The Angel
Page 31
“Ah, but you love it, don’t you?”
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353 “I’m not saying.”
He eased onto a high stool next to his sister. The scenery on the Beara Peninsula reminded him of some of the post
cards Patsy McCarthy had tacked to the wall in her front hall. And it reminded him of stories his mother used to tell. He’d stay a week in Ireland. Then he had to get back to work.
He didn’t know about Eileen. She might just stay forever. She’d finished her illuminated manuscript before heading to Ireland. Colm Dermott had hired her to help work on the Boston-Cork conference. Bob figured she’d have to find a place to live that at least had flush toilets. But she was already loving the idea of the job. Billie and Jeanette Murphy, horrified at how Jay Augustine had ma
nipulated them, had set up a scholarship in Patsy’s name and were sending the first recipient to the conference. It’d be weeks yet before the Augustine investigation was wrapped up. Bob wasn’t in charge of it—he wasn’t even part of it, except as a witness. He didn’t like that, but what could he do? The rest of the autopsy results were back on Victor Sarakis. Still no smoking gun on how he’d drowned in two feet of water, but the medical examiner had taken a closer look at Victor’s body. He’d taken a solid hit on his left temple, undoubtedly when he struck the concrete edge of the pond. It wouldn’t have killed him or probably even knocked him out, but it could have rung his bell enough to disorient him. And there was a bruise on Victor’s back that could have been from his brother-in-law standing on him. One or the other, or both, could have prevented Victor from fighting off that devil.
Jay Augustine’s actions weren’t arbitrary or nuts, Bob thought. Augustine’d had a mission. It just hadn’t included grabbing a BPD detective’s daughter off the street. He’d 354
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wanted a mother and daughter. A religious ascetic who lived in the woods and a pretty artist and folklorist. Eileen and Keira…
Bob let the thought go. The bastard was behind bars where he belonged.
And I’m on vacation.
On his first day in Ireland, and Eileen’s first day back in thirty years, they’d walked up to the ruin where Keira had nearly met her end on the summer solstice and all that bit about a dog and an angel and fairies had occurred. Maybe it was the old hut of the hermit monk from Patsy’s story. Maybe it wasn’t. It didn’t matter—it was definitely the place where his sister had holed up for three days in a gale all those years ago.
But maybe, ultimately, that didn’t matter, either.
“Keira called before you got to the pub,” Eileen said.
“She wants to arrange for us to spend Christmas in Ireland. You, me, the girls. We’ll stay in fancy places in Dublin and Kenmare. Can you imagine, Bob?”
“I can imagine how much it’d cost.”
“Her illustrations have caught on, and she’s never been a big spender.”
“What about Simon?”
“Oh, he’ll be there, too,” Eileen said. “I know he will, don’t you?”
“At least I won’t be the only male. That’s what I know.”
But he could imagine Fiona’s excitement in particular at the prospect of spending Christmas in Ireland. She’d drag him to pubs to listen to music. Probably make him sing. She was getting her younger sisters into Irish music—
Madeleine had taken right to the fiddle. Jayne was more like him and not that enthralled.
Eileen’s cheeks were flushed with the anticipation of it
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355 all. “You can see it, can’t you, Bob? All of us together for Christmas.”
“Oh, yeah. I can see me in some damn five-star hotel with those girls of mine.”
Eddie sighed with amusement. “You Yanks,” he said, setting a pint of Guinness in front of Bob.
“American as apple pie,” Bob said, raising his glass to Eddie with a wink.
“If you think the weather’s bad now, wait until you’re here at Christmas. The damp will sink into your bones.”
“You keep the pub open?”
“All but Christmas Day.”
“Good. I’ll talk Keira out of putting us up in a fivestar hotel.”
Eddie laughed, but when he set a pot of tea and a small plate of steaming brown bread in front of Eileen, Bob saw her eyes film with tears. She was thinking of Patsy, he knew. And maybe Deirdre. He drank some of his Guinness and didn’t speak.
“Ah, Eileen,” Eddie said with a twinkle in his eyes,
“sitting there you don’t look a day over twenty.”
She smiled through her tears. “Well, aren’t you a big liar.”
He laughed. “You’ve been missed all these years.”
“I have a story to tell,” she said with a catch in her voice. “A true story. Some of it’s sad, and some of it’s not. I can keep it to myself if you’d like.”
Bob kept his mouth shut, but Eddie said, “No, tell it. It’s a rainy, windy night, a good one for a story. Tell it start to finish, and don’t leave out a word.”
He closed the pub for the night. Several of the local men stayed, gathered at the small tables, nursing beers and coffee as the weather roared outside.
Eileen started tentatively, with her and Bob and Deirdre 356
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growing up together on the same street. She covered it all, from then until now, and Bob hadn’t realized what a storyteller his sister was. All those months by herself in that cabin, chopping wood, hauling water, fending for herself—
and praying, of course. She still prayed a lot. He didn’t mind. He hoped now and then she put in a good word or two for him.
As she wrapped up, she said, “Deirdre always wanted to see Ireland. She truly was an angel.”
“She still is, then,” Eddie said, a little choked up himself.
“We used to talk about running off to Ireland and having adventures and romances.”
“And here you are, back again.”
“Because of Keira. Deirdre would be pleased at her happiness.”
“And yours.”
Eileen smiled. “Yes. Mine, too. I don’t know who Keira’s father was— I just know I was trapped in that ruin for three days in a proper Irish gale, and I loved hard and well for that time.”
“But John Michael Sullivan,” Eddie said with some emotion. “He was the love of your life, wasn’t he, Eileen?”
She bit back tears. “Eddie…”
“If you hadn’t come home from Ireland expecting, you’d never have let yourself look at him. You were the college girl. He was the boy from the neighborhood.”
In the past thirty years, Bob had never thought of Eileen’s relationship with her husband that way, but he saw her blush and had a sudden appreciation for the barman’s wisdom.
“We loved each other,” Eileen murmured.
Eddie O’Shea leaned over the bar, his eyes intense now, certain. “You didn’t lose Deirdre or John Michael because of anything you did here. Your daughter’s a blessing.”
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357 Bob couldn’t take anymore. “I don’t know about that. She’s off sailing the Irish coast with some black-haired rake of an Irish fairy prince, drawing pictures of leprechauns and thistle and sticking me here in the back end of nowhere—”
He didn’t get to finish—the locals were on him. He bought a round of drinks, and they laughed and argued and talked politics and sheep and fairies. Eileen didn’t take part, but that was okay. Bob could tell she was listening, and she was happy, in the company of friends. He could feel all her anguish and guilt fall away. A mad affair that was meant to be was long over, and she knew what she knew about her daughter’s father and that was all.
Not everything in life needed to be explained. When they finally headed back to the cottage, the rain had stopped, and Eddie O’Shea joined them on the walk up the lane. His two brothers fell in beside him. It was a night for mischief, they said—and the three of them headed up the dirt t
rack off into the dark Irish hills. Bob stood with his sister in front of the pretty stone cottage with its pink roses, and they looked out at the starlit sky and the eerie mist above the harbor.
“We’re in the company of angels, Bob,” Eileen said softly.
“Yeah, sis.” He slung an arm over her shoulders and thought of Deirdre and Patsy and John Michael, and he felt them all with him now in the Irish wind. “We surely are.”
* * * * *
®
ISBN: 978-1-4268-3383-0
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Copyright © 2008 by Carla Neggers. All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher, MIRA Books, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. MIRA and the Star Colophon are trademarks used under license and registered in Australia, New Zealand, Philippines, United States Patent and Trademark Office and in other countries.
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