, thanks.” I entered, and then hesitated. Mike stood stiffly on the doorstep, arms crossed against his chest. “And, um, this is...”
Maggie turned back and paled. She ran her blue stare unblinkingly over Mike. Her lips moved for a moment before any sound made it out. “Brian’s son.”
I saw him do it. Just like flicking on a switch. One moment, his posture indicated discomfort, and the next warmth suffused his face. He aimed such a charming grin at Maggie that I almost smiled, too, and his voice dropped to low, confidential registers, like he was speaking to his best friend or his beloved grandmother. “My family and I just arrived—I think my mother sent a note. But I thought I’d come around with Natalie.”
She flicked her eyes up and down. “Ah, yes.” She turned sharply and vanished into the house.
The entry hall was low and dark, the striped green wallpaper hung with old portraits, but the sitting room had plenty of light from the street and a brass chandelier. Mike and I settled on an old, striped sofa. The single bookcase held mostly trinkets and only one shelf of books, but white cracks lined their spines and made me think well of Maggie O’Connor.
Maggie obviously did not feel the same way toward Mike, because when she returned after placing a kettle on, she said, “Eileen O’Rourke said your family arrived yesterday, yet they haven’t called.”
Mike’s smile didn’t waver. “It’s my teenage sister, Anna. Didn’t bring a thing she could wear, so she dragged the rest off shopping.”
Maggie’s gaze didn’t waver. “You’re twenty-six?” At Mike’s nod, she continued. “You have two sisters, is that right?”
“Lauren’s twenty-three. Anna’s seventeen.”
Maggie raised her brows. “An accident, the last one?”
Mike didn’t look thrilled under his smile. I jumped in, trying to smooth the tension. “I’m so sorry for your loss, Mrs. O’Connor. While I never met you husband, he was always very kind to me when we spoke on the phone.”
Maggie regarded us scornfully. “Patrick hasn’t been kind to anyone for the last ten years. And I certainly don’t expect Brian’s son to miss him.” Her lips tightened and she seemed to drift off into her thoughts for a moment, and then she shook herself and rose to fetch
the tea.
I leaned in close to Mike so there’d be no chance of her overhearing from the kitchen. “I’m sorry, but did your father try to poison your uncle? What is going on?”
His head almost touched mine as he answered. “Did I mention my dad and uncle had been estranged for twenty years? And that Maggie and Patrick didn’t come to my dad’s funeral or anything?”
Gee, I was so glad I’d been dragged into a family feud. Because there weren’t enough feuds in my life. “Why, no. No, you did not.”
Maggie returned with a tray of mugs and, to my endless joy, shortbread. She placed everything on the coffee table. “And how did the two of you come together?”
Mike took a sip of the boiling tea. Despite the likely loss of taste buds, he didn’t flinch. He just set the mug down and smiled at his aunt. “Natalie tells me Patrick had signed on for an excavation at Kilkarten.”
“That’s right.” Maggie stirred her tea. “Your excavation’s stirred up a lot of excitement.”
I tossed a look at Mike, wondering if he’d told this estranged aunt the excavation was no longer happening. “Do the people here care a lot about it?”
Maggie looked amused. “It’s all anyone’s talked about for the last six months.”
That was unexpected. “But Patrick only signed the final paper work three months ago.”
“It took the village three months to convince him.”
“Um...” I looked again at Mike. I didn’t want to be the one who broke the news that all that work went out the window.
Mike frowned. “Why did the village want the dig?”
Maggie took a slow tip of tea. “A site would boost the local economy. There would be more tourists spending money at the shops and restaurants, more jobs—Ms. Sullivan said she would probably hire a good dozen people to help her excavate this summer.”
Mike turned his frown to me.
I shrugged. “It’s easier to hire and train locals than bring workers over, especially for Phase 1 excavations where not a lot of detailed digging happens.”
“Mrs. O’Connor.” Mike leaned forward, hands clasped between his knees. I wondered if it tasted strange, his mother’s name applied to a woman he’d never met before. “Why was Patrick was okay with the excavation? I wouldn’t have thought he’d want strangers all over his property.”
“Wouldn’t you?” Her sharp eyes peered over the brim of her cup. Beside me, Mike tensed. I couldn’t pick out the thickest tension between them—accusation, unease, challenge.
“Patrick was a big proponent of rediscovering Ireland’s early history,” I said quickly and a little too loudly, trying to dispel whatever strange sentiment the O’Connors had stirred up.
It worked. Both of them scoffed. “The money had a large part to do with it,” Maggie said. “And if you’d ever met Patrick, you would have known that once he’d made up his mind, nothing would change it.”
Mike nodded slowly. “I’ve heard stories.”
“’Course you have.” Maggie stirred her small silver spoon through her tea.
Mike cleared his throat. “Is there a bus out to the farm? I wanted to look around.”
His aunt shook her head. “It’s only accessible by car. I’m busy this afternoon, but could give you a lift tomorrow. Or my nephew Paul’s in town. I’m sure he can bring you over.”
Mike and I exchanged a glance, and then Mike nodded.
Maggie lifted her tea. “You can find him at the pub over on Blue Street. Just ask for Paul Connelly.”
Chapter Eight
We broke for lunch first. We picked up pre-made sandwiches at the local Spar, a tiny chain convenience store, and ate them sitting on a bench looking over the tiny harbor. Boats bobbed in the water, and people occasionally stared. We were stopped three times for introductions before we were finally able to unwrap our food.
I liked it here, with the warm summer breeze and the scent of the sea and the warm bread in our hands. I turned to say as much to Mike, but switched topics when I saw the furrows in his brow. “So what’s up with this estrangement? What happened?”
The furrows melted away when he looked at me, replaced by a grin. “You’re pretty nosy.”
“Who, me?” I widened my eyes. “I just have an active interest in understanding the world. Also, that was a little weird, wasn’t it? Shouldn’t we have talked about Patrick and your dad and your lives, considering that you’d never met before?”
He finished off a bite of his sandwich. “My dad and Patrick grew up on Kilkarten, but by the time Dad was ten, they’d moved to the village—actually, probably to the house Maggie’s in now.” He threw a glance over his shoulder, like he’d only just realized his father might have spent years in that same house. I had to touch his knee before he shook himself and went on.
“Right. Anyway, after my grandparents died—and this was when my dad and Patrick were in their late teens, early twenties—Dad wanted to sell the farm. Patrick didn’t. They had some huge fight and then Dad moved to Boston.”
“What was the fight about?”
He shrugged.
Right. “Personal reasons.”
He gave me that crooked smile.
We finished off our sandwiches. I looked out over the water, dark blue and endless. Mike’s dad had wanted to get rid of the land, and now Mike refused to. What had that fight been about? Did Maggie know? Did Mike’s family? “So I’m guessing you haven’t met this cousin of yours, then.”
The idea seemed to astound him. “Cousin?”
His shock was kind of cute. “Almost. If he’s Maggie’s nephew.”
He groaned. “I should be back home celebrating the off-season and instead I’m meeting lost cousins and bitter aunts.”
I hopped off the bench. “Come on. Let’s go find this pub.”
Blue Street looked a lot like Red Street, with just a handful of shops and houses and the cobblestone road interrupted by a small fountain. A signpost pointed toward shops and the church, written in two languages.
The pub clearly took precedence, busy even at two in the afternoon. A green pennant hung outside the brown brick building, while inside it looked like the Irish pubs at home, except the music didn’t hurt my ears and the TVs didn’t blast. People ate as much as they drank, and off in the back a group of teenagers played pool.
We headed for the bar, and the college-aged kid watching the soccer game from behind it. “Hey,” Mike said. “We’re looking for Paul Connelly. Is he here?”
The teenager dragged his gaze from the screen and raked it over us, with the amount of judgment I usually associated with NYU student bartenders in the East Village. It morphed slowly to recognition. “You’re Michael O’Connor.”
He nodded. “Yeah. Is Paul here?”
The kid slouched back and crossed his arms. “Connelly! Your American cousin’s arrived.”
Every head in the pub swiveled in our direction.
From the back, a man detached himself from a clump of Guinness guzzlers. He was about my height and age, but he had thick black hair and dark eyes. Black Irish, they called it, Iberian blood. He shoved his hands in his pockets and sauntered over.
“Well.” Paul Connelly had a low, lilting voice, and I immediately thought of Cam’s Operation: Irish Boyfriend. “That didn’t take very long.”
Beside me, Mike relaxed very slowly. The great control that went into his apparent laziness was more alarming than if he’d tensed up all over. “’Scuse me?”
Paul propped his elbow on the bar and shrugged. “Seems to me you swooped right in as soon as you inherited some land.”
Mike curved his lips up. “Actually, my uncle just died. I’m here for his month’s mind.”
“After twenty-six years of never even talking to the man?”
Mike relaxed his body even more, like he was lounging in midair. “You’re pretty well-informed for a guy I never even knew existed.”
Paul scoffed and shook his head. “Just like a Yank.”
Mike didn’
t even twitch. Like a snake before the death-strike. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Great. Could no one in this family communicate without weird accusations? If Paul Connelly’s body language was any indication, Mike was about to get punched in the face.
I squeezed between the two guys and stuck my hand out. “I’m Natalie Sullivan. Sorry for your loss. I never met your uncle, but we spoke several times. I’m an archaeologist from Columbia University.”
Paul waited a moment, his square jaw working, before he transferred his attention to me. When he did, surprise crossed his face. “You’re a lot prettier than I expected.”
“Hey,” Mike said sharply. He moved up beside me.
I stepped on Mike’s foot and kept my gaze trained on Paul. “Your aunt said you might be able to take us by Kilkarten today.”
Paul looked back and forth between Mike and me. “You two a thing?”
I refused to look at Mike. “No.”
Mike spoke at the same time. “What’s it to you?”
Paul smiled slowly and Mike scowled. Then, focusing all his attention on me, Paul said, “Right this way.”
Mike caught my arm as we headed out the door, leaning close enough that his breath brushed my neck. “Watch that guy.”
I shivered, focus stolen by the thrills of attraction running down my arms. “Why?”
“Because I have two younger sisters, and can spot an asshole a mile away.”
I shook my head at him and followed Paul out onto the street. We piled into Paul’s truck, and Mike and I had a brief, silent struggle for the front seat while Paul headed toward the driver’s side. Mike won.
Paul had to start and stop several times as oblivious pedestrians wandered into the streets before us. He didn’t speak. Mike didn’t speak.
So of course I did. “So your aunt says you live in Paris?”
“That’s right.” He looked at me in the rearview mirror. “You been?”
“No, but it’s on my list. Do you travel a lot, out of Paris?”
He slowly grinned at me in the mirror. For a moment, he looked shockingly like his cousin, despite the lack of blood between them, and the darkness of Paul’s looks compared to Mike’s brightness. He nodded. “A bit.”