This Irish House

by Jeanette Baker

  “Look at them,” Kate insisted.

  Maeve looked. She hesitated. “They’re eating,” she said slowly. “It looks like they’re drinking, too. I see wine on the table.”

  “What else?”

  “Their faces are too dark, but their hands—” she stopped.

  “Their hands—” Kate prompted her.

  “They’re not touching each other,” Maeve finished.

  Kate sighed. “No, they aren’t.”

  “People have meals together, Kate. It doesn’t mean they’re having an affair.”

  “Look at the matches on the table.”

  “Why?”

  “Look at the monogram. What does it say?”

  Maeve squinted. “I can’t make it out.”

  “Try,” Kate insisted.

  “It looks like the Lime Tree.”

  “Do you know the restaurant?”

  “It’s in Belfast, I think.”

  “Yes, it is, a lovely restaurant in Belfast.”

  “Well?”

  “I was there for the first time last week.”

  “So?”

  “Patrick was a regular patron.”

  “Is that a problem?”

  Kate leaned forward, her eyes wide and earnest. “Don’t you think it’s odd, considering the amount of time Patrick and I spent in Belfast, that he never once took me to one of its finest restaurants, one that he frequented often?”

  “I’m not sure that’s important.”

  “He never even mentioned it.”

  “Is that unusual?”

  “Patrick was a conversationalist, Maeve. There wasn’t anything he didn’t say or describe in great detail. It was very uncharacteristic of him not to even mention the name of a restaurant where the maître d’ knows his name, enough to offer me condolences six years later.”

  Maeve’s mouth, lovely, sultry, deliciously curved, tightened. “Leave it, Kate.”

  “What if I can’t?”

  “What good will come of it?”

  “The truth.”

  Maeve snorted. “Truth, always the Holy Grail. What if it tears your family apart?”

  Kate looked at her friend incredulously. “Look at my family, Maeve. Can it get any worse?”

  The green eyes were very bright and filled with pity. “Don’t test the waters, Katie. Leave this one alone. You’ve your children to think of. Patrick was a man, not the best, but certainly not the worst. Accept that and move on.”

  “Is that what you would do?”

  “It is.”

  Kate leaned her head back against the cushions and closed her eyes. Six years ago she thought nothing could ever hurt her again.

  The following Wednesday she stayed the night in the city. Seven o’clock found her at an impasse, clenching the telephone. Her wrist ached. Coming to a decision she punched in Neil Anderson’s number. Please be home, she prayed silently.

  He answered on the second ring. She relaxed her death grip on the receiver.

  “Neil, this is Kate Nolan.”

  “Kate. How can I help you?”

  “Can you meet me?”

  “Of course. When?”

  “Now.”

  “Are you in Belfast?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

  “No. I’ll come to you, and make it an hour.”

  “Done. Do you have my address?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll be waiting.”

  Kate replaced the receiver, walked into the bathroom and turned on the shower. She stared at her reflection in the mirror and winced. Pulling herself together, she stepped into the spray. A shower would revive her.

  Her visit with Kevin had been a disaster. He was cocky and sarcastic, the Kevin she couldn’t reach. Even Deirdre’s wit and patience couldn’t cut through his cheek. Her daughter was a love, too serious and cautious for a girl her age, but a rock of sanity. As much as Kate appreciated her, she knew she must not cling too closely. The child’s experience bore little relation to normalcy. Time, the experts said, would take care of everything. Kate was beginning to doubt their judgment.

  She was very close to succumbing to panic. For the first time since Patrick’s death she doubted her ability to cope. Only her work kept her sane. Attending to the abused civil rights of the downtrodden of the Six Counties, she lost herself in their difficulties and avoided her own. Even her father’s unfailing wry wit, which once had the ability to send her into peals of helpless laughter, couldn’t lift her spirits. Kate was ashamed to admit it was Patrick’s defection more than anything else, more than Kevin, that had claimed her spirit. Despite her brave proclamations to Neil and the prime minister she had grave doubts. It was impossible to read the report and not have them.

  Kate combed her hair back allowing it to dry naturally and pulled on a pair of denims and a pullover. Deciding against makeup, she smoothed balm over her lips, zipped up her boots, threw a blue leather jacket over her shoulders and stared at herself objectively in the mirror. A slim woman, obviously forty years old, with good teeth, large eyes surrounded with spidery laugh lines, a mouth defined by recent suffering and thick, fine hair stared back at her. Her only jewelry were the tiny hoops in her ears and the gold wedding band she had never removed. Kate frowned at her reflection. She was pale and plain and aging. No one looking at her scrubbed face and straight hair would ever accuse her of vanity.

  Digging in her purse, she found her keys, locked the door of her room and ran down the stairs to her car. Neil lived near the City Centre. She was familiar with the streets around the government buildings. Ten minutes later she stood in front of his door and rang the bell.

  He was dressed casually, khaki slacks and a plaid shirt open at the throat. It suited him. He seemed warmer, more approachable. Kate smiled.

  “Please, come in,” he said, ushering her into a large room with glossy wooden floors.

  Kate looked around admiringly. “This is lovely.”

  “It’s stark,” Neil admitted. “I’ve kept it that way because I’ve never really considered it home.”

  “Where is home?”

  “Nowhere, really. Things have been temporary for quite some time now.”

  Kate pointed to a photo in a silver frame. “Is this your daughter?”

  “Yes. That’s Erin. It was taken last year.”

  The child was lovely, blond and blue-eyed, without the usual adolescent gawkiness that characterized most teenagers.

  “Would you care for a drink?”

  Kate nodded. “White wine would be very nice, if you have it.”

  He disappeared into the kitchen.

  “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice.”

  He returned with two goblets filled with a delicate golden liquid.

  Kate sipped hers tentatively. “Delicious,” she pronounced.

  His glance was probing, serious. “We didn’t part on the best of terms the last time we met. I want to apologize for that. The circumstances were awkward.”

  Kate nodded. She sat down on the couch. “That’s why I’m here, to apologize for accusing you of ulterior motives regarding Patrick’s investigation.”

  He looked surprised. “No offense taken, Kate. Your reaction was perfectly normal.” His smile lit up his face. “But I’m grateful if that’s what brought you here.”

  She felt the heat flood her face. “I have another reason as well.”

  He grinned and sat down across from her. “I’m still grateful.”

  Kate twisted the wineglass in her hands. Her feelings were mixed. She felt comfortable here, secure and protected. What she had to say would destroy the mood. But it must be said. Finally she looked up. His eyes, gray and honest and very direct, were on her face. “I need your help.”

  “You shall have it,” he said.

  Kate bit her lip. “Just like that. No matter what?”

  “No matter what.”

  “Why?” His answer would lead them into dangerous are
as. But Kate no longer cared.

  “Because I’ve never met anyone like you.”

  She stared at him, shocked. “You’re not serious?”

  “Never more.”

  “Will you explain that?”

  “Not now.”

  “When?”

  “After you tell me why you’re here.”

  She drew a deep breath. “I want you to tell me everything you know about Patrick.”

  “My report is very complete.” He hesitated, looked at her face and changed his mind. “Is there something in particular you want clarified?”

  Six years had passed. Six years and the searing pain still had the power to cripple her. Damn Patrick. They’d had a life, children, careers. Why had he thrown it all away? “When did it all begin?”

  “What are you referring to?” he asked cautiously.

  “Oh, Neil.” Kate didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “You’re so very kind to me. I want to know when Patrick’s involvement became more than defending his clients. After that we can talk about the woman or women, whichever it might be.”

  Neil looked embarrassed. “I would have spared you this.”

  She believed him. “I know but it’s too late now. If you want to help me, tell me what you know.”

  A minute ticked by while he studied her face, gauging her capacity to endure. Finally he spoke. “Patrick joined the Provos before he left secondary school.”

  The gasp nearly strangled her but she refused to allow it to leave her throat, understanding, somehow, that if she did he would stop talking.

  “He was a brilliant student, as you know,” he continued. “They handpicked him, nurtured him, perhaps even guided him into and through his professional life. When he married you, his reputation was well established. Given his record, his talent was obvious. That’s when he came under the scrutiny of Special Forces.” His voice was toneless, articulate and completely without emotion. “After the Enniskillen bombing and the falter of the initial Peace Accord, operations were escalated. That’s when the Belfast Brigade became exceptionally organized. Numbers were scaled down. Informants were ineffective. No one cracked under interrogation. Special Forces couldn’t infiltrate. Patrick had risen to an executive level. All targets, all operations were overseen by him. He was an exceptional man. Unfortunately his talents were channeled in the wrong direction. For the last five years before his murder, he was responsible for all of the assassinations by the Belfast Brigade of the Irish Republican Army.”

  Kate listened in disbelief. This was Patrick he was describing, her Patrick. How could it possibly be? How could she not have known the man she’d married? “I can’t believe it,” she whispered. “I would have known. Surely I would have known.” She appealed to him, the question begging for an answer. “How could I not have known?”

  “He didn’t want you to know,” Neil replied. “Patrick was clever.”

  “Not clever enough to prevent his own murder.”

  “An inevitability for a man in his position.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The IRA isn’t the only paramilitary group with clever leadership, Kate. For every man like Patrick, there will be one like him on the other side.”

  “What about the woman?” she asked.

  “We don’t know who she is. We don’t believe she was ever involved in any IRA targets, therefore she wasn’t important to us.”

  “In other words, she was Patrick’s mistress.”

  Once again, he hesitated.

  “Tell me, Neil.”

  “I believe so.”

  “Why?”

  “On more than one occasion, they shared a room.”

  Kate’s hands shook. She lifted the glass and wet her lips. Her stomach refused more. Her scope of vision narrowed. The room was going black and she couldn’t find her breath.

  Neil’s hands were hard on her shoulders. His mouth was near her ear. “Kate. Are you all right?” Gently he eased her down until she lay flat on the couch. “Close your eyes,” he said.

  She heard him rummaging in her purse, felt him press the inhaler vial into the palm of her hand. “Breathe,” he ordered.

  She shook her head.

  “For God’s sake, Kate. Don’t do this.”

  His voice was very far away. She didn’t want to breathe. The sharpness would come back and with it the pain. She wanted it all to go away. She wanted to go away.

  “Kevin needs you, Kate. Deirdre needs you. Stop this. Patrick was a man, a clever manipulative man. You made a mistake. You have two children. You’re alive and he’s dead. You have the best of the bargain.”

  His words pierced through her fog. Kevin and Deirdre. Kevin and Deirdre. Slowly she lifted the vial to her mouth, closed her lips around the head and squeezed.

  Twenty

  Later, much later, when the world had evened out again, when Kate could bear to open her eyes and sit and breathe and speak and think, when the searing hurt had settled into a dull ache, when once again Neil sat across from her, relief evident on his face, she came back to the question he had never answered. “How am I unlike anyone you’ve ever met before?”

  He knew it wasn’t the right time. He wanted no part of correcting Patrick Nolan’s mistakes, but he also knew that she desperately needed reassurance. The only way to give it to her was to tell the truth.

  “This is dangerous, Kate,” he warned her. “But if you really want to know, I’ll tell you.”

  She looked up at him through thickly feathered eyelashes. “Do you know that in the Irish language, the word no doesn’t exist?”

  His face changed, hardened. His eyes burned with an intensity she hadn’t seen in a long time. Could it possibly mean what she thought? Please, she prayed silently, let it be so.

  He crossed the distance between them to sit down beside her. Without warning or permission, he took her face between his hands and lowered his lips to hers.

  His mouth was gentle, undemanding. Kate closed her eyes and gave herself up to the sweetness of it.

  Too soon, he pulled away. “I think I’ve been in love with you since the first moment I saw you.”

  “Love?” She looked incredulous. “You love me?”

  “What else would you call it?”

  She pressed her hand so that it was flat against his chest. “I don’t think I love you,” she said, forcing the honesty from her lips. “I’m attracted to you. I like you, but love—” She shook her head. “I’ve never even considered the possibility.”

  “I know.”

  “You don’t really know me.”

  “I know you, Kate. Not completely, but I know all that is necessary to have fallen in love with you. Any man in his right mind would love you. You’re loyal and intelligent, generous and uncomplaining, a loving mother, a faithful wife.” He sat back, not touching her.

  She hadn’t intended to push him away. The feel of a man’s lips, his hands, after so many barren years was heaven.

  She inched toward him. “Is this the way you normally make decisions, so quickly?”

  He looked at her steadily. “I haven’t made a decision, Kate. I’m simply telling you how I feel.”

  “I see.” She felt deflated, presumptuous, embarrassed.

  “There is your position to consider, and mine,” he muttered under his breath.

  “Of course.”

  He couldn’t read her. Her eyes were veiled against him. Damn it, what was going on in her head? He’d just told her he loved her. “Kate—” he began, “I don’t normally do things this way. I don’t know how it’s done.”

  She looked up quickly, a flash of blue, very bright, too bright, in the pale oval of her face.

  Was it possible that he’d hurt her? He risked the question. “What are you thinking?”

  She shook her head.

  He decided against caution. She would be the one to reject him. Gently he lifted her hand, worked open her clenched fingers and pressed her palm against his mouth. She shuddered. Emboldened
, he ran his tongue from her palm to the inside of her wrist. She touched his cheek. Desire coursed through him. Threading his fingers through her hair, he pulled her head back and set his mouth on hers.

  There was no gentleness in the kisses he pressed on her lips, her neck, her brow, the slope of her cheek, just heat and need and passion and a feeling that finally he knew what it was like to belong, to feel a woman beside him, around him, within him, to sense her presence, to care enough to please her, to protect her, to take her burdens for his own. He pressed her down on the couch. She looked up at him, blue eyes huge and trusting, dark hair splayed across the pillows. He saw the rise and fall of her chest and waited no longer.

  He was conscious of the thinness of her, the faint blue veins under the pale skin of her breasts and the tight, toned muscles of her runner’s body. She was small-boned but not fragile, shy but not self-conscious, inexperienced but willing. The feel of her beneath him, the taste of her skin, the slight weight of her breasts, the smooth silk of her legs undid him and he touched and kissed and stroked and moved with all the wonder and care of a man coming into love later than most and for the first time.

  Kate sensed it and opened for him hungrily, completely, understanding that the differences between them might well be too much for this night to be repeated. It wasn’t the physical satisfaction she missed. That had been rare, even when Patrick took his time to please her. It was the closeness she craved, the heat and muscle of a hair-rough body pressed against her own, the incredible intimacy of joining, the rising tension, harsh breathing, words, soft and low, muffled against her throat, the dizzy pleasure of lips on her breast and, finally, the moment of release, liquid warmth spreading through her, arms tightening, breath slowing and the even, steady drum of a heart beating in unison with hers. Secure in her expectations, anticipation rising, she closed her eyes.

  She couldn’t say when she first realized that nothing was the same. All at once they were upon her, sensations she’d never known her body was capable of feeling. Neil Anderson was not Patrick Nolan and lovemaking was as different as one man was from another. She welcomed it, the heat, the desire, the wanton urges of her newly awakened body demanding more and more until she felt it, the shattering moment where she no longer cared that her soul had been sold to a man that Patrick would have called the enemy.