The church was overflowing with people, children of all sizes and ages and women, women everywhere. The Murphy family was overflowing with females, with only the odd male here and there to help keep the numbers steady.
Had Pamela not already known it, it would have been obvious that Casey and Pat took after the Riordan side of the family. The Murphys were a colorful clan, not only in nature as Casey had warned her—his tidy summation of the whole lot was ‘fockin’ nuts as a squirrel hole’—but also in physical features. Red hair, yellow hair, sparkling blue eyes, round, ruddy faces, with a few darker skinned ones who looked as though they might be direct descendants of the wee dark ones who had first inhabited Ireland in the mists of pre-history.
She followed Casey and Pat to a pew that was three back from the front, sitting in the midst of several female cousins who all had a hushed word or two for the men and stared at Pamela with frank and friendly interest.
There was a quiet apprehension underlying Pat and Casey’s settling into the pew, during which time both men looked about in a far too casual manner. Apparently neither saw their mother, for they settled and Pamela could feel the worry flood out of them in waves of relief.
She smiled and laced her fingers through Casey’s. He gave her own a squeeze and turned his attention to the priest.
The funeral itself was lovely, a proper goodbye to a woman who had obviously been well and truly loved by not just her own family but by her community as well. The family, along with friends, retreated to Lucy Murphy’s home, a ramshackle affair in which she had successfully raised her children and occasionally small truant grandsons. Pamela met so many cousins and aunties, uncles and assorted family friends who were honorary members of the clan that her head was soon spinning. She retreated to a safe corner, having lost Casey to a gaggle of women with whom he was engaged in animated conversation. She sighed with relief, easing her feet out of her heels and taking a grateful swallow of the tea she had been handed by one of the aunts.
“He’ll be a good man in the bedroom, no?” Sophy had slipped up beside her and was looking at her nephew with a fond smile.
“Pardon me?” Pamela said, barely missing choking on her tea.
“He’ll be a good lover? Are ye deaf there lass? I’ve asked ye a question.”
“He will be, indeed,” Pamela said, nonplussed into simply answering the question honestly.
“Ah,” Aunt Sophy said with some satisfaction, “I did think so. He’d the way of it about him even when a lad. The girls always buzzin’ about him knew it to be certain even if he’d no clue himself at the time. I did be after instructin’ him a bit myself.”
“I—what?” Pamela sat her teacup down on the nearest table, certain she would drop it at the next shocking statement out of this woman’s mouth.
“Ach, ‘twas nothin’ lass, though it’s likely ye should thank me for I did teach the laddie the way round a woman’s body.”
“Indeed,” Pamela said in stupefaction.
“I’d a wretched lover in my first husband, didn’t know his arse from his elbow in the bedroom, nor mine come to that, an’ I thought it’d be no bad thing were the young ones to be instructed a bit in what works an’ what doesn’t on a woman’s body.”
“And how—how exactly did you teach him those things?” she asked, not sure she actually wanted to know, yet unable to refrain from asking.
“Oh, with an anatomy textbook an’ a few drawins’. Yer man was a quick study even when he was a lad.”
“I don’t doubt that he was,” Pamela said dryly, looking over to where her husband stood in the midst of a nosegay of red and yellow-headed cousins, telling some story that had them all laughing fit to kill and touching him on the shoulders, arms and chest. She shook her head. The man didn’t have the first notion of his effect on women.
“Be glad that he doesn’t know his own power,” Aunt Sophy said, apparently a mind reader as well as a sexual guru. “He’d be a danger to himself otherwise. Yer a lucky woman though, there’s no doubt of that. The lot of us were mad for his Daddy when we were young but Brian never had eyes for any but Deirdre.” Sophy paused to take a drink from her whiskey, a fleeting sadness crossing her face. “I did think she might be here today, bein’ that it’s her mother that’s been buried, but then Aunt Lucy an’ Deirdre haven’t spoken these many years. Aunt Lucy never forgave her for leavin’ Brian an’ the boys. Nor, I suppose, did the rest of us. They were family, an’ ye don’t walk out an’ leave family without a backward look nor explanation.”
“Did any of you ever know why?”
Sophy shook her head. “No, not really. She could be a wee bit cold at times, wasn’t one to confide her troubles to a person, but I never doubted for a moment that she loved Brian and the boys.” She swirled the last of the whiskey in her glass and stared into the golden depths as though she sought an answer there to the riddle her cousin had left them with so many years before.
“Deirdre was different from the rest of us—didn’t even look like a Murphy—sort of like yerself really, all fine pale skin an’ dark hair, lovely delicate bones that looked like they wouldn’t stand a stiff wind, though ‘twas all show, for she’d a will on her like an iron poker. I imagine yer the same, aren’t ye?”
“I suppose you could say that,” Pamela acquiesced. Though she had never believed herself particularly strong, she had been sorely tried during their time of living in Boston and had emerged from the fires whole, if not entirely unscathed. Their time there had given her a far better understanding of what she could withstand if she had to and how ruthless she was capable of being.
Sophy gave her a knowing smile as if to say she knew a formidable woman when she met one.
“Brian wouldn’t take the help after she left, though we had the boys for a bit while he was in the Curragh. Pat was about five when they came to live with us an’ Casey ten. They were easy to love, those two. When Brian came an’ took them home, I missed them somethin’ fierce for a long time. We wanted Pat to come to us when his Daddy died an’ Casey went to prison, but he’d not hear of it. Stubborn as mules the both of them.” She smiled fondly at the two men in question, Casey now attempting to extricate himself from the vines and tendrils of cousinhood and Pat nodding politely to an elderly gentleman shouting in his ear.
“Well, lass, I’ve bent yer ear long enough. I’d best go make certain the food is about ready. If I don’t feed this lot soon they’ll rise up against me.”
“Can I help with anything?”
“No, yer man is headin’ this way an’ yer wee one is well occupied. Why don’t the two of yez sit down an’ relax an’ I’ll bring ye a bite soon as it’s ready.” With that, Sophy made off at speed toward the kitchen, clapping a hand to the ear of a juvenile male Murphy and giving the evil eye to a cousin who had imbibed a bit more than was wise along her way.
Casey returned to his wife looking entirely harassed and sporting at least seven different shades of lipstick on his face. “Jaysus Murphy, I’ve been mauled completely now an’ I’ve lost track of Conor. I only hope they’re gentler on him than they were on me.”
She dabbed at his face with a handkerchief.
“I swear to ye, Jewel, if ye spit on it I’ll put ye over my shoulder an’ take ye out of here. I’ve had my cheek pinched an’ my hair stroked, an’ that bloody Sophy patted my behind like I was eight years old again.”
“She says I’ve her to thank for the fact that you’re such a good lover,” Pamela said straight-faced, rubbing at a spot of crimson near the corner of his lip.
“WHAT?!” Casey exclaimed in outraged indignation, his face flushing under the coating of whiskers he always had by midafternoon.
“Mm,” she stretched up and kissed the corner of his mouth. “Not to worry. I minded my manners and thanked her profusely.”
“Come with me, woman,” he said, taking
her by the elbow and weaving her through the crowd expertly.
“Are you going to give me a practical demonstration of your aunt’s teachings?” she asked, laughing.
Casey snorted. “No, I’m in need of a cigarette an’ a wee bit of peace, though it’d be no more than this lot deserves to see my bare arse wigglin’ about in the bushes.”
“I rather think they would enjoy it,” Pamela said, red with suppressed laughter.
“Well, I’m glad yer enjoyin’ yerself at least.”
“Pat did say everyone enjoys a good funeral.”
“Aye, an’ this one is more entertainin’ than most,” Casey said.
He sought out a quiet corner of the garden, where the bees were humming in soporific content and the buzzing of the Murphy clan was barely discernible.
“Let’s sit up here.” He picked her up by the waist and deposited her on the stone wall that surrounded the garden, then jumped lightly up himself. He pulled out a cigarette, lit it, took a drag and exhaled on a long sigh of contentment. “Ah, that’s good, that is. I’ve been wantin’ one since we went into the church but I figured I’d better wait a bit or my Granny Murphy’d rise up in her coffin and have at me. She was always lecturin’ me about the smokin’.”
“So the Murphy women are a feisty lot, are they?”
“Feisty, is that what we’re callin’ it? D’ye notice the number of children runnin’ about here, Jewel, an’ how ragged-arsed all the men look? They’re worn out but good, but they look happy, no?”
“And how about yourself, man, are you happy?” She was half-flirting, half-serious, for though she knew her power over him, like any woman, she needed reassurance now and again.
Casey grinned in a most lascivious manner. “Yer more than a wee bit feisty yerself, Jewel. But then Nuala did say as the O’Flahertys are bent that way.”
“Are you up to the challenge of a feisty wife?” she asked, thinking how broad his shoulders looked, and how the vee of his throat—just there, where his chest hair curled up out of the crisp white of his shirt—was beating with a hard pulse. She swallowed and knew that Casey was as suddenly attuned to her as she was to him.
“Oh,” he quirked a dark brow at her. “I am up for it an’ then some, woman.”
He leaned in and kissed her, softly at first, nibbling lightly on her bottom lip, causing her to open her mouth to him. His tongue was warm and restless and the taste of smoky whiskey spread through her own mouth.
“Would ye say I learned my lessons well enough then, Mrs. Riordan?” he murmured softly, his stubble rasping her skin in a way that made her tingle all over.
“I’d say you’d graduate right at the top of the class, Mr. Riordan,” she murmured back, blood throbbing hard in every part of her body. She wondered if anyone would miss them if they disappeared for a small while.
As if reading her thoughts, Casey put his hand to her back and pulled her deeper into the kiss. Her hand slid around his neck into the thick silk of his hair and he gave a soft growl deep in his throat that vibrated right to her core.
“Ahem.”
Pamela jumped and Casey had to grab her arm to keep her from falling off the wall. They looked up to find Pat surveying them with no small amusement.
“Thought ye might like to know that there’s about twelve of the aunties an’ cousins watchin’ the two of yez out the kitchen window.”
“Ker-rist,” Casey said with heartfelt frustration. He hopped down off the wall, making a mock bow in the direction of the windows, put his hands to Pamela’s waist and lifted her down.
“Come on, Jewel, if we can’t have sex in the grass, then we’d best go in so I can eat. I’m determined to satisfy at least one of my appetites.” He patted her backside in a most familiar manner and followed her into the house.
Pamela, flushed as a ripe apple, managed to avoid most of the aunts on the way in, but inadvertently caught Sophy’s eye, who grinned at her.
The three of them loaded up their plates with sausage, potatoes and buttered cabbage. Casey snagged three Guinness out of a tub of ice to add to their repast and after they ascertained that their son was happily asleep in his basket, presided over by three of the redheaded cousins, they found a corner and sat to eat.
Pamela was famished, realizing she’d had little more than a cup of tea since breakfast. She barely spoke, used as she was to eating her meals on the run, as Conor was likely to fuss just as she’d sat down.
Casey and Pat made short work of their own food and re-filled their plates. They slowed down during their second helping and set to talking about the foibles and fascinations of the Murphy clan. And it was fascinating, for the Murphys were no mild-mannered bunch.
There was talk of an Uncle Peter who had run off with the merchant marines and returned many years later as ‘Aunt Paula’, and then there was a rather involved tale about Cousin Edna and her Protestant married lover by whom she’d had four daughters and with whom she had a house in the countryside. He had never divorced and Edna had defied the entire family by refusing to give him up.
Their talk naturally swung toward their father and reminiscences of their summers out west spent fishing, reading, and talking into the wee hours about history, literature, and life in general. It sounded like a bit of heaven.
One of the aunts went by and stopped to give Pat an emotional embrace, during which Pamela feared for his ability to breathe, as the woman hugged his head to her considerable bosom. She kissed him soundly on his forehead before moving off misty-eyed.
“Ye’ve lipstick on yer forehead,” Casey said, waving a napkin at his brother and grinning.
Pat made a gesture toward Casey, similar in emotional content to several his brother had made during the morning drive. “I swear to yez, if one more person calls me ‘wee Paddy’ as if I’m no more than Conor’s size, I’m not goin’ to be responsible for my actions. Here, give over that sausage if yer not goin’ to eat it.”
“Over my dead body,” Casey said, biting off half the sausage and chewing vigorously. Sated, Pamela leaned back into the crook of Casey’s arm and sipped her stout, watching the crowd through a benevolent fug of food and alcohol.
The two brothers continued to chat happily about family memories, and the occasional cousin would drift over, join in the conversation and then drift out, or an aunt would pass, re-fill their glasses, tip another sausage onto Casey and Pat’s plates, and run a fond hand across their curls in parting. Often they would reach across and stroke Pamela’s cheek or lay a hand on her shoulder that let her know that she too was now considered family. There was a feeling of such mellow goodwill in the room amidst the chatter and laughter and the occasional tear that Pamela thought she could happily live in the midst of the Murphy clan for the rest of her days.
“…Ach no, he wasn’t actually in the seminary yet, so ye can’t fully blame Cousin Alice for that.”
“No, ‘twasn’t Cousin Alice who did that, ‘twas Cousin—” Pamela never did get to find out which cousin it was who had defrocked a potential priest, for Casey broke off mid-sentence and Pamela turned to see what had taken his attention. She felt a jolt of alarm at the terrible white set of his face. His eyes were riveted somewhere across the room and then she heard Pat swear softly. He was looking in the same direction.
They were looking at a woman, dark-haired, with delicate features that had been kept immaculately, for she was in her late forties, Pamela thought. She was still beautiful, upright and delicate as a reed, and she looked terribly familiar. Suddenly Pamela understood at whom she was looking.
“Casey? Is—is that your mother?”
“Aye,” came the answer, “she is. Now, ye’ll excuse me,” he said shortly. He removed his arm from around his wife, placed his glass carefully on a table and stood, walking directly out of the house. The dark-haired woman watched him go with a tight set t
o her face.
Pamela felt certain that to go after him now would be a mistake. He needed a minute alone, especially now that his mother was walking toward them. She felt Pat stiffen beside her and she took his hand as a small gesture of support. His fingers were as cold as ice.
Up close, the woman’s age showed a bit, though perhaps it was only the strain of her present circumstances that was putting the tight lines around her mouth.
“Patrick?” she said.
“Aye,” he said coolly, and Pamela squeezed his hand.
“I think I’d have known you anywhere. You look a great deal like your father did at the same age.”
“So people tell me,” he replied, the tone of his voice giving no quarter.
“And this is?” she prompted, giving Pamela a look that made her feel like a bug under a microscope.
“This is Pamela. She’s Casey’s wife and the mother of yer grandson.”
That set her back a minute, for the high cheekbones colored slightly and she studied Pamela’s face with interest before she turned her attention directly back to Pat.
“I see your brother is as happy to see me as I expected he would be.”
“He’s just stepped out for a minute,” Pamela said quietly.
The woman smiled, though the expression held no humor. “Stepped out, is it? He turned and walked out the minute he saw me, didn’t he?”
“Yes, he did, though I think you can hardly blame him for that. He wasn’t expecting to see you today.”
“Or ever again for the rest of his life,” the woman replied, a certain edge to her voice that made Pamela bristle in defense of her husband.
“And whose fault is that, do you think?” she asked.
“Mine.” The woman said with a blunt honesty that was only too reminiscent of both Casey and Pat. “Patrick, do ye think we might have a moment?”
Pat looked at Pamela.
Flights of Angels (Exit Unicorns Series Book 3) Page 15