“Moira Kathleen! It’s the hour. And what makes you think the innocent are less likely than the sinners to be harmed?”
“She may not have been a sinner. She might have just been trying to get by,” Moira told her father, then wondered why she was arguing the point.
“Moira, perhaps your dad is right. It’s very late, and it’s your first night home,” Michael said. His eyes spoke his regret, but it made her happy that once again he was trying to make everything work with her family. That kind of attitude meant that they were in it for the long haul.
“All right, it is late,” Moira said. “I’ll see you in the morning,” she told Michael. She stood on tiptoe to give him a kiss good-night. He smelled good, she thought. The texture of his jacket was nice against her hands. I really do care about this man, she thought. He’s handsome, sexy and so much more. Solid, decent, confident, exciting.
“Girl, he’s leaving for the night, not the millennium,” her father said with a soft sigh.
She laughed, letting go of Michael. She gave Josh a kiss on the cheek. “You two be careful going back to the hotel.”
“We’ll be fine,” Josh assured her.
They both bade her father and Danny good-night, and she walked them to the door of the pub, catching Michael’s scarf to stop him after the men had donned their coats and kissing him one last time.
“Well, it’s about all done,” her father said when the door had closed. “You go to bed, Moira Kathleen, and Dan and I will finish up here.”
“No, Dad, I’m home tonight. You go up to bed and get some rest. I think you’re supposed to be resting far more than you are.”
“If a man stops working, he stops moving, and it’s all over after that,” Eamon said, shaking his head.
“Dad, I’m here, safe and sound in the house, and it won’t hurt you to go to bed this one night,” she insisted. She made a mental note to have a long talk with her mother. Kelly’s was open every day of the week. Eamon employed good people, but he had a tendency to make his business a very personal affair, and she was sure he let his work put too much strain on him.
“Well, then, fine. Tonight you and Danny can pick up the slack for the old man,” he told her, winking.
He pulled her to him, giving her a strong, fierce hug once again and kissing the top of her head. “Love you, girl, that I do,” he said, a husky timbre to his voice.
“You, too, Dad. Now get up to bed. You’ve got a full house tonight.”
“Aye, but I’ve a sainted mother, who puts up with everything and manages a house like the best of construction foremen. Aye, she’s a rough taskmaster, that one,” he said. “Good night, Moira, and, Danny, see that she gets up to bed soon herself.”
“That I will, Eamon,” Danny assured him.
As her father headed for the inner stairway, Moira walked to the bar. There were only a few glasses still sitting out and the beautiful old bar to be wiped down. The place had been a tavern in colonial days, and the bar was several hundred years old. She had always loved it and loved the sense of history she felt when wiping it down.
Danny checked the door to the street, making sure it was locked, then walked to where she was cleaning. He leaned against the bar, his eyes sparkling as he looked at her.
“I believe you’re supposed to be working with me,” she told him, not looking up from her task.
He shrugged. “You shouldn’t be dating him, you know.”
Moira didn’t stop wiping the polished wood of the bar. She forced Danny to move an elbow.
“You’re listening to me, love, and we both know it,” he said, leaning against the wood once again. “You shouldn’t be dating him.”
“Oh?” she said, staring at him, surprised to find that the amusement had left his eyes. “And why not? Because you’ve decided to grace us with a visit?”
“No, not because of me at all.”
“Why, then?”
“He has beady eyes.”
“Beady eyes?”
“Dangerous eyes.”
“Dangerous eyes? Well, how lovely. How wonderfully exciting—and sexy. I hadn’t realized just how much Michael has to offer.”
“You should have married Josh. Now there’s a good fellow, and safe.”
Moira took up scrubbing the perfectly clean bar once again. “Now that will be great for Josh’s ego—you calling him safe.”
“What? A man doesn’t want to be dependable and safe?”
Moira sighed deeply. “I don’t know, Danny, you’d have to answer that one. Have you ever been dependable—or safe?”
“As dependable as a rock.”
“A rock that skips all over the place.”
He shrugged. “I love the United States. I was born in Ireland. That creates a divided heart, you know.”
“I read somewhere the other day that there are far more Irish in America than there are in Ireland.”
“Are you asking me to move here permanently?” he queried.
“I’m merely informing you that since you seemed beguiled into coming to the States time and time again, you might want to consider immigration.”
“If I did, would you put a cease and desist on the fellow with the beady eyes?”
“No. And please, get going, grab those glasses and get them washed. I want to go up to bed.”
“Ah, now, was that an invitation? In your father’s house? Moira Kelly!”
“That was definitely not an invitation. What are you doing here now, anyway? Shouldn’t you be at home celebrating Saint Patrick’s Day?”
“I’m visiting old friends,” he said.
“Don’t you have any friends in Ireland who need to be visited?”
“All over the island. I wanted to be here.”
“Why? Will you be preaching to the Americans again? Do you have a new book out? All about the imperialism of the English and how the entire world should just stop whatever else it’s doing and force the unification of Ireland?”
He arched a brow. “That’s a rather biased way of seeing the situation—and me.”
“Oh, I agree, but isn’t it your way of seeing it?”
“No, not at all. I think you’ve mixed up a bit of personal resentment with logical judgment. I was never a fire starter. I never claimed to have all the answers, and I don’t begin to claim to have them now. You’re American, right? You do insist that everyone knows that all the time.”
“I am an American. I was born here.”
“Okay, so you’re first generation. The ‘English’ in Northern Ireland have been there a much longer time. Centuries, for some families. The difficulties are easy to see. For so many centuries, the Irish people were reduced to second-class citizens in their own country. The English, the Protestants, had the power and the money, and vicious hatreds have been inbred into the people. But what to do now…well, that’s a very difficult question. In my mind, there has to be a reconciliation between the people there themselves, and only then can you ever have a united Ireland.”
She stopped and stared at him. “You think that one morning all the people in Northern Ireland are going to wake up and say, ‘Hey, this whole thing has been ridiculous, let’s just get on with each other’?”
“Things have been much better in the last ten years or so,” he told her.
“Danny, I watched you speak once, after your first book was published, and your talk was about ancient history and all the wars the Irish have fought.”
“I was young then, but you never heard me suggest that there was an easy solution, or that anyone should take up arms against anyone else. Yes, I was a student of Irish history, from the Tuath de Danaan to the Easter Rebellion and beyond, and in the middle of trying to decipher how such a mess between people came about, I discovered I loved both writing and speaking. I hope I’m not quite the total ham I was as a very young man, but I still love to lecture. Especially to Irish Americans. But never about taking up arms. You should know that about me.”
“Danny, you kno
w what? I don’t know you, or anything about you, any more. I probably never knew you. But I am an American. And I deplore violence no matter what.”
“You haven’t been listening to me. What do you think I’m about? Carrying an Uzi in the street?”
“I just told you, I don’t know. And I don’t care. I’m American to the bone, and we have enough of our own problems in this country. I’m going to bed. Good night. Finish up the glasses, since you told my father you were going to help.”
She headed for the winding stairs to the house.
“Moira.”
“What?” She stopped. At first she didn’t turn around, but held still, her shoulders stiff. At last she turned to face him. “What?” she repeated.
“You do know me. Deep inside, you do know me.”
“Great. Good night.”
“I’m still your friend. Whether you know it or not. And here’s a friendly warning. Watch out for men with beady eyes.”
“Michael has beautiful eyes.”
“Beautiful? If you say so. Rather hard for me to tell. So okay, beautiful, if you insist, but still beady.”
She sighed with impatience. “Good night, Danny.”
“Good night, Moira.”
As she started up the stairs, she could hear the clink of glasses. She hurried to her home above the pub and quickly locked the door at the top of the stairs.
The house was very quiet. Down the hallway, all the bedroom doors were closed. Her parents had taken Patrick’s old room and given him and Siobhan the master bedroom, with the little nursery off it for the kids, Brian happily taking possession of the air mattress. She had offered to sleep with Colleen, so the children could have her room and her parents could stay in theirs, or to take a room at the Copley with the rest of her crew, but her parents had wanted no part of that. They were too happy just to have their family together. Their children, their grandchildren and Siobhan, whom they loved like a daughter.
She hadn’t seen her sister-in-law yet, she thought. Unusual. Siobhan had gone to visit her folks, but it was odd that she hadn’t taken the children or come into the pub when she returned.
Moira passed the master bedroom as she headed for her room. She had nearly reached her door when she was startled to hear the sound of voices. Muffled, low, angry voices. One masculine, one feminine. Obviously her brother and sister-in-law.
“Oh, Christ, Siobhan, get off it!”
Then Siobhan’s voice, so low that Moira couldn’t catch the words.
“I’m not involved in anything.”
Siobhan again, still too soft to hear.
“No, it’s not going to lead to anything else. It’s a cause for children, for God’s sake!”
Siobhan must have spoken, though Moira didn’t even hear her voice.
“Baby, baby, please, believe me, believe in me….”
His voice trailed off. A few seconds later, she heard her parents’ old bed squeak.
Standing alone in the hallway, she flushed so hotly that she felt her face flame. Great. First she’d been standing there eavesdropping on her brother and sister-in-law, and now she was listening to them have sex.
“At least someone is getting some.”
She jumped and almost screamed at the sound of her sister’s soft whisper.
“Colleen,” she managed to say.
Colleen covered a giggle, dragging her down the hall.
“I didn’t even hear your door open,” Moira said.
“I wasn’t in my room. I was on the phone.”
“The phone?”
“It’s only eleven in California.”
“Business at eleven?” Moira asked.
Colleen waved a hand in the air.
“A guy. A new guy, nothing deep or heavy or anything like that. I mean, I wouldn’t crawl all over him in Dad’s own pub in front of Dad the way you did with your Michael tonight.”
“Do you crawl all over him when Dad isn’t around?”
Colleen laughed. “What have you become suddenly? The moral conscience of the family?” she said teasingly.
“I didn’t mean to be eavesdropping. I just…I heard voices on the way to my room.”
“Voices, yeah, right.”
“Seriously, Colleen, they were arguing. And I really didn’t mean to listen.”
“But since you did, you’re about to ask me if I know if anything is wrong between them.”
“Well?”
“Not that I know about. But I just came in today, too. Speaking of which, should we make tea? No, no, way too late, and you’re here working, right? We’ll have to talk tomorrow. I’m dying to hear. He’s good-looking—your Michael, that is. Tall, broad-shouldered. Big feet. And you know what they say about men with big feet.”
“That’s an old wives’ tale.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Damn it, Colleen, what about asking me how the show is going, what’s coming up next—”
“I watch television, and the show is doing just fine. And if I had anything good to tell you, I’d give you all the juicy details.”
“More so than I’d need to know,” Moira agreed.
“I was wondering, with Danny here and all…”
“Danny has nothing to do with anything.”
“Oh, you liar.”
“He’s an old friend.”
“Come on, big sister, your nose will grow,” Colleen warned her. “The heat waves used to bounce off you two. And tonight…it was like one of those static electricity things. Wow, come to think of it, I don’t envy you. Tall, dark and handsome on the one side, wild wicked past with the bad boy of Eire on the other.”
“Colleen, be quiet, will you? Mum and Dad never knew—”
“They’re Catholic, Moira, not stupid. And not even a deaf, dumb and blind female would be immune to Mr. Daniel O’Hara. I think he’s as tall, or maybe taller, than your new love. Hmm. Taut muscles, great buns. Wow, choices, choices, kid.”
“Danny is ancient history, Colleen.”
“Sure he is,” Colleen said skeptically.
“You just said that Michael—”
“Yeah, he’s pretty damn perfect. Great voice. But then again, Danny’s got that wee touch of an accent….”
Moira groaned. “This coming home thing isn’t easy. I expect to be tortured by my parents, but you’re worse than they are.”
“I’m your sister, the only one you’ve got, and you’re supposed to thank Mum and Dad daily for giving you a sister,” Colleen informed her.
“I get that speech, too. But enough about me. What about this guy in California? What’s his name? Is he tall? Big feet? You can check out that anatomy equation for yourself.”
“His name is Chad Storm, and yes, he’s tall.”
“Chad Storm?” Moira rolled her eyes. “Is he an actor? Couldn’t he have made up a better name?”
“He’s a graphic arts designer, and he didn’t make up the name, it’s the one he was born with,” Colleen said indignantly.
“Shush! We’re going to wake up the house.”
“All right, all right, we don’t want our cherubic little rug rats waking up. Patrick and Siobhan will kill us. I mean…well, they’d really kill us! I’m going to bed, and I’ll let you get your beauty rest. But tomorrow I want details. Down and dirty, graphic and—”
“Go to bed, Colleen.”
“You’re going to confess all, you know.”
“Good night, Colleen.”
“Yeah, yeah, good night.” They exchanged a warm, brief hug and started down the long corridor to their doors, opposite one another at the end of the hallway.
As they passed the master bedroom, they could still hear the bed creaking. They looked at one another, burst into laughter and quickly slipped into their own rooms.
Daniel thoughtfully dried the last of the glasses and glanced at the nineteenth-century clock at the rear of the bar.
Nearly two. He’d taken his time picking up the place, feeling distracted and w
ounded. Tense night. Naturally. Here he was, closing in on Saint Patrick’s Day.
He’d scoured a number of the pubs in the city, learning what he could, watching, always watching.
Just as he was probably being watched himself.
He would keep watching, too. He’d seen the man who had sat by himself at the rear table before. The man wasn’t all that good at what he did. A man came into a pub and interacted if he wanted to go unnoticed. Still, Daniel was convinced that the man he was looking for was going to be someone he had never seen before. Someone who shouldn’t know him, either.
Unless, of course, it turned out to be Patrick.
“You’re slowing down, boy,” he told himself, setting the last glass on the wooden ledge behind the bar. Maybe he hadn’t taken so long. The pub had stayed open late that night.
Kelly’s didn’t always keep the doors open until one, though sometimes, on a Saturday night, the pub was known to be open until two. It all depended on the clientele. On what was happening. The kitchen closed at ten, but if a hungry soul wandered in after that hour, someone could usually be found to scrounge up some food. Kelly’s never changed. From the time Daniel had been little more than a kid, he’d been coming here. Eamon was a good man. A hard worker and a lover of mankind. No harm should ever come to Eamon or anyone in his family.
The phone began to ring. Danny picked it up. “Kelly’s,” he said automatically. Then his fingers tensed around the receiver.
“Kelly’s,” he repeated. He hesitated, then added, “Where Blackbird plays.”
“Blackbird?” a deep-throated, husky voice inquired. Male or female?
“Yes, Blackbird,” he said firmly.
“I—” the caller began, then, “wrong number,” the voice uttered harshly. And that was it.
The line went dead. Not the wrong number, he wanted to shout.
Then he heard a slight clicking sound.
The phone had been answered by someone upstairs, as well. Had the caller paused because two people had answered? He hit star sixty-nine on the phone. The number came up as unavailable.
With a sudden fury, he hurled the rag he’d been using across the bar. He shook his head and, gritting his teeth, opted for a shot of whiskey before bed. He swallowed it in a gulp. Damn, but it burned.
Night of the Blackbird Page 7