by Dorien Kelly
Kylie stepped into the circle of his arms and rested her head against his chest before asking, “How is he?”
“Better now that he’s through fouling the inside of my car. Six pints of stout in the man, at least.”
Pulling away, she winced. “Oh lord, did he . . .” She trailed off before giving the act its evocative name. “I’ll clean it.”
He drew her back into his embrace. “No. Your da and I had ourselves a chat. You’re not cleaning after him, not the mess in my car and not anything else he might do.”
Kylie sighed. She’d already learned that cleaning up after Johnny was futile.
“You’re a wise man, Michael Kilbride. Where were you four years ago when I was starving myself and needed the sense knocked into my head?”
He laughed. “Getting some sense knocked into my own, of course.” He paused and hugged her tighter. “And you’re still not treating yourself nearly well enough to suit me. I’m serious about us getting away I was thinking the west—Connemara, maybe. Or someplace else if you’re in the mood for a city.”
She smiled and let her fingertips trace the line of his jaw, sexy with a day’s growth of beard. “Wherever you want sounds grand.”
He gave her a quick kiss, then set her away from him. “Any more and I’d be tempted to take you into that field, sheep and stray dogs be damned.”
The deep timbre of his voice let her know his words were more truth than joke. She loved the feeling of power that gave her.
“Get some sleep, love,” he said. “I’m sure your da will be knocking at your door come sun-up.”
“G’night,” she replied, then murmured a softer love as he walked away.
He paused as if startled, then turned back. Kylie wished it were light enough to read his expression, because as usual, when she most wanted him to speak, Michael Kilbride said nothing.
Michael opened the door to Vi’s house, then took a step back from the blue haze of cigarette smoke that reached out to draw him in. Frowning, he entered and hung his jacket on the hook next to the door.
“I liked it better when you celebrated with music and orange drink,” he called to his sister.
No smart remark flew back his way.
“Vi?”
The sounds of scraping chairs and muffled voices came from the kitchen. He pushed open the door. Pat and Danny were hunched over the table. Each had one handful of playing cards, the other hand beneath the table, and a face that couldn’t bluff worth a damn.
Michael nodded. “Boys.”
“Didn’t expect you home so soon,” Pat offered.
“Been smoking, have you?”
“N-no,” Danny stammered. “Nasty stuff, that.”
“Might stunt our growth,” Pat chimed in.
Michael raised a brow at the absurdity of that statement. “And is your belly bothering you, Pat? You’re all folded over.”
“Nah, just tired.”
Michael came closer and settled a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Let me help you up, and we’ll get you to bed.” He hauled Pat from his chair.
Michael shook his head at the whiskey bottle that tumbled from Pat’s lap. Pat bent down to retrieve it.
“You might as well get the glass and the ashtray while you’re down there,” Michael commented. “And you, Danny, put your glass on the table.”
Pat dumped the contraband, then edged toward the door.
“Back here and sit,” Michael ordered without looking away from Danny. Pat was smart enough not to try to run.
Michael pulled out a chair, then sat, too. “Cards, cigarettes, whiskey... What’s the matter, couldn’t you find a couple of willing women to round out the picture?”
He sighed, wondering whether it was the full moon that was making throats seem parched for a drink, or if it was just his stinkin’ luck. “Here’s the thing of it, boys. Most any other night than this, I’d be a bit more tolerant of your activities, but you’ve shown the Kilbride talent for timing. I’m not feeling inclined to mercy.”
“Honest, it’s the first time—”
“Don’t be adding lying to the list.” Michael hefted the whiskey bottle. Only a few inches remained, and he was damned sure the balance hadn’t gone down the twins, or they’d be dead by now. “Where’d you find this?”
Jaws grimly set, the boys stared down at the table-top.
“You don’t want to do this the hard way.”
“In Vi’s closet,” Pat finally said.
“Well, I’ll give you credit for meeting my eyes and telling me the truth. But I still have to say you’re the stupidest pair to have come my way in a long time. Snooping and stealing from the woman who took you in?”
“She wouldn’t take us to the pub like we asked, then Mam called and said—”
He ignored the second bit, though a call from Mam would put him in need of a drink, too.
“You’re underage, you fools.” He unscrewed the whiskey bottle. “Give me your glasses.”
They slid them his way. As Michael divided the rest of the whiskey between the two, their eyes grew huge.
“One of the things I’ve had to learn is my way around the kitchen,” Michael said as he pushed back his chair and strolled to the fridge. “No point in having a dull diet, now is there?”
He opened the fridge, then pulled out two eggs and whatever the white mess was that Vi had been keeping. “You two seem to be in the mood to try new things.”
He set the bowl and eggs on the table. The boys, he noticed, were looking a wee bit washed out. He cracked an egg into each whiskey, then reached his hand into the bowl of moldy God-knows-what.
As he dropped globs into the glasses, he said, “You’ll have to tell me if this bears repeating.”
He shoved a glass toward each boy, hoping he was doing right, and admitting to himself that he didn’t know jack-all about being a parent. “Now drink up.”
“You’re f-f- insane!” Danny howled.
“Fifty pence from you both because I know what you meant to say, Danny. And no, I’m not insane. Now drink up or I’ll let Vi decide your punishment. She’s a regular ball buster when she’s got the mind to be. Hell, this’ll look as tasty as a trifle by the time she’s done with you.”
“I don’t see as we got much choice,” Pat said to Danny. “And it’ll be over with quick.”
Michael smiled. “And boys, see that it doesn’t come back up. I won’t vouch for its flavor the second time down.”
Half an hour later, the boys were sprawled on old blankets in the backyard—in case the whiskey ventured back up—and because a night outside their sister’s roof might give them a finer appreciation of her privacy.
Michael was looking forward to a night spent in a real bed. Room to stretch out, room to roll, and room to dream. He was halfway up the steps when the phone rang. Mentally fining himself fifty pence for his muttered comment, he made his way back down.
“ ‘Lo?” he growled into the phone.
At the silence on the other end, he gave it a full, formal “Hello?”
“I paid Ballymuir a visit, size of a flea’s ass that it is. Saw your teacher, too. She’s really quite pretty. Seems almost a shame to put a bullet through her head.”
The breath slammed from Michael’s body.
“Who is this?” he asked, even though he knew. God help him, he knew.
“You can’t have forgotten me so quickly. I haven’t forgotten you... Mickey.”
“What do you want?”
“To be paid back for what you took from me. Time’s come, my friend.”
The line went dead.
“Goddamn you, Rourke,” he whispered to a ghost. “Goddamn you.”
Michael hung up the phone and leaned his head against the wall. He’d eaten little, which was a blessing because soon he was bent over the toilet losing everything he had. After a long shower, he lay in bed, hollow and horrified, almost afraid to sleep.
There was an answer to this ugliness, one so bleak he could sca
rcely let the thought form in his mind. But he had no choice. He rose, made a call to Galway Information, then stared at the ceiling, trying to find the grace to accept the unacceptable.
When exhaustion overtook him, he dreamed he was tumbling down a mountainside, a bloody fall with breath and heart and hope torn from him. Dervla McLohne and Brian Rourke cheered as he fell.
But what terrified him most was that Kylie was falling with him.
And he couldn’t save her.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Treachery returns.
—Irish Proverb
No matter how much he’d drunk the night before, Johnny O’Shea was an early riser. Until the rapping at the front door awakened her, Kylie had forgotten this. She pulled on her old velvet robe and staggered toward the noise.
After steeling herself for the inevitable, she opened the door. Johnny strolled in. He flicked a glance toward her wrapper. “Still own that, do you? Doesn’t look fit for the rag bag.”
“I haven’t had money for extras.”
Her father didn’t comment. He made his way to the kitchen on what had to be sheer instinct. Kylie followed, marveling that it wasn’t even dawn and already she was apologizing for something that was his fault. While he rooted around in the fridge, she looked out the kitchen window for any sign of sun.
“What time is it, Da?”
“Not quite gone six. Where’s the eggs and rashers?”
“At this hour, the eggs are still with the chickens and the rashers on the hoof. Though you can feel free to start a pot going for tea, and I think there’s some muesli in the cupboard.”
“Muesli?” He spat the word as if it were toxic. “You call that food?”
“Yes, I do. I’m going to shower now and get ready for work. I’d say make yourself at home, but I think you need to keep firmly in mind you’re a visitor.”
“So you won’t be fixing me a grand welcome-home breakfast?”
“No, but I’ll give you a lift into town when I leave. You’d best be thinking about finding work and a place to stay.”
“Work?” If muesli had been toxic, work appeared to be utterly lethal. “You mean work for someone—in a shop?”
“Or an office or a back room or sweeping the streets, if that’s what it comes to. I won’t support you, Da.”
Mouth sloping in a mournful curve, he announced, “I’ll go on the dole, then. If my own daughter won’t care for me ‘til I get back on my feet, at least my country will.”
She rolled her eyes. A fine time to embrace patriotism. And even more convenient how he’d failed to mention the money he said he’d hidden away.
“Do what you must. Just make sure it’s legal.”
“I’ll settle for not being caught.”
And that, Kylie decided as she stalked off to the shower, was Mr. Johnny O’Shea’s problem in a nutshell.
Despite his protestations that O’Connor’s Pub was more centrally located, at seven forty-five Kylie dropped her da in front of the hardware store.
“If another pint’s all you have in mind, you can walk to the pub and wait ‘til opening time,” she said. “The exercise’ll do you some good.”
“You’ve grown into an ungrateful woman. Hard and ungrateful.” He curled his lip at the “help wanted” sign in the hardware window and turned in the direction of O’Connor’s.
As Kylie watched him walk away, she recalled those childhood days when she’d thought her father gloriously strong and perfect, and believed that he could save her from death itself. She sighed, feeling melancholy and wholly inadequate to deal with Da as he really was. Likely, as he always had been.
Far down the hill, a uniformed man stepped from a doorway and stopped her da. Whatever the man was saying, Da didn’t seem to like. He was all puffed up and thumping the Garda on the chest with one index finger.
She needed to move closer. The narrow stretch of street was lined with the cars of those who lived above the shops, so she left hers where it was and stepped out. She’d walked no more than a quarter-block when she realized it was Gerry.
“Da, not trouble so soon,” she whispered. “And above all, not with Gerry.”
She knew she should rescue her father. Still, she hesitated. It would be so simple—so painless—to turn back and pretend she saw nothing. After all, Gerry might go away all on his own. She winced at the path her thoughts had taken.
Might.
For too long, she’d let what might happen rule her life. If she had talked to even a single boy in her time at university, she might have been attacked again. If she had stood up for Michael in O’Connor’s Pub, she might have risked her job. And for all those mights, all those illusory disasters, she had let herself become less than the person she knew she could be.
“You must have learned by now,” Kylie told herself. “Jump in with both feet.” Then she did.
“Da,” she called as she jogged toward the pair, “I was wondering if you could pick up a few bits for dinner.”
They turned to watch her. She pulled in front of them and rounded her eyes into what she hoped was a look of surprise.
“Oh, Gerry, it’s you.”
“And who did you think it would be giving me this welcome,” her father snapped. “His Holiness all the way from Rome?”
Gerry’s cheeks were mottled crimson. He looked somewhere past her and gave a curt nod.
Kylie ignored the unpleasant undercurrents and focused on moving her father along. “Well, Da, you’d best be heading toward the market. Mr. Spillane is in there early enough that you shouldn’t have to wait long.”
“Young Mr. Flynn and I need to finish our talk.”
“Perhaps another time would be better.” She brightened as she glanced down the walk. “Besides, isn’t that Mr. O’Bannion down the way? I heard he got a job at the dog track in Tralee.”
“Really, now? Working at the track...”
Johnny took off at a fine clip, leaving Kylie and Gerry alone. There was no fleeing now. And there was no pretending she could just skirt past the ugliness between them. Not without failing herself.
“About the other night,” she began, with no idea where she might end up. Seeking a better handhold on diplomacy, she paused, then started again. “I know that it’s going to be difficult, seeing each other after what happened—”
Gerry frowned. “What are you talking about?”
Kylie felt as though the world were slipping from beneath her. While she’d imagined hostility, outright denial had never been a possibility.
“At Breege Flaherty’s barn?”
“I think you’ve finally gone over the edge.” The red flush hadn’t left Gerry’s face, and his eyes never once met hers. “I haven’t been there in years.”
Tears of pure rage burnt at her eyes. “You want to pretend the other night never happened? Fine then, add it to your list, right after the night of my eighteenth birthday. But before you march off all full of yourself, answer me this. Do you even know the truth when you meet it?”
He shouldered his way past her. “Quite a question from someone who’s sleeping with evil.”
Kylie tucked her hands into her pockets, tipped her face to the ground, and walked back to her car. She’d do whatever it bloody well took to get away with Michael. And with any money she had left, she’d put up a new sign at the village limits: “Ballymuir, Finest Accumulation of Loons West of Bedlam.”
Fifteen minutes before the children arrived, Kylie sorted through papers she’d graded.
“Morning, Kylie.”
Mairead Corrigan, the school principal, stood in the doorway.
“Morning, Mairead.”
“Two things we’re needing to discuss.”
Kylie nodded.
“First, I’ve decided to give the children a holiday on Monday before the art exhibition opens. A chance to get a bit of rest before the premiere—which I’m sure will be brilliant.” She flashed a distracted smile that quickly faded away. “And as for the next, well,
it’s not exactly as cheerful as all that. I’ve heard your father is back in town.”
Kylie fought off a sense of impending doom. “He is.”
“I’ve had a number of calls on the matter—starting about the time his bus pulled into town, from what I gather. The parents have been told it’s not their concern.”
Which was as it should be.
The principal cleared her throat, then scowled at the clock. “It’s also being said that you’ve been seen about with Vi Kilbride’s brother.”
Thankfully, Mairead didn’t seem to be seeking comment, because the words forming in Kylie’s mind weren’t the sort to assure long employment.
“If this job were about educating children and had none of the parents’ nonsense, it would be heaven. Unfortunately . . .” Mairead trailed off, massaging the bridge of her nose between thumb and index finger. “Well, I feel a fool for saying this, but here it is. If you are involved with Michael Kilbride, I have to be sensitive to their concerns. I don’t know the whole of his past, but what I do know—”
Kylie’s stomach roiled. “Are you demanding I choose between my private life and my position here?”
“No... no, I don’t mean that,” Mairead said, though the way her eyes darted away from Kylie’s sent another message. “If it is true—and I don’t want to know whether it is—please be careful. Emotions have a way of getting out of hand around here, and whether it’s his fault or not, Michael Kilbride has become a walking reminder of matters people don’t want to even admit still exist.”
She trailed off, then after a sigh, squared her shoulders, seeming to smooth out the mantle of authority. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ll let you get on with your day.”
Kylie stared at her desk. The papers on it wavered with the sheen over her eyes.
Mairead paused at the door. “I want you to know that I trust your judgment, and I’ll support you the best I can. But I can’t be guaranteeing my best will be good enough.”