“On the telly? Oh, dear, you’ve been hanging around the Irish too long, me lad!” she teased. “Yes, of course, if you wish, you’ll be on the telly.”
“Cool!” Molly told her.
“Cool!” Shannon repeated, wide-eyed.
“Oh, yes, all the kids at the preschool will be talking!” Moira said, ruffling her nieces’ hair. Brian was almost a Mini-Me of her brother, with his hazel eyes and deep auburn hair. The girls had acquired their mother’s soft true-blond hair and huge blue eyes. Leave it to Patrick. They were wonderful children, well-behaved without being timid, full of personality and love. Chalk that all up to Siobhan, Moira thought. Her sister-in-law was a doll. Patrick…well, as Granny Jon had once said, he could fall into a mire of cow dung and come up smelling like roses. She adored her brother, of course. She just wished he didn’t manage to go his own way all the time and still wind up appearing to be the perfect child on every occasion. He should have been a politician. Maybe he would be one day. He’d gotten his law degree and now practiced in a tiny town in western Massachusetts, where he also owned land, kept horses and a few farm animals and still maintained a home that always seemed as beautifully kept as something out of Architectural Digest. Business frequently brought him to Boston, where, naturally, he always stopped in to see his parents.
Her brother had married well, she decided. She knew Siobhan, née O’Malley, had taken a chance with Patrick after his wild days in high school, but apparently the chance had paid off. They both seemed happy and still, after ten years of marriage, deeply in love.
“Cool, cool, cool, Auntie Mo!” Shannon repeated.
“Cool. I like that. Good American slang term,” Moira said seriously.
Her mother let out a tsking sound. “Now, Moira, if you can’t hold on to a few traditions…”
“Mum! I adore tradition,” she said.
“And you, you little leprechauns!” Katy chastised the children. “It’s nearly nine. You’re supposed to be asleep now. You’ve gotten to see Auntie Mo, now back in bed.”
“Ah, Nana K!” Brian protested.
“I’ll not have your mother telling me I can’t handle her poppets in my old age,” Katy said. “’Tis back in bed with you. Off now.”
“Wait! I’ll take full responsibility! One more hug each,” Moira said. The girls giggled; Brian was more serious. She kissed their cheeks, hugged them tightly one more time.
“Auntie Mo has to go down and see your father—and Granda,” Katy said. “Besides, she’ll be here for the week, like the lot o’ you. And she’s promised to get you on the telly, so you’ll be needing your sleep.”
Brian nodded seriously.
“We don’t want bags under your eyes,” Moira teased, then winked. Brian’s lips twitched in a smile, and he gave his grandmother a rueful glance. “And,” she added, “I have presents for all three of you. So if you go back to bed right now, you’ll get them first thing when I see you in the morning,” she promised.
“Presents?” Molly said happily.
“One apiece!” Moira said, laughing. “Now, like Granny Katy has told you, back off to bed! And sound asleep. Or the Auntie Mo fairy—just like Santa and the tooth fairy—will know that you’ve been awake, and no present beside the teacup in the morning!”
Her mother gazed at her and rolled her eyes. Moira grimaced, then laughed.
“Night, Auntie Mo,” Brian said. “Come on, girls.” He led them toward the bedrooms.
Molly tugged on his hand and stopped him. “Granny Jon,” she said seriously. “There aren’t really any banshees around tonight, are there?”
“Not a one,” Granny Jon said.
“No monsters at all!” Brian said firmly.
“Not in this house! I’ll see to it. I’m as mean as any old banshee,” Granny Jon said, her eyes alight.
The kids called good-night again and went traipsing off down the hall. Moira rose and stared at her grandmother sternly. “Now, have you been telling tales again?”
“Not on your life! They spent the day watching ‘Darby O’Gill and the Little People.’ I’m entirely innocent,” her grandmother protested with a laugh. “And you, young lady, you’d best get downstairs to the pub. Your father will be heartbroken if he hears you’ve been here all this time and haven’t been to give him a hug.”
“Patrick, Siobhan and Colleen are down there?” Moira asked.
“Siobhan’s off to see her folks, but your brother and sister are both downstairs,” Katy said. “Get along with you.”
“Wait, wait, let her have a sip of her tea before they ply her with alcohol,” Granny Jon protested, bringing a cup to Moira. Moira thanked her with a quick smile. No one made tea like Granny Jon. Not cold, not scalding. A touch of sugar. Never like syrup, and never bitter.
“It’s delicious, Granny Jon,” Moira said.
“Then swallow it down and be gone with you,” her mother said.
She gulped the tea—grateful that it wasn’t scalding.
“I’ll put your bag in your room—give me your coat, Moira Kathleen,” Katy said. “Take the inside stairs down. You know your father will be behind the bar.”
“I’ll be rescuing the teacup,” Granny Jon said dryly.
Moira slid obediently out of her coat and handed it to her mother. “I’ll take my bag, Mum. It’s heavy.”
“Away with you, I can handle a mite of luggage.”
“All right, all right, I’m going. ‘So happy you’re here, now get out,”’ she teased her mother.
“’Tis just your father, girl,” Katy protested.
“How is he?” she asked anxiously.
Her mother’s smile was the best answer she could have received. “His tests came out well, but he was told that he must come in without fail for a checkup every six months.”
“He’s working too hard,” Moira murmured.
“Well, now, that was my thought, but the doctors say that work is good for a man, and sitting around and getting no exercise is not. So he got all the permission he needed to keep right on running his pub, though the Lord knows, he has able help.”
“I’m going down right now to see him.”
Her mother nodded, pleased.
Moira gave both her mother and grandmother another kiss, then started through the foyer to the left; there was a little sitting room there, and a spiral staircase that led down to a door at the foot of the stairs that opened to the office and storage space behind the polished oak expanse of the bar, where she would find the rest of her family—and all the mixed emotions that coming home entailed.
3
As soon as she opened the door, Moira could hear the chatter in the bar and the sounds of the band. She groaned inwardly. Blackbird was doing a speeded up number from the Brendan Behan play The Hostage.
“Great,” she muttered aloud. “They’re all toasting the Republic already.”
She slipped in, walked through the office and the swinging doors, and saw her father’s back. Eamon Kelly was a tall, broad-shouldered man with graying hair that had once been close to a true, luxurious black. Though he was pouring a draft, she sneaked up behind him, winding her arms around his waist. “Hey, Dad,” she said softly.
“Moira Kathleen!” he cried, spilling a bit of draft as he set the glass down, spun around and picked her up by the waist. He lifted her high, and she kissed his cheek, quickly protesting his hold, worried about his heart.
“Dad, put me down!” She laughed.
He shook his head, beautiful blue eyes on her. “Now when the day comes that I cannot lift my girl, that will be a sad day indeed!”
“Put me down,” she said again, still laughing, “because I feel as if everyone in the pub is looking at me!”
“And why not? Me daughter has come home!”
“You’ve got another daughter in her—”
“And I’ve already made quite a spectacle of Colleen, I have. Now it’s your turn!”
She managed to regain her footing, then hugged him fiercely again.
<
br /> “You know the boys at the bar, eh, daughter? Seamus and Liam, Sal Corderi, the Italian here, Sandy O’Connor down there, his wife, Sue—”
“Hello!” Moira called to them all.
“Well, now, I’d be taking a hug and a kiss,” Seamus told her.
“And you’d not leave me out!” Liam protested.
“One more for Dad, then I’ll come around the bar,” she said, holding her father closely to her once again. “Are you supposed to be working this hard?” she asked him softly.
“Ah, now, pouring a draft isn’t hard work,” he told her. Then he pulled back and frowned. “And you, did you fly in alone?”
She smiled. “Dad, I live and work in New York City. I travel all over the country.”
“But there’s usually someone with you.”
Puzzled, Moira shook her head. “I took a cab to the airport, got on a plane, then took a cab here.”
“Boston’s not the safest city in the world these days,” Liam said. Moira noted that he and Seamus had a newspaper spread out between them at the bar.
“I don’t think it’s ever been crime free,” Moira said lightly. “No major metropolis goes without crime. That’s why you raised intelligent, streetwise children, Dad.”
“He’s thinking about the girl,” Liam told her.
Moira frowned. “What girl?”
“A prostitute found in the river,” Seamus said.
“Dead,” Liam added sadly.
“Strangled,” Seamus finished with sorrowful drama.
She looked at her father, finding the situation sad, as well, but wondering why this news should suddenly make him worried about her. “Dad, I promise you, I haven’t taken up the world’s oldest profession as a sideline.”
He shrugged. “Now, Moira—”
“He’s afraid there might be a serial killer in the city,” Liam said, shaking his head. “Apparently the woman plied her trade around the hotel and attracted men of means. Therefore, you see, any lovely lass might be a target. But we’re not here to get you down, Moira, girl. There are fine things happening as well. Let’s look to the good news! We’re getting one of the most important politicians in Northern Ireland for our very own Saint Patrick’s Day parade. Mr. Jacob Brolin is coming here, right to Boston, can you imagine?”
“Oh?” Moira murmured, afraid to say more. Josh, who hailed from the deep South, had told her about a round table he had attended where men still sat together, engaging in deep and sometimes passionate discussions regarding the American Civil War. Josh was an American history buff. At Kelly’s, too, often they relived battles—and the fighting that had eventually led to the Irish Free State and the Republic of Ireland. They drank to the Easter Rebellion solemnly, bemoaning the fate of the freedom fighters executed after the surrender. They argued the strategies of the leaders, they spoke for and against the hero Michael Collins and ripped apart Eamon De Valera, the American-born first president of the Irish Republic. Of course, it always came back to the same thing: if only, from the very beginning, the island had been recognized as one nation—an Irish nation—they would never have had The Troubles that followed. She personally felt rather sorry for Michael Collins. He’d risked his life time and again, devoted himself wholeheartedly to the cause, managed the first true liberation of any of his people, and, in the end, been killed by a faction of his own people for not managing to take the entire island at once.
“Aye, a fine man, this Jacob Brolin,” her father said, brightening. “Why, the flyers are out at the front entry, daughter. We’re privileged, we are. You ought to know this already.”
She tried to keep quiet, but she couldn’t. She shook her head. “Dad, you’ll all have to excuse me if I think that violence against anyone is horrible and if I don’t know every move made in a foreign country regarding the hoped-for union of an island nation. You all can dream of a united Ireland, but I’m sorry if I think that bombing innocent people is beyond despicable. I have friends who are English who have no desire to hurt anyone Irish—”
“Why, Moira Kathleen Kelly! I have good Englishmen in here all the time,” her father said indignantly. “Englishmen, Scotsmen, Australians, Cornishmen, Welsh and a good helping of our close friends the Canadians, not to mention Mexicans, French, Spanish—”
“And excuse me, but have you forgotten your truly closest friends in Boston? The Italians, naturally. To the Italians! Salute!” Sal said, smiling, meeting Moira’s gaze and winking in his attempt to defuse the argument.
“God, yes, the Italians! Salute!” Moira said.
“To the Italians!”
The men at the bar were always happy to toast to anyone and everyone.
It did nothing, however, to change the gist of the conversation.
“Moira, you would admire this man Jacob Brolin,” Seamus said earnestly. “He’s a pacifist, working for the rights of every last man in Northern Ireland. He’s arranged social events where all attend; he’s worked hard for the downtrodden and poor and he’s loved by Orangemen and Catholics alike. There’s seldom been so fine and fair a man to reach a position of power.”
Moira let out a long breath, feeling a bit foolish. All she’d wanted was to get everyone off the subject. Instead, she’d nearly created a passionate argument herself.
“Well, then, I’m thrilled that this man is coming to our country, to our city—”
“You’ll want him on your program,” Seamus said.
“Aye, and then maybe we’ll all get to meet him,” Liam agreed.
“Well, we’ll see,” Moira murmured. “We planned on asking Mum to make a traditional Irish meal, tell leprechaun stories, things like that.”
“Aye, but you’ll want the parade on your show,” her father insisted.
“Moira?”
She had seldom been so relieved to hear her name called. She spun around, delighted to see her younger sister, Colleen, coming to her, threading her way through the crowd.
They’d fought like cats and dogs as children, but now Colleen was incredibly dear to her. Her sister was beautiful, Moira’s height, with red hair a far softer shade than Moira’s deep auburn. She had Granny Jon’s hazel eyes and a face of sheer light and beauty. She had been living in Los Angeles for the last two years, to their parents’ great dismay. But she had been hired as the lead model for a burgeoning new cosmetics line, and though they were disconsolate that she spent so much time so far away, they were also as proud as it was possible to be. Her face was appearing in magazines across the country.
Colleen hugged her. “When did you get in?”
“Thirty minutes ago. You?”
“Earlier this afternoon. Have you seen Patrick yet?”
“No, but he’s down here, right?”
“With the band. Along with Danny.”
Moira jerked her head around. She’d heard the band playing since she’d come in, but Jeff Dolan had been doing the singing—she’d heard Jeff play and sing at least a third of her life, and she knew the sound of his voice like the back of her hand. Now she saw that her brother was indeed up with the group, playing bass guitar.
And Danny was there, as well, sitting in for the drummer this time. As if he had known the exact moment she would look his way, he suddenly stared across the room, meeting her eyes.
He smiled slowly. Just a slight curl of his lips. He didn’t miss a beat on the drums. Ah, yes, Moira, love, I’m here. Was that part of his appeal? The slow grin that could slip into a soul, amber eyes that seemed always to be a bit mocking, and a bit rueful, as well? She tried to stare at him analytically. He was a tall man, which seemed oddly apparent even as he sat behind the drums. His hair, a sandy shade that still carried a hint of red, was perpetually unruly, an annoyance to him when it fell low on his brow, but somehow rakish and sensual to the female gender.
His shoulders, she assured herself, were not as broad as Michael’s. Michael was quintessentially tall, dark and handsome. And more. He was decent. Kind, entertaining, courteous and concerned with
the well-being of those around him. When she’d first met Michael, right after the Christmas holidays, she’d thought he was definitely appealing, sexy. Then she’d thought he was intelligent, bright and witty. Then she’d started becoming emotionally involved with him. But with Danny…
He had just been there. A whirlwind in her life, coming and going, visiting her folks with his uncle when he’d been young, coming on his own once he’d turned eighteen. He was Patrick’s age, three years older than she was, and he’d been someone she’d adored when she’d been ten and he’d been thirteen, the first time he had arrived. He’d come back when she was fourteen, fifteen, sixteen and then eighteen, and it had been that year when she’d realized there was nothing in the world that she wanted as badly as she wanted Dan O’Hara. Maybe he’d resisted at first. He’d just graduated from college with a degree in journalism. He had a passion to write; to change the world, and she was still wet behind the ears, not to mention the fact that she was also the child of his good American friends. So she’d set out to have what she wanted. She was enthralled, in awe, and being with him changed none of that. Neither did it change Danny. He’d told her that he was bad for her, that she was young, that she needed to see the world, know the world. And still, year after year, she had waited, going to school, loving the learning, looking, always looking, hoping for someone who could make her forget Danny was in the world somewhere. Danny, with his passion and, always, a level of energy about him that was electric. She knew that he cared for her; perhaps in his way he loved her. Just not as much as he loved the rest of the world—or at least his precious Ireland. As she’d gotten older, she’d begun to understand him in a way. She was an American, and she loved being an American. And she had her own dreams and aspirations. They weren’t meant to be together, but that had never stopped her from wanting him.
But now she had found someone. Michael. She inhaled deeply, forced a casual smile. So you’re here, Danny. Good for you, nice to see you. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a great life that I’m living….
She meant to turn away, but Danny’s smile deepened as the number ended, and in the midst of the applause, she saw him lean over to whisper to Jeff Dolan and her brother.
Night of the Blackbird Page 5