Grounded Hearts

by Jeanne M. Dickson

  Get back in the truck, he wanted to scream. Instead, he banged on the door for her attention, and then motioned with his hand to return, something an impatient husband might do.

  “Ah, there’s himself, getting all worked up. I best be going,” Nan said. “We have a long journey.”

  “All right then, Nurse Nan.” McClare kissed both her cheeks.

  “You give that grandson a hug for me, will ya?”

  “I will. Promise me you won’t tell me missus about this.” He lifted the near-empty bottle.

  “Now, why would I get you in trouble?”

  “You’re altogether a grand lass, Nan. Take us up on a poker game sometime, will ya? And good luck with the new mister and his legs.” He lifted his chin toward Dutch, who nodded in response.

  Legs? His fictional ailment was his throat, not his legs. What had Nan told them?

  She stepped to the lorry, swinging her hips. The men were looking at her backside, the gleam in their eyes sparking a fury in Dutch. She wasn’t enjoying the folly, though. Her beautiful face was pinched, her lips drawn down.

  “Go. Now,” she said, getting back into the truck. “They’re not going to ask for your papers.”

  Dutch started the vehicle, and the car blocking the road slipped backward to let him pass.

  “Slow down,” she said, leaning out the window. Her bright smile returned. “Give my love to Mary and the baby.”

  “I will. And congratulations, young fella. You got yourself a proper Irish wife.”

  “Yeah,” the fat fellow added. “Keep them legs good and strong.”

  Dutch glanced out the rearview mirror at the three men, still laughing.

  “What line did you feed them?”

  “The lorry driver is my uncle. And he’s under the weather, so we agreed to make the deliveries. You have a bad throat infection, can’t speak, so I’m helping with the rounds. Then I bedazzled them with my charms.”

  Her shy grin filled his heart. “It worked. You’re an expert liar.”

  “I’m not proud of the fact. Father Albert is going to get an earful when I finally confess.”

  “What was so funny back there?”

  “I don’t really know.”

  “What did you say? You tell them I have a bum knee?”

  “No,” she shrugged. “They asked why you didn’t get out of the lorry and come say hello. I told them you had a bad throat and couldn’t talk. McClare asked about your legs. So I said, ‘Yeah, they’re all in working order.’ And then the fat one goes, ‘That’s grand. It’s the third leg that matters to a man.’ They all laughed and I laughed, too, but I don’t understand why. What did they mean by a third leg?”

  Dutch let out a snort. “How many years were you married?”

  “Two, almost three.” She looked at him, confused, until he glanced at his lap. Hands on her mouth, pink bloomed over her face. “Ah, those cheeky lads. Oh! And me an unwitting part of it.”

  Dutch laughed as he shifted gears and sped over the roller-coaster hills. His smile evaporated when he noticed the gas gauge. The needle flirted with empty. At the crest of a hill, there was a fork in the road. He slowed. One way led north, the other downward to a village set in a valley between steep green hills.

  “We need a gas station.”

  The map rustled as she studied it. “There’s a safe one when we get back to the regular route.”

  “How soon?”

  “Twenty miles.”

  He tapped the fuel gauge, but the needle remained on “E.” “We won’t make it. What’s that town down there?”

  Nan ran her finger along a line and said, “Cliffside.”

  “Cliffside it is.” He veered to the right and glanced at her. “Maybe you can pray for us to have an uneventful, quick stop?”

  “I can and will.” She made the sign of the cross over herself, closed her eyes, and began fervent prayers.

  CHAPTER 25

  As they crept toward Cliffside, Nan’s heart sped up, pounding against her rib cage in a million warnings.

  Dutch downshifted, slowing as they left the twisting mountain road. The lorry crossed over the narrow bridge that led into the village, a turbulent river racing beneath them.

  “I just had a terrible thought,” Dutch said. “You think this town might be on the truck driver’s route?”

  “Maybe.” Her stomach lurched.

  “See if you can find the driver’s delivery book. Perhaps Cliffside isn’t one of his stops.”

  Nan opened the glove compartment. She sucked in a breath. Interesting. Dutch had stuffed his gun in there. From under the weapon, she pulled out a leather journal. Thumbing through the register, she found the town.

  She bit her lip. “Cliffside is on his route. Two pubs. So, we make the deliveries?”

  “No way. Let’s get our petrol and blow out of town before we draw any attention. We have to get to the abbey before dark, or I’ll never get across the border today. We’ll get stuck. Together. Alone. In the abbey.”

  “Heaven forbid,” she said, although the thought intrigued her. One more night with her secret flyboy. Ah, but she had a sinful nature.

  “What will the locals think when they don’t get their deliveries?” she asked.

  “They’ll think it’s fishy, and they’ll be mad. But if we’re lucky, we won’t see anyone. It’s only, what? Nine o’clock?”

  Nan looked at her wrist. She’d left her watch behind, along with the rest of her life. “I think so. But we can’t go through town and not make Brian’s deliveries.”

  “Of course we can.”

  “You want to avoid the Garda? Then make the deliveries, or you’ll have the pub owners screaming at the injustice of it all.”

  He seemed to be considering what she’d said.

  “Besides, if we don’t deliver the Guinness, there’s no telling when a lorry will be back here.”

  “Why is that a terrible thing? Don’t you Irish drink too much?”

  “Once again, you don’t understand us. The pub is the local gathering place, the living room. It’s more about community. Most people go there for the craic, not to get drunk.”

  “The craic? What’s that? Some kind of food?”

  “The talk. The gossip. There’s a lot you don’t know about Ireland.”

  “There’s a lot I don’t know, period.”

  He slowed as they approached the church with its uninspired steeple. The clouds parted, and the sun sparkled on the town’s wet slate roofs. For once, Nan wished the rain would return.

  A man with a red beard, wearing a brown vest, stepped out from a storefront. He stood in the middle of the narrow lane, waving.

  “Don’t you dare run him over.”

  “What do you take me for?” Dutch slowed to a stop.

  “Men do irrational things when they’re desperate.”

  “Relax. I tucked the gun away. I’m not about to use the truck as a weapon. At least, not in this situation.”

  He parked outside the spirit grocery. A hinged sign swaying in the breeze read “Keatings.”

  “Ah, good day to ya both. You’re early. Don’t usually get my order until late afternoon, but I’m glad to see you.” The man hooked his thumbs into his vest pockets. “I’m Clancy Keatings, owner of this establishment. And who might you be, driving Brian Monaghan’s Guinness lorry?”

  “No names,” Dutch muttered.

  Nan leaned out her side of the lorry. “My uncle Brian is having a bit of a lie down today. We’re taking his route. A favor, you see. This is my husband. Sorry, he can’t talk on account of a terrible throat infection, but his legs are fine.”

  The man scratched his scruffy beard and gave her a questioning look. “Well, isn’t that grand for him?”

  Dutch rubbed a hand over his mouth, but Nan still heard his chuckle.

  “My uncle’s notes say you take four barrels?”

  “I do, and I will. Just pull up alongside the front door, so. Mind ya don’t slip on the wet floor. And be c
areful around the potato bins.”

  Clancy strolled back toward the pub and propped the door open with an old iron.

  “Now what?” Dutch asked through clenched teeth.

  “We make his delivery. But don’t talk.”

  “That’s easy. You’ve left me speechless.”

  “Good. Can you lift the barrels with your bad arm? That bum knee?”

  “Piece of cake. Why did he warn us to watch out for potatoes? Is that some sort of code?”

  “Keatings is a spirit grocery. Pub and general market. Like Margaret’s.”

  “You can get drunk and pick up your potatoes in one trip? Convenient. What will the Irish think of next?”

  Nan shot him a glare.

  Dutch slid out of the lorry at the same time as Nan. He walked to the back of the vehicle, and Clancy strolled around the other side with Nan.

  Mr. Keating made a sucking sound. “Now, that must be a burden.”

  “What’s that, Mr. Keatings?”

  “Call me Clancy. Himself not talking.”

  “It’s more of a blessing.”

  Clancy laughed, revealing stained bottom teeth. Dutch shot Nan a look somewhere between admiration and frustration. He studied the lorry’s gate for a few seconds, and then, as though he delivered Guinness for a living, he opened the back and began dispensing the barrels to the pavement.

  Once the kegs were inside the pub, Dutch retreated to the lorry. Nan stood in the back of the grocery, at the bar counter, thumbing through the ledger book for Clancy’s name. Once she found it, she sat on a stool and waited for Clancy to return from the back room.

  She looked around the pub. The dark walls were filled with pictures of saints and hurling stars. A photograph of de Valera shaking Clancy’s hand hung over the bar. Rows of glasses and whiskey bottles graced the shelves above the sinks. A fire smoldered in the fireplace, where several chairs were pulled up to the hearth.

  Clancy strolled in and took his place behind the bar counter. “What do I owe ya?”

  “My uncle will square up with you next time. Just sign here for today.”

  “What? That’s highly unusual. Brian is a man who keeps his money tight.”

  “Those were his instructions. Please just sign.” Nan acted as though she knew what she was doing, as though she’d done this a hundred times. After he signed, she smacked the ledger closed in hopes that she’d appeared efficient. “Thanks. Tell me, Clancy. Where is the petrol station?”

  With a crooked finger, he pointed. “You take the lane down a bit, turn to the right when ya come to the shop with the red door. It’ll be down there, across from Dirty Mary’s Pub. She’ll be glad to see ya. She went dry last weekend on account of John Dumont’s funeral. She’s got the funeral home in the back of her pub, so.”

  Guinness and funeral parlors were not an uncommon mix in Ireland. The drunk and the dead. They have a lot in common, her ma would say as they strolled past such establishments in Cork.

  “She’s been waiting for her delivery every day since the wake. Mind you, I enjoyed having her patrons, but she’s a grand old gal, and I only want the best for her. Plus, she’s my aunt by way of a third marriage, to my uncle, dearly departed ten years ago on account of the gout.”

  More information than Nan needed, and if she didn’t leave now, he’d surely continue. “Thanks. We’ve a long day ahead. We best be off. And my cousin will be back next time.”

  “Ya cousin? I thought you said he was your uncle?”

  Nan stilled her expression, but inside her pulse pinged. Pasting on her convent-school smile, she said, “He’s my cousin, but we all call him Uncle Brian.” Her heartbeat pounded right down to her fingertips. He gave her a questioning lift of an eyebrow.

  Backing toward the open door, she nodded. “Nice to meet you.”

  “Wait. Don’t move.”

  Nan’s legs shook, but her feet remained planted. The man reached for something behind the bar. A gun. He must be reaching for a gun. She blinked, following his movements. It was over. No need to run. He had her caught in the lie. My uncle, my cousin. My foot. Now, because of her slip of the tongue, Dutch would be on his way to internment camp.

  She was bound for prison.

  “Ya look famished. Take these.”

  Nan near melted at the sight of two boiled eggs. “You’re a sweet, sweet man, Clancy.” She paced back to the bar, took the eggs, and shoved them into her pockets.

  “That I am.” He winked. “All the girls around here are mad for me. Maybe I’ve been a bachelor for too long. Too bad ya already taken, ’cause I’m thinking you’d be a grand wife.”

  “Ah, go on with ya.”

  She tried hard not to run, but if her heels had lifted any faster, she’d have stepped in time with the horse and rider who trotted past her out on the street.

  She slipped into the lorry, her body trembling, and emptied her pockets. “Go. Please.”

  Dutch glanced at her. “You talked him out of eggs, too? You ever think of taking up crime as a career?”

  “Sure, you and me. The Irish Boney and Clive.”

  “Bonnie and Clyde.”

  “Off with ya, now.” She dropped the eggs into the knapsack. “I’ll have to admit, outsmarting the authorities runs in my Irish blood, but pub owners are a mite harder to fool.” Nan continued, “The petrol station is across the street from Dirty Mary’s Pub. She’s waiting on a delivery, too.”

  “Let’s hope Dirty Mary doesn’t see us, ’cause I’m not stopping after we get gas.”

  “Dutch, we have to. She’s been dry since last weekend. This is her livelihood.”

  “This is our life.”

  “We must.”

  “Not.”

  “Yes, we have to.”

  “I’m not stopping, Nan. I’m sorry, but your safety is more important to me than Dirty Mary’s beer delivery.”

  The sun disappeared behind thick clouds, draining the town of color. Now everything, even the surrounding mountains, was gray.

  The petrol station was painted black, with white trim around the oversized windows and door. Dutch pulled up to the pump. “I need Uncle Brian’s ration book.”

  Nan laid her hand on his. “Where you going? Remember? You can’t talk. I’ll handle this.”

  She grabbed the ration book, stuck it in her coat, and then scooted to her side of the lorry. No sooner had her feet touched the ground than a tall, stooped man smoking a cigar strolled out from the office.

  “You ’tain’t Brian.” His eyes seemed to nail her.

  “No, I’m . . .” Who did she say she was? Her mind drew a blank. Wait. She hadn’t given him a name. “I’m Brian’s uncle. Cousin. He’s out of sorts today, so my husband and I are doing his route. We need petrol, please.”

  “Have ya got a ration book?”

  “Sure I do.” She pulled the book from her jacket pocket, her heart pounding. The man squinted at it.

  “Ya got a note or something from Brian saying who you are?”

  “Why would I be needing that? I know who I am.” If her heart beat any faster, she was going to pass out.

  A woman in her seventies scurried across the street, toward them. She wore a flower-printed scarf around her head, with white curls peeking out at the sides. Her tweed coat gave her the round appearance of a walking teddy bear.

  “Ah, brilliant. My Guinness. You’re early. Good thing I caught ya. I was on my way to press the father’s vestments.” She looked around. “Where’s Brian? And who’s that handsome young fella where Brian usually sits?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to find out.” The station owner held the ration book. “’Cause I won’t sell petrol to just anyone.”

  “The young fella is my husband.” She coughed after the word “husband.” “I believe I told you who I am. I’m Brian’s cousin, making his rounds for him today. He’s tied up.” Almost as tightly as Finn, except she suspected Brian was having a better time of it.

  The woman slapped the man’s arm. “
Ruari, don’t be an eejit, and stop playing LDF. They’re who they say they are. Who else would they be?”

  He flicked cigar ashes over his boot. “How do we know?”

  “We just delivered Clancy’s Guinness,” Nan said. “You can ring Clancy. Ask him.”

  “Ya see? If they weren’t who they say they are, why would they be making Brian’s deliveries instead of drinking them?”

  Ruari scratched his neck, the skin rippling like a turkey’s. “You’ve got a point there, I suppose.”

  “They’re going to deliver mine next, so get a move on. If I’m late again, Father James will be cross, and he’ll give me extra penance for being lazy.”

  “Dirty Mary, ya keep your nose out of this.” Ruari tilted his head. “I just want to know who they are.”

  Dirty Mary stomped her foot, sending a splash of greasy water over the man’s worn boots. “I’ve enough of you, always snooping. Making trouble. They told you, you big lout. Now, get them their petrol so I can get me Guinness and be on my way to the rectory.”

  Ruari grunted, then unscrewed the cap to the petrol tank. He lifted the nozzle and began filling the lorry. Nan smiled at the old lady. Angels came in all shapes, sizes, and ages.

  “Thanks for your help.”

  “Not a’tall.” The woman extended her knotted hand. “I’m Mary. Dirty Mary. They call me that on account of when I was young and beautiful like yourself, my blonde hair had muddy-colored streaks through it. These days, it’s white. They should call me Snowy Mary, but ya can’t teach old dogs new tricks.”

  “I’m pleased to meet you.” No lie. The women shook hands, and Nan was amazed at the strength of Mary’s grip.

  “So what’s wanting with your husband? Why isn’t he out here, helping ya?”

  “Ah, he’s doing poorly today. A throat infection. He brought me along to do the talking.”

  “And the thinking, too, if he’s anything a’tall like Ruari, here. Now, how will he get the barrels down, feeling so poorly?”

  “He can do that, no problem.”

  Mary stepped closer to Nan. The older woman smelled of turf, bacon, and bread. “He’s a looker, isn’t he?”