by Dorien Kelly
His anger began to fade as quickly as it had risen. After all, Vi had said no more than he’d been thinking since he’d first seen Kylie. “Give me some room, Vi, and I’ll give you the same with your men.”
Her eyes sparkled with humor. “Men? I don’t have even one.”
“Not one? Amazing.” He moved closer and ruffled her already wild hair. “Then I’ve made myself an easy bargain, haven’t I? Now tell me where to find Kylie’s school.”
“After the bank, I will, and not a moment sooner.”
Kylie probably wouldn’t be free ‘til lunchtime, so Michael didn’t bother to object.
“And until then,” Vi said, pointing to an old apothecary’s chest, gap-toothed with missing drawers, “you can give me a hand with this. I bought it for storage but it’s never lived up to its purpose.”
Michael walked to the jumble. As he touched the first piece of wood, memories spun back at him. Summers at Nan’s spent fixing odd bits of furniture that had languished in a shed for decades. Building her a kitchen table and chairs from an idea so clear in his mind that he’d never felt the need to put pencil to paper. The hard work, even the cuts and gashes as the body grew too tired to keep up with the mind. All of it joyous.
Michael smiled. He’d gone too long without this sort of pleasure. In prison, he’d taken a great number of correspondence courses, things like business and literature and mathematics. Anything to keep his brain active while he he’d been caged. He’d wanted to work on his carpentry, but the authorities weren’t particularly receptive to activities that could arm prisoners with awls and chisels.
Hands almost itching with need, Michael began sorting through the broken parts in front of him. Oak, and a century and more old, he guessed. A fine piece. Handmade, and deserving of restoration. A grand job it would be. With nimble fingers he fitted together two dovetailed pieces. Almost as natural as spending time with Kylie O’Shea, Michael thought and smiled. And if he couldn’t be doing one, he’d just as well be doing the other.
“There’s more than a morning’s work here,” he said to his sister. “But it’s fine craftsmanship—too good to waste for storage.”
Vi gave the chest a skeptical look. “That you’ll have to prove to me.”
“It’s been years since I’ve done anything like this.” Digging through his sister’s toolbox he muttered, “No clamps at all. No point in putting it back together if I can’t make it stay.”
“Stop over at the hardware. I’m sure they’ll have whatever you need. Besides, I hear they’re looking for help.” Never once looking up from the soft mountain of yarn she sorted, Vi added in a breezy voice, “But in your spare time, perhaps you could think about building me a bench for outside the shop. I thought it would be a nice touch. And maybe a new display case or two. If you’ve a mind to, that is.”
Some forms of prodding were more tolerable than others.
“I might,” he said in an offhand way while mentally ticking down a list of tools he’d need. And space to work, he thought, glancing around Vi’s crowded studio. But if he moved aside that pile of canvases, and perhaps that bench over there...
“Don’t even be thinking of it,” Vi warned, now looking at him through narrowed eyes. “Not a thing moves in this room. If you’re needing more space while you work, I know of some a bit out of town.”
He felt himself being led down a path, complacent as any sheep. “A bit out of town” probably translated to miles and miles away from Kylie and the danger Vi seemed to think she posed.
“I’m sure you do. But all I’ve promised to do is repair that chest,” he reminded her.
“You’ll be doing more. Grand things,” she murmured with a faraway sound to her voice.
“Whatever it is you’re seeing, keep it to yourself.”
Looking almost muzzy with sleep, Vi shook her head, then gave him a broad smile. “Seeing? I’m seeing no more than you are, Michael Kilbride. A future long put off and ready to be taken. And a chest to be mended,” she added.
With a smile of his own, Michael turned to the work that he’d loved as a youth, and time flew by.
Just before lunch, Vi and he walked the few blocks to the bank and conducted their business. Account open and feeling almost a proper citizen, Michael stopped back at the studio and retrieved Kylie’s bouquet. He doubted that she’d be free to have lunch with him, but she should be able to take flowers from an admirer. Following Vi’s grudging directions, he soon found himself where he wanted to be.
Michael stood next to Kylie’s rusted car, Just out front of Gaelscoil Pearse. The school was more an arrangement of trailers than the building he’d expected. In a broad field to the side of the trailers were swing sets, a slide, and other random bits of playground equipment obviously pieced together from donations. It was lunchtime, and the children were out to play. Their laughter and shouts to one another came to Michael, lightening a mood that was already nothing short of uncharacteristically optimistic.
He saw her then, standing in the middle of a ring of children, as though she were the sun and the children basked in her warmth. On the boys’ faces, he could see something near adoration, and they were nowhere near old enough to recognize the full impact of Kylie’s appeal. Ah, but he was.
Michael had never thought himself a romantic man. In that moment, though, he felt romantic. If he were a poet, he’d give her the words. But he wasn’t rich with verse, and the best he could offer was a bunch of flowers well on the way to wilted.
But even giving her flowers seemed a bit much, what with a dozen and more curious pairs of eyes looking his way. He glanced at the trailers. An older woman wearing a stern dress and an even sterner expression stood on the steps of the building closest to Michael. He worked up the same sort of wave that had gotten him into Spillane’s this morning, and got the same semi-welcoming response. Chafing under the woman’s gaze, he set the flowers on Kylie’s car. He promised himself he’d come back for them when he felt less conspicuous.
As he neared her, he realized that she was singing for the children. Her voice rang clear and sweet. Michael smiled as he recognized the words to Oro se do Bheatha Abhaile, a folk song about Galway’s legendary pirate queen, Grace O’Malley. The children joined in for a rousing chorus, welcoming Grace home from her fight to keep Ireland free of marauding foreigners.
Just as Michael reached their little circle, the last notes of song had drifted off in the breeze. His applause quickly drew their attention.
“That was brilliant,” he said.
“Gaeilge, le do thoil,” Kylie directed in a voice he supposed was meant to be stern. Her glorious smile rather softened the effect. Her hair rippled in the breeze, swirling around her shoulders, and her long skirt—blue with a scattering of pale flowers—danced, too.
“In Irish? You want me to speak in Irish?”
“That’s the sole language permitted on school grounds,” she replied in English, for which he was thankful. “We’re not called All-Irish for nothing.”
“Well, then I’m afraid you’ll be calling me silent.”
The children laughed. Using one hand to push her rich brown hair away from her face, Kylie asked them something in rapid-fire Irish. He picked up the word Bearla, meaning English, and easily interpreted the children’s enthusiastic nods.
With a smile of pure mischief, she looked back to Michael. “They’ve agreed to show a little mercy on a visitor. You may speak your English, and we’ll keep to our Irish. If you miss anything we’re saying, I just might translate for you, if you make it worth my while....”
He could think of many ways in which he’d love to make it worth her while, but he suspected her mind wasn’t traveling quite the same path.
“And what would that take?” he asked, letting a bit of what he was thinking show in his eyes.
Color rose in her cheeks, but her voice remained level. “A story, of course. You’ll tell us a story, and I’ll pass it along in Irish.”
A story. He could re
call a tale or two his grandmother had told. Looking at Kylie’s slender form and hair so sleek he longed to touch it, one story came to mind. “Then it’s about Oisin’s mother you’ll hear,” he said, “for she reminds me of you.”
One of the young girls closest to Kylie raised her hand. Kylie nodded, and the girl murmured something to her teacher.
Kylie laughed. “Well, Niamh says if that’s the case, she wants to know whether you knew me when I was a fawn, or only since I’ve taken human form. And she is a bit concerned you might leave me to an evil druid when you’re done breaking my heart.”
Perhaps he’d not thought through his choice of story quite carefully enough. “Well then, how about the story of—”
His words were cut short by shrill screams coming from nearby. Michael looked over to the play equipment. A child was dangling off the top of the slide, caught by a cord at his jacket’s collar. Clearly panicked, he gripped at the clothing pulled taut around his neck. His mates stood on the ground, pointing and screaming.
“Dear Lord,” he heard Kylie cry, but he was halfway across the flat field by then.
Michael was up the slide in what seemed one great leap. He gripped the boy by the shoulders of his jacket, and using both hands, hauled him to safety.
“Steady, now,” Michael said. “I’ve got you.”
The jacket’s cord had lodged tightly between the floor of the slide and a metal bar meant for the child to hold onto as he readied to go. The boy had seen a few too many rich meals, and his weight had worked against him. He was still gasping, even though his breathing was now unrestricted.
“It’s a bit of a scare you’ve had,” Michael said as he finally worked the boy free, “but you’ll be fine.” He glanced to the base of the slide and saw Kylie standing there, her face still pale with alarm. “I’ll be sending you down to Miss O’Shea. You ready?”
The child managed a weak nod.
Michael looked down at Kylie. “Ready?”
“Yes.”
Michael waited until the boy was in Kylie’s protective grip before backing down the steps. His own heart drummed with the residual alarm coursing through him. He walked to Kylie and settled a hand on her shoulder, as much for his comfort as hers. When she looked up at him, he was humbled by the gratitude shining in her blue eyes.
“It was a near thing” she said. “How can I ever thank you?”
“I did no more than anyone else would have done.”
She smoothed the boy’s dark hair. “I’m sure Alan, here, thinks otherwise. As do I.”
They were joined by a cluster of adults, including the stern woman Michael had noticed earlier. She was clearly Kylie’s superior, and took charge immediately. The Irish flew too fast and furious for Michael to follow. He glanced away, thinking it might be time to make his escape. The bright bundle of color on top of Kylie’s car caught his attention. He’d entirely forgotten the flowers.
“Be right back,” he said to Kylie, who managed a distracted nod, while still comforting Alan and fielding whatever questions her employer was sending her way.
Once back at the car park, Michael delayed a bit, hoping the stern woman would go back inside. Watching Kylie, even from a distance, was such a pleasure that he didn’t mind the wait. He scarcely noticed when a white car pulled up on the other side of him. He did notice, though, when a uniformed officer stepped out and headed his way.
The sick feeling in the pit of Michael’s stomach had nothing to do with guilt or innocence. Then again, none of his few but memorable contacts with the law had, either.
“Fine day,” the officer said, ginger-colored brows raised at a quizzical angle as he took in the bouquet Michael held in a white-knuckled grip.
“Fine enough,” Michael returned, instantly mistrusting the man—no, boy—with his smug face, which scarcely needed to be shaved.
The officer glanced across at the schoolyard. “Looking for anyone in particular, Kilbride?”
Michael exhaled in a slow, even gust. He shouldn’t have been surprised that the authorities knew he was here, but he was. He’d begun to feel welcome and let down his guard. A mistake. Keeping his expression impassive, he said, “I’ve brought flowers for a friend.”
“Then you’d best deliver them and move on. Standing in front of a schoolyard like this, it’s a sure way to draw our attention. A fine target it would be, hmm?”
“Target for what?” Michael returned, sounding calm and level. Amazing, considering the horrific images spinning out in his head. Anger ratcheted tighter and tighter with each beat of his heart.
“We’re watching you, Kilbride.”
“So watch,” he said, adding a silent you bastard. After tossing the flowers back on the bonnet of Kylie’s car, he walked off.
Nothing had changed. Not a miserable, goddamn thing.
Chapter Five
There are two sides to every story, and twelve versions of a song.
─Irish Proverb
Kylie had been watching Michael, her heart still beating a wild dance beneath her breast. When the Garda approached, the rhythm had changed to something thick and knotted. She knew Mairead, the school’s principal, was asking her something, but Kylie honestly didn’t care what.
She watched as Michael walked down the road in long, angry strides. The lovely flowers that had been no doubt meant for her lay in a heap atop her car. The officer—Gerry Flynn, heaven help her—flashed her a dark look, climbed in his car, and drove off.
“Five minutes until class begins,” she reminded her students. “You’d best play while you can.”
She gave Alan one last hug and turned him over to Mairead, so that his parents could be contacted. Kylie was sure he’d be fine once the last of the fright wore off, and he owed it all to Michael. She’d never seen a man move with such determination.
“On with you,” she said to the rest of the children still milling about. They scattered like spring lambs on a fine morning.
But much of the shine was off the day for Kylie. She went to her car and gathered up the flowers, feeling sorry for them. Touching a fingertip to the bruised blossoms, she looked for Michael. She could see him far down the road, heading for open country.
A terrible thought struck her. Had Gerry warned him off? After all, she and Gerry shared an ugly past. Not that he was likely to raise something that stood to harm his reputation far more than it ever could hers. It would be easier for him to simply mention that she was Black Johnny’s daughter. Her father had destroyed more lives and dreams than just hers.
Shaking her head, she walked back toward the school buildings. No, her father couldn’t have been the reason for Michael’s leaving. Even she couldn’t spread the burden of her family guilt that far.
Then what of Michael? He didn’t seem the type to have trouble with the authorities. But she hardly knew him, she reminded herself. And more than once she’d proven she was no great judge of character.
“Kylie!” Mairead, the school’s principal, was hurrying her way. “That was some bit of wildness with Alan, and quite a guardian angel the boy found himself. Is the man a friend of yours?”
Kylie nodded. She was about to give Mairead his name when some odd feeling made her stop. Brows arched, Mairead waited.
“He’s new to town,” Kylie offered as a sort of compromise.
“I see,” her employer said, clearly not quite satisfied. She cleared her throat and said, “Well then, before Alan’s mishap, I’d been coming out to tell you I had the most marvelous call!”
“What was it?”
“A local artist proposing a long-term special project with the children. I want you to follow up on this. I’ve told her that you’ll be contacting her.”
A woman artist. There were plenty in Ballymuir, an arts-loving town. To think that it was Michael’s sister was sheer paranoia. Still, Kylie could feel a snare tightening around her. “And who is it I’m to contact?”
“Her name’s Vi Kilbride. Do you know her?”
�
��I do,” she said, imagining the final tug of the line binding her to a fate that seemed more designed than coincidental. Three days ago the name Kilbride had been one Kylie knew only as part of the community; now it was winding its way through her life.
“Good enough. Stop by her studio after school and the two of you can talk.”
Kylie nodded, her gaze drifting to the road Michael had taken. Quite a talk that could be.
At four-fifteen, Kylie stood outside the door of Kilbride Designs. Though she had no solid reason to be nervous, she felt as though she were about to beard a lioness in her den. But there was only one way to face conflict and that was head on. Putting on a bright smile, she stepped inside.
“Welcome,” Vi said. “I’ve been expecting you.”
Kylie smoothed her palms against her wool skirt, then shook Vi’s offered hand. The artist’s grip was firm, and her expression polite and blessedly impersonal.
Seeing that this meeting just might be survivable, Kylie relaxed. “Thank you for offering to work with our students. It’s a wonderful gift you’re giving us.”
“This is far more a gift to me. I love children.”
One thing in common, Kylie thought. Two, if she permitted herself to consider Michael—a dicey proposition at best. “Well then, what do you have in mind?”
They spent half an hour discussing the project Vi proposed. The longer they talked, the more Kylie came to like Vi Kilbride. She was animated and charming—hardly the imposing figure Kylie had seen in church the day before. Her proposal was ambitious, tied in with the children’s study of the bold warriors, Fionn MacCumhaill and CuChulainn, and ending with an art exhibition. Kylie would have expected nothing less grand from the woman who had created the beautiful things in this studio. And she wanted no less for her children, either.
“I’d like to work closely with you on this,” Vi added just as Kylie was getting ready to leave.