Wild Irish Heart
Book 1 in the Mystic Cove Series
Copyright © 2014 by Tricia O'Malley
All Rights Reserved
Cover Design:
Alchemy Book Covers
Editor:
Emily Nemchick
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any means without express permission of the author. This includes reprints, excerpts, photocopying, recording, or any future means of reproducing text.
If you would like to do any of the above, please seek permission first by contacting the author at: [email protected]
"Maireann lá go ruaig ach maireann an grá go huaigh."
A day lasts until it's chased away but love lasts until the grave.
Chapter One
The ping of the doorbell startled Keelin O'Brien from her daydream of chartering a dive boat through the Great Barrier Reef. Blinking, she shoved herself up from her messy desk and padded quietly in her Irish cottage socks to the door. Peering through the hole, she saw that it was Frank, her overly friendly mailman.
"Hi, Frank," Keelin said as she eased the door open, careful to hide her clutter from his view.
"Hi, Keelin. I've got a special package for you today," Frank said. "International!"
"Really? I haven't ordered anything. How interesting." Keelin signed for the package and Frank raised his eyebrows at her. Keelin knew that he expected her to open the package in front of him.
"Thanks, Frank. Gotta run!" Keelin shut the door with her foot and examined the small package as she wandered towards her kitchen. The cheerful blue of her kitchen walls contrasted with the pile of dishes in her sink. A small window with soft yellow curtains allowed a ray of sunlight to pick up the layer of dust on her sideboard. With a sigh, Keelin made a mental note to clean.
Brushing a pile of papers aside, Keelin sat at her table and looked at the package. Rectangular-shaped and wrapped in butcher paper, it wasn't the typical international envelope found at the post office. Twine wove around the package and what looked like an honest-to-God wax seal closed the twine. Keelin's name and address were written in a deep brown ink, the handwriting a beautiful old calligrapher style. Keelin squinted at the return address and remembered her reading glasses, tucked in her shirt.
Interesting, Keelin thought as she examined the address more closely. The address was smudged. It seemed almost deliberate. Keelin wondered why she suspected that it was deliberate. Only one word was easily readable: Ireland.
Keelin lifted the package and gingerly broke the seal. An image flashed into her head. Flames slicing into the night. Voices chanting. A midnight-blue cove that glowed from within. And eyes. A sharp, crystal-blue pair of eyes stared at her through the flames.
Keelin gasped and dropped the package. Her heart pounded quickly and she tried out some of the deep-breathing techniques that she had learned in yoga. Though her hands trembled, Keelin shook her head and laughed at herself. Her mother always sighed at what she termed "Keelin's Little Fancies" and clucked that Keelin would never find a man if she was always daydreaming. Keelin wished that these images were just daydreams or the result of an overly creative brain. Unfortunately, Keelin's talents ran more to the science side of things than the creative, daydreamer type. Yet, Keelin never knew how to describe the images she would see when she touched certain things.
Things? Who was she kidding? Keelin thought. It didn't just happen with objects. It happened with people, animals, and even places. She had recently started to wonder if she needed to take her mother's not-so-gentle advice to go see a therapist. Keelin's gut told her that a therapist would do little to shed light on her problems. She'd learned long ago to shelter herself and to keep these images that flooded her brain quiet. Living in Massachusetts had implemented in her a healthy fear of the repercussions of being different, if the history of the Salem Witch Trials indicated anything.
She held the package and took a deep breath before she immersed herself back in the image. This time, she focused on the feelings it brought.
Dark images slashed at her. A fishing village at night. A lone dog wandering a hill. A man tying a fishing line. As Keelin waded through the images she decided that there was a feeling of foreboding, yet also of homecoming, that threaded through the images. It wasn't evil, yet there was a sense of stepping over a threshold.
It was almost as if she was being pushed away and pulled in. Her fingers trembled as she peeled back the paper. In some respects, she had been waiting for this. There had always been something in her life left unsaid – undiscovered even. Keelin wondered if this was finally her answer.
A small book lay nestled in the paper. A rich brown leather cover, creased with age, and with hand stitching at the binding, encased the yellowed pages. Keelin marveled over the beauty of the simple craftsmanship. No words or symbols marred the soft leather, yet years of scratches from use had weathered the cover to a perfect patina.
The book seemed to speak volumes without a word on its cover.
This book was old. Really old. Keelin wondered if she needed gloves to touch it. A book like this belonged in a museum, she thought. She gently opened the cover and gasped at the pages. These were vellum pages. Her hands shook as the enormity of the delicacy and strength of this book struck her. Keelin had known the book was old but writing on vellum dated back to the Book of Kells days. This was a book that was not to be taken lightly. Who had sent such a gift to her?
Keelin suspected she knew the source of this gift. The real question was: why now?
A folded piece of paper that was tied with the same twine and matching seal as the wrapping lay tucked in the front of the cover. Keelin gently pulled it out and unfolded it.
The words struck her like a punch to the gut.
It is time.
Keelin stared at the letter in shock. In recognition. She tucked her strawberry-blonde hair behind her ear. Her socialite mother carefully tinted the red from her hair, sniffing, "It's too Irish." But Keelin secretly loved her hair color and always refused to have it dyed when her mother's second-favorite stylist discreetly suggested the change each month.
It is time.
The words bored into her brain. Had she known this was coming? She held the letter up to her face. It smelled faintly of lavender and something deeper. Smoky, almost. Visions of a moonlit cove, a boat, and the promise of lust and love flashed through her mind.
It is time.
Keelin held the book and marveled at the beauty of the detailing. She closed her eyes and inhaled the scent of the worn leather. The book seemed to warm to her touch and a feeling of love spread through her arms and curled its way through her core. She caught a glimpse of an old woman gathering herbs on a sloping hill near the water. Her sudden insight confirmed her suspicion. This was her maternal grandmother's book. Her grandmother lived in the hills of Ireland, just north of a small fishing village on the southernmost peninsula of Ireland. Reported to be crazy and aloof, Keelin had had little contact with her. Keelin's mother had insisted on moving to the States before Keelin was born and was proud to raise her daughter on Boston's reputable Beacon Hill. They had never returned to Ireland.
She had often wondered why her mother had refused to discuss her upbringing with Keelin. At the time, she had put it down to her mom's obsession with pedigree and socialite parties. There wasn't much place for a poor Irish upbringing amongst the wealth of her mother's friends. Now Keelin wondered what vital details she may have missed about her mother's life before Boston.
The book seemed to call to her. Keelin traced her fingers over the soft leather. She picked it u
p and the image of blue eyes popped into her head again. This time a small thrill of heat curled through her.
"Whoa, this is a little ridiculous." Keelin laughed and got up. She needed to pace. Two thoughts raced through her mind. The first was that her grandmother was dead. The second was that this was a book of power.
Keelin needed answers and there was only one blonde socialite that had them.
She pulled on knee-high brown boots over leggings that hugged generous hips, threw on a long fair-isle cardigan, and picked up the book. Keelin dug in her closet for a wool scarf and gently wrapped the book before tucking it in her leather satchel. It was time to hunt down her mother. Then she would deal with the implications of the book.
Chapter Two
Margaret Grainne O'Brien lived in a two-story brownstone in the coveted Beacon Hill neighborhood of downtown Boston. Keelin enjoyed the cobblestone streets and the cherry blossom trees in the spring. She hated the severe lack of parking and the miniscule living spaces that the high-rent neighborhood offered. Wondering, again, why anyone would pay an obscene amount of money to live in seven hundred square feet of space with one parking spot, Keelin rang her mother's bell.
"Keelin, darling! What are you doing here?" Margaret asked. A coolly lovely blonde in her late forties, she was dressed for tea in a pale gray cocktail suit with a deep pink shirt. Pearls winked at her ears and a leather watch peeked discreetly from her sleeve.
Margaret ushered Keelin in and began making distressed noises.
"Keelin Grainne. Are you wearing leggings outside of the house again?" Margaret asked.
"Mom. Stop. Everyone wears leggings. And my sweater is long. They are like tights but with even more coverage." Keelin rolled her eyes and stomped to her mother's front room. Graceful arched windows boasted a view of fashionable shops. Keelin settled on the settee and actively hated the room. Everything was white and gold. Too much opulence, she thought.
"Mom. We need to talk." Keelin reached into her bag to pull out the book.
"You're pregnant! I knew it. I knew that Todd was bad news. What were you thinking?"
"Whoa. What? No! Mom, ugh, God, just stop. Gross. I never slept with Todd to begin with. You set me up with him, which should have told you that he was not a good match for me. Would you please just stop with trying to set me up?" Keelin said. It was a constant aggravation for her. Margaret enjoyed arranging blind dates with the sons of the town's elite. Keelin loved her too much to embarrass her and ditch out on the dates. Inevitably, every Todd, Chad, and Spence she dated failed to get her juices flowing. Idly, she wondered if she even had any juices anymore. It had been so long since she had truly been passionate about anything except her work.
"Thank God. I would hate to tell Shirley that her son was a jerk. Now, why are you here in the middle of the day? Shouldn't you be working on an application?" Margaret said. She was referring to Keelin's internship applications. Keelin had been working for the Boston Aquarium for the past few years and had wanted to branch out for a while. Her secret dream was to finish her master's degree in marine biology and to work on a research-and-dive team. She hoped to get aboard a research vessel as an intern over the summer.
Keelin decided to go for impact. She reached into her satchel and withdrew her scarf-wrapped bundle.
"Keelin, when will you get rid of that ugly scarf? It is so Irish," Margaret said, her disdain evident.
Silently, Keelin unwrapped the bundle and placed the book on the table, watching her mother closely. Margaret's eyes widened slightly and then returned to normal.
"Why, whatever is this old book? Is this for school?" Margaret asked. Keelin noticed that her normally pale mother's cheeks were flushed and her hand played a tap-tap-tap rhythm on the Eastlake side table.
"Mom. You know what this is. I need answers," Keelin said.
"I have no idea what you mean. It is an old book. Lovely, actually. I see books like this in the antique shops. You should place it on display," Margaret said. She refused to meet Keelin's eyes and glanced quickly at her watch.
"Darling, I am so sorry, but I have to meet Mrs. Thatcher for tea. We are going over plans for the book club's charity fundraiser. I mustn't be late," Margaret said as she stood.
"I don't think so. Sit down," Keelin said.
"Keelin. What is wrong with you? Do not speak to me like that." Margaret stood her ground. You could take the Irish out of Ireland, Keelin mused.
"This is your mother's book. My grandmother. I can feel it. I know it. This arrived today. Does this mean she is dead? Do you even talk to her anymore?" The questions tumbled out. Keelin didn't mean to sound accusatory but the old bitterness welled up in her throat. She'd always hated how Margaret had isolated her from learning about her Irish roots.
Sighing, Margaret walked to the wet bar and poured herself a whiskey, neat. Shocked, Keelin watched as her mild-mannered mother downed it in one gulp.
"I knew that this time would arrive," Margaret said. Her shoulders were tense and she stayed focused on the wet bar.
"Um, yeah. No kidding. The letter said, 'it is time,'" Keelin said. "Care to elaborate?"
"This is the reason that I left your father, the town, and have never returned to Ireland." Margaret's back was still turned. "I had hoped this day would never come."
Chapter Three
"Okay, drama queen," Keelin said. "Let's bring it down a notch. This is all a little much for me."
A small smile flitted over Margaret's face as she turned to face Keelin. "You were always so irreverent. Part of me has always wished that I could be the same."
Keelin was shocked. Her mom admired what she so chastised? Interesting, she thought.
"If you'll excuse me, I need a moment to cancel my meeting. Then I will discuss that…that book with you," Margaret said as she strode purposefully from the room. Her back, ramrod straight, radiated determination and fortitude as usual. Keelin automatically straightened her shoulders. Just looking at her mother made her feel like a slob.
Idly, she let her hands trace the book. The supple leather seemed to warm to her touch again.
"Let's go," Margaret said. Keelin jumped and gasped.
"Mother! I didn't know you owned jeans!"
"Well, yes, if I ever went for a walk in the woods, I would need a pair, wouldn't I?" Margaret's tidy blue jeans were tucked into Hunter boots and her thick cardigan was buttoned perfectly. A plaid scarf topped her outfit and screamed "Ralph Lauren chic."
"Woods? What woods are you walking in, Mom?" Keelin asked.
"Well, the Common, of course. They have lovely trees."
Keelin had to laugh. Only her mother would refer to the manicured lawns of the Boston Common as "the woods."
"Okay, Mom. Let's go for a walk." Keelin tucked the book into her satchel and gathered her cardigan. She watched as her mother gathered her keys from the gold Hermès dish by the door, and made sure the doormat was aligned just so.
How had she come from such a woman? This wasn't a new thought to Keelin. Messy, disobedient, and opinionated, Keelin felt like she was a constant disappointment to her polite and reserved mother. She often felt like she was playing a role when her mother invited her to the society's most elite functions. Silk dresses and being seen mattered little to Keelin when she could bury her head in a book or hear some great local music. Her mom knew what every spoon and fork meant in a table setting, while Keelin preferred cider and a greasy burger from the local bar. For all their differences, a pure, strong love ran between them. It had been just the two of them for so long. She couldn't fault her mother for wanting the best for her.
As was typical of a Friday afternoon, the Common bustled with activity. The pulse of the city seemed to beat there, as people from all walks of life flowed from the stairwells of the T, dispersing into the green of the Common and weaving between the ponds and trees. It never failed to interest her, the people she found here, Keelin thought. Keelin had spent many an afternoon thinking about the lives of those who walked pa
st her picnic blanket. She often played a game without really knowing why. Keelin would guess the ailments of strangers. She had no way of confirming how or why she knew what she did but she did it without thinking. Cancer, cold sore, cough, diabetes, sprained wrist…images flashed through her head along with emotions. It was like a game show where she had no way of knowing if she was a winner.
Keelin walked quietly beside her mother and listened as she rattled off the prices of the apartments that lined the Common. She knew all of this already, yet allowed her mother to talk. Margaret had a tendency to talk real estate when she was nervous. Eventually, they wound their way to a stone bench overlooking a small pond. Keelin idly watched a mother help her toddler feed the ducks.
"What do you know of Grace's Cove?" Margaret asked.
"Well, I know that it is a small town on the water in Southern Ireland. I know that you grew up there and didn't like the village lifestyle. I've googled it and the pictures are stunning. It really looks like a beautiful place to live. And, I'd love to get out on the water there. Those cliffs are incredible! I imagine there is a ton to study," Keelin said.
"Yes, well, I'm not surprised you like the water so much, as your father was a fisherman," Margaret said.
"Yes, so you've said," Keelin said. She was surprised that her mother had brought him up. A source of bitterness between them, Keelin knew little of her father and Margaret rarely spoke of him.
"I understand that I made a decision to remove him from your life, Keelin, however, it was in your best interests. And look at the life that I gave you. I had my reasons," Margaret said.
Keelin stayed silent. She'd heard this refrain before. What was the point of arguing the past?
Margaret sighed. "I suppose it is time for you to know more about your heritage."
"Yes, that would be nice," Keelin said dryly as she picked at some fuzz on her sweater.
Wild Irish Heart (The Mystic Cove Series Book 1) Page 1