Selkie's Song (Fado Trilogy)

by Clare Austin

  “What does any of that have to do with it?”

  “Jaysus, Ian, I don’t need bad luck or worse knocking on my door,” Delaney shouted over the growl of his engine as he backed it carefully onto the road.

  “You superstitious fool—” Ian’s voice rose in frustration at the retreating machine. Muireann could picture him—collar so tight his jowly neck overflowed the starched constraint, sweat running in shiny rivulets down the sides of his red face and dampening the comb-over on the top of his balding head.

  “Now, Feeney, I might not believe the tales I’ve heard about this particular whitethorn tree, but a man in my position can’t take chances.”

  “Your position? You have no position.” Ian stepped toward Muireann, making a great effort not to muddy his shoes. “I represent the Fisherman’s Bank and Loan, and you are in violation of the law.”

  “Arrest me,” Muireann sneered.

  “Arrest all of us,” someone called from the circle.

  “Mammy, is the Gardaí gonna come put us in the jail?” little Emma squeaked in alarm.

  “Take us in. Take us all in,” an old woman taunted.

  “Granny?” Ian’s voice choked. “Why aren’t you home where you belong?”

  Muireann smiled. “Ian,” she called. “Ya can’t have the whole village locked up.” Though the thought did occur that if anyone would lock up his own grandmother, Ian was the man.

  “You come out from under there, O’Malley, and I’ll call off the bulldozer.”

  “You’ll have to drive over me yourself. I think the dozer’s headed for home, Ian.”

  A low moan of frustration gritted in the banker’s throat. Ian had a short fuse but an even shorter tolerance of the heat. His retreating footfalls thumped the turf and knew she had won today’s brief battle.

  “Simon,” she called in triumph, “unlock the cuffs.”

  There was a pause.

  “Simon…are ya there?”

  “Uh…yeah,” Simon mumbled.

  “Unlock the cuffs.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Get your arse over here and get me outta this.”

  “I can’t. I fecked the key over the headland like ya told me.”

  “Ya dumbass. I need to take a pee.” She tried to keep her voice low but it came out in a burst of frustration. “Find the spare key.”

  “Me da has it,” Simon explained.

  “Get him, you eegit!”

  “Can’t do that. He’s out fishin’. He’ll be back with the tide.”

  Now she was at a distinct disadvantage.

  “Just you wait, Muireann O’Malley,” Ian chuckled. “The man who holds title to this rock pile is not only behind in his taxes—I haven’t received payment on his loan in months, and he refuses to reply to the bank’s notifications.”

  “Ha!” Muireann gloated. “I knew the man well. You won’t get your money out of Bertie O’Malley this side of the heavenly gates. I sang ‘The Parting Glass’ at his wake a fortnight ago.” She squeezed her thighs together and tried not to think of water ebbing and flowing. “Simon, I don’t care if you have to swim out to your da’s boat. Get me outta here.”

  ****

  On the other side of the Atlantic…

  “Ya don’t know yer arse from yer elbow, Jamie Mac. I’ve a bun in the oven, not two busted wings,” Flannery shouted.

  “And what are ya plannin’ to do? Take five to birth the child behind the bar, jump up, an’ serve a pint with a baby on yer breast and yer fiddle tucked under yer chin?”

  Tynan Sloane leaned his bike against the wall and snapped a lock through the front wheel and fork. His lips curved into an involuntary smile as he pushed through the screened back door and into the dining room of the public house he called home.

  All had been peaceful when he left to pick up the mail fifteen minutes ago. Now, Jamie McFallon stood braced for a fight, face flushed, pan in one hand and a gesticulating spatula in the other. “Jaysus, Flannery, fer once in yer life be reasonable.”

  “Reasonable? Do you want reasonable, or do you want someone to listen to yer stupid jokes?” Flannery taunted.

  They were face to face and would have been toe to toe if not for a protruding belly the size of a soccer ball between them.

  Tynan took a seat at the bar and started to open his mail.

  Jamie let out a long sigh of resignation and pleaded with the man seated in the shadowed corner booth. “Cade, yer her husband. Can’t ya talk some sense into her?”

  “Jamie, I’ve learned over the last few months to choose very carefully what mountains I want to die on.” He lifted his coffee cup in a mock toast. “This isn’t one of them.”

  “Oh, an’ are ya callin’ me a mountain, like?” Flann spun around. “I’ll remind ya who got me into this situation.”

  “Now, Flann—”

  “Don’t ye be now-Flannin’ me. I told ye both, I did. I’ll keep workin’ my shifts and playin’ the sessions.” She headed for the kitchen. “All this foolishness is makin’ me hungry, and Kerry’s puttin’ on the tea.”

  Cade took his mug and started to follow her when he noticed Tynan. “Hey, bro, didn’t hear you come in, what with all the excitement.”

  Ty grinned. “Got your hands full, I see.”

  “I should go calm her down,” Cade said with a lack of conviction.

  “Ah, now, I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Tynan warned. “My baby sister is making a point here. You have to remember Irish women take a spell to cool down.” Possibly centuries.

  “Is that why you’re still single?”

  “I tried to warn you,” Ty reminded him, though in his heart he envied the man. “Yer a lucky bastard.” Ty smacked Cade on the shoulder. “I’d settle for a woman who could carry on an intelligent conversation.” And he didn’t add unlike the vapid groupies who hang around the pub with the goal of scoring with the lead man in the band.

  Tynan’s twin sister, Kerry, had pointed out to him the cold fact that, at the not so tender age of thirty-two, he had never been in love. Not that he hadn’t tried. He saw himself as a pretty decent catch: educated, funny, not bad looking…humble.

  He would always have his sisters, their husbands, their children. That was a joy to be sure. But Tynan simply could not see himself as the old bachelor brother and uncle, sitting by the fire, amusing a gaggle of nieces and nephews with his songs and stories. He wanted his own children on his knee, calling him Da. Not to ignore the essentials: a lover, a soul mate, a wife.

  It had occurred to him he might be too picky in his choices. Perhaps it should not have been so disturbing that most of them were all too eager to go to bed with him. What kind of man was he? The joy of sex without the commitment to verbiage was, reportedly, a dream date. Yet, he wanted a woman able to carry on an intelligent conversation before and after orgasm.

  Yes, he wanted it all.

  Now, he had a start, a goal and a grand plan to get him from A to Z. The first step: a clear shot at a pub of his own. He felt a bit naïve, having thought this would be easy.

  O’Fallon’s was up for sale for the first time in two centuries. Tynan wanted it. He was determined. Nothing need stand in his way.

  Nothing except the steep purchase price of the historic public house and the down payment which would take most of his earnings from Fadό’s first record and then some.

  Across the Waters had been a hit, a windfall. It launched Kerry’s solo album and Flann’s contract for a film soundtrack. But Tynan had spent a chunk of his revenue on two weddings. Flannery’s was a gala affair on a yacht in Boston Harbor. She married into one of the most influential families in the Northeast and Tynan was delighted to give her a beautiful fairy tale that would be the talk of Beantown for generations.

  Kerry’s marriage to Aidan Kennedy was a small gathering. The weeks preceding the joining of the “voice of Celtic music” and the former IRA operative turned humanitarian had been traumatic at best and deadly at worst. They needed a quiet nuptial
attended by family and close friends that did not draw unwanted attention. But Kerry had always wanted to go to Italy on her honeymoon, and Tynan made sure that happened for her.

  In his youth, Ty would have given his left testicle to be in the music business and successful. Now his dream had come to fruition and it hadn’t taken the sacrifice of any body parts.

  He was single, successful, and living—maybe not la vida loca, but any day above ground was a good day. To Tynan, making an offer on O’Fallon’s was a no-brainer when Jamie announced his intention of returning to Ireland. In a way, Tynan thought of the deal as keeping the pub in the family.

  “What’s the letter? Looks official?” Cade indicated the large manila envelope in Ty’s hand.

  “Don’t know.” Tynan glanced at the return address. “From a solicitor: J. P. Warren, Dublin, Ireland.” He hoped he wasn’t being sued and tried to recall if he had left a debt behind that had finally caught up with him. One more unexpected outlay of money and he would be hard-pressed to make his bid on the pub any time soon, if ever.

  “Let me know if you need help from my legal department,” Cade said and stood. “I’d better go calm my little butterfly before she throws something at Jamie and puts him out of commission for a week.”

  Tynan set the solicitor’s letter aside and leafed through his other mail. Coupons from the local chemist shop for mouthwash and a “buy one, get one” on depilatory wax, a popular dress shop was having a sale on ladies’ foundations. If he was interested, he could win a trip to the Bahamas if he bought a new, gas-guzzling SUV from a desperate American auto company.

  When he couldn’t avoid the inevitable any longer, Ty pried the brad open on the envelope from Dublin, pulled the sticky flap free from the opening, and removed the one page.

  Dear Mr. Sloane, it began.

  We regret to inform you of the passing of your great-uncle thrice removed, Albert O’Malley.

  A derelict building set on a two hectare parcel of land has been bequeathed to Máire Ni Miollain or her heirs.

  Máire Ni Miollain, God rest her soul, was Mary Malone Sloane, Tynan’s mother. She’d been gone four years now. Seeing her name on this letter gave him a burning sensation behind his eyes and a tickle of impending tears in his throat.

  He suspected, since he was the eldest, even if only by minutes, he was now the proud owner of an ancient mound of building stones on a postage stamp size plot of ground in North Clare, Ireland.

  Ty took a deep breath to keep his focus and read on.

  A map is attached of the townland of Ballinacurragh, Co. Clare…

  Ballinacurragh? Ballinacurragh.

  His pulse racked up several notches at the mention of the little village nested near the cliffs where he had played as a boy. The scenery sparked a fire in his imagination and heat in his memory.

  His memory of the first taste of a girl’s lips.

  Muireann O’Malley’s lips to be exact.

  Images, sounds, and the fragrance of warm, female skin came rushing up from long-hidden coves of his mind. Turquoise seas, emerald fields, and Muireann’s sable eyes pulled him back to his sixteenth year, full of sexual energy and the foolishness of youth.

  They had slipped away from the cottage where the seanchaí, Bertie O’Malley, had sat by the turf fire and spun his tales of Ireland’s past. The stories were intriguing, but the girl, with her lithe limbs and teasing smile, far more tempting.

  His mother had been furious with him and threatened to never bring him back to hear the storyteller again. Ty would not let that happen. Though he liked the yearly visit and the legends being told, he loved the girl and what she had to offer far more than tales of Celts and Vikings.

  Tynan suppressed the need to wonder about her, his first love. It was completely ridiculous to even give a thought to seeing her again. She was likely married with a brood of babies and thick through the middle with her own fine cooking. He shook off the ghost of love past and tried to concentrate on the present.

  It looked as though he’d become a landowner through no effort of his own.

  He scooped up his pile of junk mail and deposited it in the paper recycling bin behind the bar. His first instinct was to talk to Matt Kincade, Cade’s older brother and president of Back Bay Records. Matt had a killer instinct when it came to business deals. However, Matt was somewhere in the Bahamas on his sailboat with his current squeeze and wouldn’t be back for another couple of weeks.

  He could hear laughter from the kitchen and hoped his sister had gotten over her tirade. When he stepped through the swinging door, Flann was sitting on Cade’s knee. He was rubbing her shoulders and nuzzling her neck.

  “Aw, now look at ’em. Guess ya haven’t learned yer lesson, Flann. An’ you blamin’ the poor man fer yer current condition,” Ty teased.

  “Can’t get any more pregnant than I already am.” Flann grinned and Ty felt a dry lump in his throat at the joy in his sister’s smile.

  Tynan pulled a chair out from the table and sat. He closed his eyes and listened to the sound of his heart. It still pounded and visuals of mahogany eyes spurred a dizzying adrenaline rush.

  Kerry set a cup of tea in front of him. “Ya look like you just ran a half-marathon.”

  His twin sister was perceptive. They no longer finished each other’s sentences, but she always knew when he was troubled. “I…uh…got this letter.” He handed the solicitor’s communication to her. “Guess I’m a land baron,” he said with a wry smile.

  Kerry grinned and took the missive from his hand. “You’re my brother and I love you, but a land baron? That’s a stretch.”

  The back door burst open and Miguel Di Santos sashayed in. He had worked at O’Fallon’s as host and part-time cook for as long as Tynan could remember. Today he wore a sequined gown and black patent stilettos.

  “Buenos dias all,” he greeted, pranced over to Flann, and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “Chica, you look marvelous.” He did a little pirouette with remarkable agility. “How do you like the dress? It’s for my gig at Jacque’s Cabaret.”

  “I think yer more flat-chested than me now,” Flann said with a giggle and looked down at her bosom. “I don’t need a push-up bra anymore.”

  Ty looked around the table. His sisters were his life, but all these people were family and he loved each one. Buying O’Fallon’s would insure they all stayed close. The pub could remain a centerpiece for their lives.

  Perhaps this little inheritance would tip the scales of finance in his direction. “Do you remember anything about an Uncle Albert…‘Bertie’ O’Malley?”

  “Ah, sure. And if you don’t, I’m ashamed of you.” Kerry joined him at the table. “It was a long time ago. Flann was still a baby in Mam’s arms when we first traveled to that village to hear his stories.” She stirred her tea and smiled as though remembering a treasure lost and found. “A few years later you were more interested in the local girls than you were in the storyteller. If you hadn’t been big as a man by then, Mam would have warmed your backside with a willow branch.”

  “Girl,” Ty corrected. “Only one.”

  “And, as I recall, she was a wild and lovely thing,” Kerry added as she stirred her tea and perused the letter in her hand.

  Tynan leafed through his memories, some as faded as pictures in a dusty album. A visual, real but unfocused, tried to surface: a man, sitting by a fire, telling tales of Ireland.

  The memory of the beguiling daughter of the household was clear and bright, even after all these years. So were the words he whispered in her ear the last time they met.

  You will always be for me.

  Of course, life moves in its own directions and she was not his. Still the remembering was sweet.

  “May I?” Cade reached for the letter and Kerry handed it over.

  Tynan picked up his tea to get a grip on the present. “Sure, you’ve probably seen more of this sort of thing than I ever will,” he said.

  “What do they mean by ‘derelict building’?�
� Cade asked.

  Flann set her tea down and took the paper from her husband’s hand. “It means they took the roof off and the building won’t be assessed for taxes.”

  “This must be sitting on an oil well then. Look at the tax estimate.” Cade’s brow furrowed. “And this seems to indicate there are some back taxes owed. In the current economy, you’d be hard pressed to give land away in Ireland.”

  “I hadn’t noticed that.” Tynan felt the fun punched right out of him. He should have remembered what his da always said. There was no such thing as a free lunch or a free horse. That was now expanded to free land. “I should at least try to sell it. It’s got to be worth something.” He mentally stashed the profit in the pub fund and a shiver of enthusiasm tripped through his system.

  “Unfortunate the uncle mentions your mother’s family in his will,” Cade said. “I’m not clear on Irish probate law, but it looks like you are responsible for the taxes.”

  “Is that why they call it the luck of the Irish?” Ty quipped, but a seed of a plan took root and started to grow. He could almost feel it reach for light and hum in counterpoint to the beat of his heart. “I’ve been looking for an excuse to get myself across the pond. Haven’t been home in four years. It’s about time.”

  He would look up the lads from his university days and put away a few well-deserved pints. He’d catch a music session or two, learn a new twist on an old tune, and sharpen his skills. If fate had a hand in his seeing Muireann again, who was he to question such providence?

  “Ya can’t leave now,” Flann objected. “We’re scheduled in the studio. And you’ll miss…this.” She rubbed her belly.

  Flannery’s baby was not due for another six weeks. He would be sure to be back in Boston for the big event. No way would he miss the birth of his very first nephew or niece.

  “I’ll record my tracks before I go. And”—he reached over and patted her bump—”I wouldn’t miss this for anything.”

  “Ty, you best behave yourself over there,” Kerry warned. “And stay away from those Ballinacurragh girls. If memory serves, you pined for a very long time over one. Don’t go thinking you’re going to fall in love now.”