Colleen leaned over the bar to whisper to her, “Don’t you dare walk out on dinner after all the effort Mum went to get it right for your show!”
“She’d kill me, huh?”
“I’d kill you,” Colleen assured her.
She was going to have to explain to Michael. No, she wasn’t. She felt his hands at her waist. “Dinner sounds great,” he said softly.
She turned into his arms, meeting his eyes. “You’re really too good,” she told him.
He shook his head. “You’re worth any wait, Moira.”
She touched his cheek. Then, aware that she was still being watched by Danny, she took Michael’s hand and said softly, “Let’s go on up.”
Upstairs, the delicious scent of her mother’s Irish bacon and cabbage dinner filled the air. The kids were already in their chairs, and Siobhan was helping them butter their Irish soda bread. It was a wonderful scene; Moira immediately thought she should be filming again.
“No cameras when we sit down to dinner,” her mother announced firmly, as if she had read her mind.
“No cameras,” she quickly agreed.
No cameras.
She suddenly remembered how worried Jeff had been about her continuing to tape in the pub.
Why?
What was he afraid she would catch on camera?
America was an amazing place. From his hotel room high above New York City, Jacob Brolin looked at the hive of activity below him. His windows overlooked both the street below and the park, and he could see people moving. They were faceless figures from his distance, some obviously taking in the sights, others walking as if they were in a rush to return home from whatever they’d been doing. Tourists stopped and haggled with the carriage drivers on the street. He’d been gratified earlier to see that the horses all seemed to be in fine shape. No scrawny, ill-fed nags pulled the people along the streets and through the park. Many of the horses wore blankets in the chill of mid-March, and some were festooned with flowers. One, almost directly below him, seemed to be wearing a hat. Many of the drivers were Irish; they had watched and cheered when he had checked into the hotel. Aye, he was glad to see how well-kept the horses were. It was strange, he thought, or maybe not so strange. Many a man like himself had witnessed terrible violence against human beings yet found himself torn by the plight of an animal. But the horses were kept in fine shape, and that was good.
“Mr. Brolin?”
He turned from the window. Peter O’Malley, one of his aides, had tapped on the door connecting the parlor with the bedroom. O’Malley was one big son of a bitch. Six-four if he was an inch. Close to three hundred pounds of hard muscle. He wore a suit, and wore it well. Brolin thought few people would realize that a wee bit of the man’s bulk was the bulletproof vest he wore beneath his jacket.
“Peter?”
“The call has come.”
“Thank you. I’ll take it in here.”
He picked up the phone and identified himself. The caller spoke in Gaelic. He listened gravely, then spoke with soft determination.
“I’ll not cancel. I’ll be there tomorrow afternoon.”
After a brief exchange, he hung up the phone and walked to the window. This time, however, he closed his eyes.
1973. He had taken a different road. It had seemed the only choice. He’d been running with Jenna McCleary, and things had gone badly awry. The battle had taken to the street. Bullets had been flying as they ran.
“We have to split,” Jenna had said.
He’d nodded. Split, disappear right into the midst of it. Where to hide but in plain sight? So he had agreed.
He’d gone into the first pub and ordered an ale. He wasn’t sure what path Jenna had taken; all he knew was that, later that night, she’d been picked up.
He’d heard about it. About the way she’d been questioned. How the official in charge had sent her back with soldiers who had just lost a chum. Shot down in the street when they’d been running. Maybe Jenna had pulled the trigger that particular round. Maybe he had. Jenna had paid. She had been young, beautiful and taught vengeance since she’d been a wee babe.
She hadn’t been beautiful when they’d finished with her. There had been a plan, of course; they’d never simply deserted their own. But by the time they stopped the convoy transporting her from holding cell to prison, something had been dead within her already. When the bomb had exploded in front of the car and they’d gone to release her, she hadn’t run. She had just stood there, knowing that the bullets would fly again.
He had watched her fall. Watched the motion as the bullet had struck, watched her jerk, spin and hit the earth. And he had seen her face clearly for a moment. Seen the hopelessness, seen the death in her eyes before they had glazed over. He had stood in the street, and it was surely a miracle that he hadn’t been struck. And in those moments, he had suddenly known that they had all killed her. They had all of them, every one of them, killed her as surely as if they had shot her down themselves.
There was a tap on the door again. O’Malley had returned.
“Mr. Brolin?”
“We’ll be on the one o’clock shuttle, right after the television appearance, just as planned, Peter.”
“Sir, perhaps, with what we know, and with what we don’t know—”
“Just as planned, Peter.”
O’Malley inclined his head and left, quietly closing the door.
Brolin looked at the street.
Aye, it was good to see that the horses were in such fine shape.
7
Dinner was pleasant. Moira sat beside Michael, and Danny was down the table between Brian and Molly. After the conversation they’d had in front of the kids that afternoon, Moira was a little worried about what Danny might be saying to them. She made a point of rising throughout the meal for more drinks or anything else that might be needed, just to walk by Danny’s end of the table and see what he was saying. She needn’t have worried. He was doing nothing more than telling them about Saint Patrick. As always, Danny was a good storyteller.
“Patrick’s life, you know, is shrouded in mystery,” Danny explained. “He was the son of a man named Calpurnius, who was most probably a wealthy Roman living in Britain. Now the Romans had gone just about everywhere, you know, but they didn’t do much more than skirt the edges of Ireland. The island was very wild at the time, and the people were fierce, and they lived in tribes. They were good-looking, of course, even back then, but they believed very much in magic, and in the wind and the sky and the power of the earth. They were fine seamen, too. So Patrick was a boy growing up in Britain—Wales, many people believe. And he was out late at night when he shouldn’t have been—which is a lesson to the three of you to stay close to your parents and family when you’re out. Patrick wound up being captured by pagan Irish sea raiders and taken across the Irish Sea to be sold as a slave. To a nasty fellow, so they say. Patrick became a shepherd, and he tended his sheep well, but he knew he must escape. It was very dangerous for him, because slaves attempting to escape could be executed at the will of their masters. But Patrick was a brave fellow, and he meant to go. In time, he convinced rivals of his master to help him escape across the sea again, and he came back home. His parents were very happy to see him, of course, but Patrick believed that God had come to him and told him that he must go back and help the Irish people. Patrick knew he had a special calling. His father wanted him to go to be a businessman—”
“Like Daddy,” Shannon said.
“Like Daddy. Being a businessman is certainly a fine enough thing to do in life,” Danny assured her. “But Patrick knew that he couldn’t do what his parents wanted. So he convinced them at last that he must go on to become a man of the Church. Years later, he returned to Ireland to preach a message of peace to the pagans, who were still practicing their strange beliefs. He might have been caught by the mean master he had escaped and put to death, but he came back anyway. Some say God helped him by letting the pagans see certain miracles. Others say
that Patrick’s wit and mind were miraculous in themselves, and that his power was in his words and his way with people.”
“Either way, gifts from God,” Granny Jon added.
Danny smiled across the table at her. “True enough. So here’s our good Patrick among these people. He walked all over Ireland, North and South, because they were just one back then, with many kings ruling different areas and sometimes an Ard-Ri, or High King, sitting at Tara. When Patrick came, so legend has it, there was a High King at Tara, and he was a powerful man with deep belief in his pagan priest. The pagan priest wanted to trick Patrick into a fire, where Patrick would burn to death and leave the pagan priest as the most powerful one. But the Ard-Ri wanted the truth, and he forced both his own priest and Patrick to walk through the flames. Patrick proved that his faith in God was the greatest magic in the world, for he passed easily through fire, and the pagan priest who wanted to hurt Patrick was the one who perished in the flames. Ah, but that didn’t end the trials Patrick had to go through. He had trouble with other churchmen, jealous of his success in Ireland. But in the end, Patrick plugged away, sure of his love of Ireland and the Irish people, and sure of his faith in God, and he passed through all his trials, changed Ireland forever, and guess what?”
“What?” Brian demanded.
“He went on to live to a ripe old age, still in his beloved Ireland, and so we celebrate a special day for him every year, even here in America.”
“Saint Patrick’s Day is a public holiday in Ireland, Moira, you know,” Katy said.
She smiled. “Yes, Mum. In Ireland.”
“Did he really pass through fire?” Brian asked Danny very seriously.
“Well, now, I wasn’t there. Is that truth, or legend?” Danny said. “It’s all a matter of belief.”
“Did Saint Patrick bring the leprechauns to Ireland?” Molly asked.
“No, you see, the wee people were always there, living in the magic of the mind,” Danny told her, and winked.
Moira left a bottle of soda in front of the group at the end of the table and moved back to her seat.
Michael leaned close to speak softly to her. “He’s quite a fine storyteller.”
“Oh, yes, he has lots of stories.”
“You’re not so fond of your old family friend?” Michael asked curiously.
She hesitated. She’d never mentioned Danny to Michael before this had all come up. No reason to. They hadn’t torn apart their pasts. She hadn’t given him a questionnaire about his previous relationships or talked about her own. Now she felt guilty.
And still totally disinclined to tell the truth.
“He can be very charming, and very irritating,” she said simply. She looked at Danny. “Like a brother,” she said, loudly enough for Danny to hear.
A slight smile curved his lips. He went on to tell Molly about a special girl leprechaun called Taloola. Moira had heard a lot of Irish fairy tales in her day, but she had never heard that one. She decided Danny must have been making up the story as he went along, creating it especially for the kids.
That was fine. Just as long as he didn’t launch into a speech about the oppression faced by their people over the years.
Moira looked across the table to discover that her grandmother was watching her with a grave expression. She arched a brow. “Pass the colcannon, please, Moira, will you?” Granny Jon said.
Moira obediently passed the food over, wondering why her grandmother had been watching her so strangely.
After dinner, she, Colleen and Siobhan made her mother go sit in the den with Granny Jon. They served them tea there, making a big deal of putting them into the most comfortable chairs, pulling up footrests and making them do nothing but rest. Granny Jon seemed bemused, her mother restless. Once the tea was served, the younger women forced the older women to stay put and went in to clean up the dining room and kitchen. It seemed strangely empty with just the three of them.
“Where are the kids?” Moira asked. “They don’t have the poor little things back down in the pub again, do they?”
“Patrick is putting them to bed.”
“Good,” Moira said to her sister-in-law.
“Yeah, well, usually he’s a good father.”
Rinsing a dish, then setting in into the dishwasher, Moira wondered whether to say something further or to keep her mouth shut.
“Has he been really busy lately?” she asked.
“Yeah,” Siobhan said, handing Moira a plate. She looked as if she was about to say something, hesitated, then shrugged. “I really don’t know what this new deal is. He met these people involved with a charitable association in Northern Ireland. They raise American money for Irish kids who’ve been orphaned, to help them pay for an education.”
“It sounds like a decent cause,” Colleen said.
“Yes, it does, doesn’t it?” Siobhan said.
“I’m lost, then,” Moira murmured. “What’s the problem.”
Siobhan shook her head. “He’s been in Boston an awful lot lately. Times when he hasn’t even stopped by to see your folks.”
“Well,” Moira murmured, surprised to realize she was coming to her brother’s defense, “if he’s just coming in for some quick business, he may not stop to see them because he thinks he’d never get back home if he did.”
“Yeah, sure,” Siobhan said.
Siobhan’s words might have meant that she agreed with Moira or that she didn’t believe a word Moira had said. All that was clear was that she didn’t want to talk about it anymore. And all that Moira knew was that something about her brother’s behavior was troubling.
“Hey,” Colleen said, breaking in on the awkward moment, “I’ve got to tell you, Siobhan, every time I see them, I’m prouder than ever of being an aunt to those little munchkins of yours.”
“Beyond a doubt,” Moira agreed wholeheartedly. “They’re adorable and well behaved, even though they’re still so young.”
“Thanks,” Siobhan said, smiling. “They are kind of worth everything, aren’t they? You’re going to make a terrific parent yourself one day, you know. Whoops, sorry, both of you are going to make terrific parents. I was merely addressing Moira because she’s older,” Siobhan explained to Colleen.
“Thank you for pointing that out,” Moira said.
“Well, you are closing in on the big three-oh,” Siobhan said.
“That’s right, Moira, no matter how old I get, you’ll be older.”
“You’re both so kind,” Moira said.
Siobhan laughed. “So is this Michael thing serious?”
“He’s definitely great to look at,” Colleen said.
“Looks aren’t everything,” Siobhan reminded her.
“But when you’re not speaking to one another, at least the scenery’s nice,” Colleen said.
“He’s not the temperamental type, is he?” Siobhan asked.
“Not at all,” Moira said.
“He’s practically perfect in every way,” Colleen remarked.
“I’d say he’s doing exceptionally well,” Siobhan noted. “I mean, this isn’t an easy household to crash, and he’s holding his own quite nicely.”
“Yes, he is.”
“So is it serious?” Siobhan persisted.
“Could be.”
“You would have great-looking children,” Colleen murmured.
“Just because you’re now the face on a zillion magazine covers, you shouldn’t obsess about looks,” Moira chastised.
“Okay, what a dog you’re dating.”
Moira sighed, Siobhan laughed, and the cleanup went on, the next line of inquiry focused on Colleen’s love life. Moira kept from questioning Siobhan further, because her sister-in-law obviously didn’t want to answer questions, but when they finished and Siobhan excused herself to see to the kids, Moira still felt uneasy.
After Siobhan walked down the hall and left them, Colleen asked Moira, “You don’t think Patrick could be cheating on her, do you?”
“I ca
n’t imagine it,” Moira said. “If he is, he’s a fool.”
“Think we ought to tell him so?”
“I…I think we need to stay out of it, unless one of them decides to talk to us,” Moira said.
“I guess you’re right, except that…”
“You don’t think that…” Moira began.
“What?”
“Patrick wouldn’t be involved in…anything illegal, would he?”
“He’s an attorney! What are you talking about?”
“I know. Never mind. I don’t know what I’m talking about myself.”
“I’m going to head down to the pub and see if Dad needs any help,” Colleen said. She set the dish towel she’d been using on the counter. “He loves it when we’re down there, you know.”
“I know. I’ll just check on Mum and Granny Jon, then be right down,” Moira said.
They went their separate ways. When Moira slipped into the den, she found that her mother had gone to bed and Granny Jon was watching the news. She smiled at Moira, nodding toward the sofa next to the big upholstered chair where she was sitting.
“All cleaned up, eh?”
“Yep, all done. I came to see if I can get you anything else.”
“You know, Moira, thank the good Lord, I’m still mobile.”
“I thank Him all the time,” Moira said earnestly. “You’re very precious to us.”
Granny Jon nodded, smiling. “Thank you. It’s truly good to have you children home. It’s good to be able to take care of yourself, but it’s also very nice to have loved ones who want to do things for you.”
“We’re lucky, too.”
“Oh?”
Moira waved a hand in the air. “I have so many friends whose parents are divorced and don’t really have a home to go back to. Every time they have an important occasion in their lives, they have to figure out how to manage the logistics. I know I’m lucky.”
Granny Jon nodded gravely. “Good. Half the time in life, people don’t appreciate what they have.” She paused. “Don’t be too hard on them for remembering the old country, though, Moira.”
Night of the Blackbird Page 11