Night Of The Blackbird

“Cool. I like that. Good American slang term,” Moira said seriously.

Her mother let out a tsking sound. “Now, Moira, if you can’t hold on to a few traditions…”

“Mum! I adore tradition,” she said.

“And you, you little leprechauns!” Katy chastised the children. “It’s nearly nine. You’re supposed to be asleep now. You’ve gotten to see Auntie Mo, now back in bed.”

“Ah, Nana K!” Brian protested.

“I’ll not have your mother telling me I can’t handle her poppets in my old age,” Katy said. “’Tis back in bed with you. Off now.”

“Wait! I’ll take full responsibility! One more hug each,” Moira said. The girls giggled; Brian was more serious. She kissed their cheeks, hugged them tightly one more time.

“Auntie Mo has to go down and see your father—and Granda,” Katy said. “Besides, she’ll be here for the week, like the lot o’ you. And she’s promised to get you on the telly, so you’ll be needing your sleep.”

Brian nodded seriously.

“We don’t want bags under your eyes,” Moira teased, then winked. Brian’s lips twitched in a smile, and he gave his grandmother a rueful glance. “And,” she added, “I have presents for all three of you. So if you go back to bed right now, you’ll get them first thing when I see you in the morning,” she promised.

“Presents?” Molly said happily.

“One apiece!” Moira said, laughing. “Now, like Granny Katy has told you, back off to bed! And sound asleep. Or the Auntie Mo fairy—just like Santa and the tooth fairy—will know that you’ve been awake, and no present beside the teacup in the morning!”

Her mother gazed at her and rolled her eyes. Moira grimaced, then laughed.

“Night, Auntie Mo,” Brian said. “Come on, girls.” He led them toward the bedrooms.

Molly tugged on his hand and stopped him. “Granny Jon,” she said seriously. “There aren’t really any banshees around tonight, are there?”

“Not a one,” Granny Jon said.

“No monsters at all!” Brian said firmly.

“Not in this house! I’ll see to it. I’m as mean as any old banshee,” Granny Jon said, her eyes alight.

The kids called good-night again and went traipsing off down the hall. Moira rose and stared at her grandmother sternly. “Now, have you been telling tales again?”

“Not on your life! They spent the day watching ‘Darby O’Gill and the Little People.’ I’m entirely innocent,” her grandmother protested with a laugh. “And you, young lady, you’d best get downstairs to the pub. Your father will be heartbroken if he hears you’ve been here all this time and haven’t been to give him a hug.”

“Patrick, Siobhan and Colleen are down there?” Moira asked.

“Siobhan’s off to see her folks, but your brother and sister are both downstairs,” Katy said. “Get along with you.”

“Wait, wait, let her have a sip of her tea before they ply her with alcohol,” Granny Jon protested, bringing a cup to Moira. Moira thanked her with a quick smile. No one made tea like Granny Jon. Not cold, not scalding. A touch of sugar. Never like syrup, and never bitter.

“It’s delicious, Granny Jon,” Moira said.

“Then swallow it down and be gone with you,” her mother said.

She gulped the tea—grateful that it wasn’t scalding.

“I’ll put your bag in your room—give me your coat, Moira Kathleen,” Katy said. “Take the inside stairs down. You know your father will be behind the bar.”

“I’ll be rescuing the teacup,” Granny Jon said dryly.

Moira slid obediently out of her coat and handed it to her mother. “I’ll take my bag, Mum. It’s heavy.”

“Away with you, I can handle a mite of luggage.”

“All right, all right, I’m going. ‘So happy you’re here, now get out,”’ she teased her mother.

“’Tis just your father, girl,” Katy protested.

“How is he?” she asked anxiously.

Her mother’s smile was the best answer she could have received. “His tests came out well, but he was told that he must come in without fail for a checkup every six months.”

“He’s working too hard,” Moira murmured.

“Well, now, that was my thought, but the doctors say that work is good for a man, and sitting around and getting no exercise is not. So he got all the permission he needed to keep right on running his pub, though the Lord knows, he has able help.”

“I’m going down right now to see him.”

Her mother nodded, pleased.

Moira gave both her mother and grandmother another kiss, then started through the foyer to the left; there was a little sitting room there, and a spiral staircase that led down to a door at the foot of the stairs that opened to the office and storage space behind the polished oak expanse of the bar, where she would find the rest of her family—and all the mixed emotions that coming home entailed.

3

As soon as she opened the door, Moira could hear the chatter in the bar and the sounds of the band. She groaned inwardly. Blackbird was doing a speeded up number from the Brendan Behan play The Hostage.

“Great,” she muttered aloud. “They’re all toasting the Republic already.”

She slipped in, walked through the office and the swinging doors, and saw her father’s back. Eamon Kelly was a tall, broad-shouldered man with graying hair that had once been close to a true, luxurious black. Though he was pouring a draft, she sneaked up behind him, winding her arms around his waist. “Hey, Dad,” she said softly.

“Moira Kathleen!” he cried, spilling a bit of draft as he set the glass down, spun around and picked her up by the waist. He lifted her high, and she kissed his cheek, quickly protesting his hold, worried about his heart.

“Dad, put me down!” She laughed.

He shook his head, beautiful blue eyes on her. “Now when the day comes that I cannot lift my girl, that will be a sad day indeed!”

“Put me down,” she said again, still laughing, “because I feel as if everyone in the pub is looking at me!”

“And why not? Me daughter has come home!”

“You’ve got another daughter in her—”

“And I’ve already made quite a spectacle of Colleen, I have. Now it’s your turn!”

She managed to regain her footing, then hugged him fiercely again.

“You know the boys at the bar, eh, daughter? Seamus and Liam, Sal Corderi, the Italian here, Sandy O’Connor down there, his wife, Sue—”

“Hello!” Moira called to them all.

“Well, now, I’d be taking a hug and a kiss,” Seamus told her.

“And you’d not leave me out!” Liam protested.

“One more for Dad, then I’ll come around the bar,” she said, holding her father closely to her once again. “Are you supposed to be working this hard?” she asked him softly.

“Ah, now, pouring a draft isn’t hard work,” he told her. Then he pulled back and frowned. “And you, did you fly in alone?”

She smiled. “Dad, I live and work in New York City. I travel all over the country.”

“But there’s usually someone with you.”

Puzzled, Moira shook her head. “I took a cab to the airport, got on a plane, then took a cab here.”

“Boston’s not the safest city in the world these days,” Liam said. Moira noted that he and Seamus had a newspaper spread out between them at the bar.

“I don’t think it’s ever been crime free,” Moira said lightly. “No major metropolis goes without crime. That’s why you raised intelligent, streetwise children, Dad.”

“He’s thinking about the girl,” Liam told her.

Moira frowned. “What girl?”

“A prostitute found in the river,” Seamus said.

“Dead,” Liam added sadly.

“Strangled,” Seamus finished with sorrowful drama.

She looked at her father, finding the situation sad, as well, but wondering why this news should suddenly make him worried about her. “Dad, I promise you, I haven’t taken up the world’s oldest profession as a sideline.”

He shrugged. “Now, Moira—”

“He’s afraid there might be a serial killer in the city,” Liam said, shaking his head. “Apparently the woman plied her trade around the hotel and attracted men of means. Therefore, you see, any lovely lass might be a target. But we’re not here to get you down, Moira, girl. There are fine things happening as well. Let’s look to the good news! We’re getting one of the most important politicians in Northern Ireland for our very own Saint Patrick’s Day parade. Mr. Jacob Brolin is coming here, right to Boston, can you imagine?”

“Oh?” Moira murmured, afraid to say more. Josh, who hailed from the deep South, had told her about a round table he had attended where men still sat together, engaging in deep and sometimes passionate discussions regarding the American Civil War. Josh was an American history buff. At Kelly’s, too, often they relived battles—and the fighting that had eventually led to the Irish Free State and the Republic of Ireland. They drank to the Easter Rebellion solemnly, bemoaning the fate of the freedom fighters executed after the surrender. They argued the strategies of the leaders, they spoke for and against the hero Michael Collins and ripped apart Eamon De Valera, the American-born first president of the Irish Republic. Of course, it always came back to the same thing: if only, from the very beginning, the island had been recognized as one nation—an Irish nation—they would never have had The Troubles that followed. She personally felt rather sorry for Michael Collins. He’d risked his life time and again, devoted himself wholeheartedly to the cause, managed the first true liberation of any of his people, and, in the end, been killed by a faction of his own people for not managing to take the entire island at once.

“Aye, a fine man, this Jacob Brolin,” her father said, brightening. “Why, the flyers are out at the front entry, daughter. We’re privileged, we are. You ought to know this already.”

She tried to keep quiet, but she couldn’t. She shook her head. “Dad, you’ll all have to excuse me if I think that violence against anyone is horrible and if I don’t know every move made in a foreign country regarding the hoped-for union of an island nation. You all can dream of a united Ireland, but I’m sorry if I think that bombing innocent people is beyond despicable. I have friends who are English who have no desire to hurt anyone Irish—”

“Why, Moira Kathleen Kelly! I have good Englishmen in here all the time,” her father said indignantly. “Englishmen, Scotsmen, Australians, Cornishmen, Welsh and a good helping of our close friends the Canadians, not to mention Mexicans, French, Spanish—”

“And excuse me, but have you forgotten your truly closest friends in Boston? The Italians, naturally. To the Italians! Salute!” Sal said, smiling, meeting Moira’s gaze and winking in his attempt to defuse the argument.

“God, yes, the Italians! Salute!” Moira said.

“To the Italians!”

The men at the bar were always happy to toast to anyone and everyone.

It did nothing, however, to change the gist of the conversation.

“Moira, you would admire this man Jacob Brolin,” Seamus said earnestly. “He’s a pacifist, working for the rights of every last man in Northern Ireland. He’s arranged social events where all attend; he’s worked hard for the downtrodden and poor and he’s loved by Orangemen and Catholics alike. There’s seldom been so fine and fair a man to reach a position of power.”

Moira let out a long breath, feeling a bit foolish. All she’d wanted was to get everyone off the subject. Instead, she’d nearly created a passionate argument herself.

“Well, then, I’m thrilled that this man is coming to our country, to our city—”

“You’ll want him on your program,” Seamus said.

“Aye, and then maybe we’ll all get to meet him,” Liam agreed.

“Well, we’ll see,” Moira murmured. “We planned on asking Mum to make a traditional Irish meal, tell leprechaun stories, things like that.”

“Aye, but you’ll want the parade on your show,” her father insisted.

“Moira?”

She had seldom been so relieved to hear her name called. She spun around, delighted to see her younger sister, Colleen, coming to her, threading her way through the crowd.

They’d fought like cats and dogs as children, but now Colleen was incredibly dear to her. Her sister was beautiful, Moira’s height, with red hair a far softer shade than Moira’s deep auburn. She had Granny Jon’s hazel eyes and a face of sheer light and beauty. She had been living in Los Angeles for the last two years, to their parents’ great dismay. But she had been hired as the lead model for a burgeoning new cosmetics line, and though they were disconsolate that she spent so much time so far away, they were also as proud as it was possible to be. Her face was appearing in magazines across the country.

Colleen hugged her. “When did you get in?”

“Thirty minutes ago. You?”

“Earlier this afternoon. Have you seen Patrick yet?”

“No, but he’s down here, right?”

“With the band. Along with Danny.”

Moira jerked her head around. She’d heard the band playing since she’d come in, but Jeff Dolan had been doing the singing—she’d heard Jeff play and sing at least a third of her life, and she knew the sound of his voice like the back of her hand. Now she saw that her brother was indeed up with the group, playing bass guitar.

And Danny was there, as well, sitting in for the drummer this time. As if he had known the exact moment she would look his way, he suddenly stared across the room, meeting her eyes.

He smiled slowly. Just a slight curl of his lips. He didn’t miss a beat on the drums. Ah, yes, Moira, love, I’m here. Was that part of his appeal? The slow grin that could slip into a soul, amber eyes that seemed always to be a bit mocking, and a bit rueful, as well? She tried to stare at him analytically. He was a tall man, which seemed oddly apparent even as he sat behind the drums. His hair, a sandy shade that still carried a hint of red, was perpetually unruly, an annoyance to him when it fell low on his brow, but somehow rakish and sensual to the female gender.

His shoulders, she assured herself, were not as broad as Michael’s. Michael was quintessentially tall, dark and handsome. And more. He was decent. Kind, entertaining, courteous and concerned with the well-being of those around him. When she’d first met Michael, right after the Christmas holidays, she’d thought he was definitely appealing, sexy. Then she’d thought he was intelligent, bright and witty. Then she’d started becoming emotionally involved with him. But with Danny…

He had just been there. A whirlwind in her life, coming and going, visiting her folks with his uncle when he’d been young, coming on his own once he’d turned eighteen. He was Patrick’s age, three years older than she was, and he’d been someone she’d adored when she’d been ten and he’d been thirteen, the first time he had arrived. He’d come back when she was fourteen, fifteen, sixteen and then eighteen, and it had been that year when she’d realized there was nothing in the world that she wanted as badly as she wanted Dan O’Hara. Maybe he’d resisted at first. He’d just graduated from college with a degree in journalism. He had a passion to write; to change the world, and she was still wet behind the ears, not to mention the fact that she was also the child of his good American friends. So she’d set out to have what she wanted. She was enthralled, in awe, and being with him changed none of that. Neither did it change Danny. He’d told her that he was bad for her, that she was young, that she needed to see the world, know the world. And still, year after year, she had waited, going to school, loving the learning, looking, always looking, hoping for someone who could make her forget Danny was in the world somewhere. Danny, with his passion and, always, a level of energy about him that was electric. She knew that he cared for her; perhaps in his way he loved her. Just not as much as he loved the rest of the world—or at least his precious Ireland. As she’d gotten older, she’d begun to understand him in a way. She was an American, and she loved being an American. And she had her own dreams and aspirations. They weren’t meant to be together, but that had never stopped her from wanting him.

But now she had found someone. Michael. She inhaled deeply, forced a casual smile. So you’re here, Danny. Good for you, nice to see you. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a great life that I’m living….

She meant to turn away, but Danny’s smile deepened as the number ended, and in the midst of the applause, she saw him lean over to whisper to Jeff Dolan and her brother.

“Oh, no,” Colleen breathed. “They’ve seen us together.”

“So what?” Moira whispered.

“I said I wouldn’t sing until you showed up.”

“Colleen!” Moira protested.

“Hey, folks, we’ve got a special performance for you this evening,” Jeff announced over the mike. “The prodigal daughters have returned for Saint Patrick’s Day. We’re going to get them both up here for a special number in honor of all the Irish in America—and remember, on Saint Patrick’s Day, all Americans are a wee bit Irish!”

“Daughters, go on now,” Eamon said proudly.

“Come on up, Kelly girls,” Jeff said, encouraging them determinedly. “Ladies and gentlemen, a real treat. The Kelly girls. No one can do a rendition of ‘Danny Boy’ with quite such melodious Irish beauty.”

“What do we do?” Colleen whispered. “I can’t believe they’re doing this to us. I haven’t even heard the song in ages.”

“Um. Not since the last time we were here,” Moira said dryly. “I guess we go up there. We can’t hurt Dad.”

Danny had instigated this. She knew it. She walked toward Jeff, trying to ignore Danny with casual negligence as she took the mike. “Irish-American melodious beauty,” she said, smiling at Jeff and apologizing to the patrons in the pub. “No guarantees, but we’ll do our best.”

The first strains of the violin brought a sigh from the crowd. Moira reflected briefly that, with this particular audience, she and Colleen could have sung like two crows and sentiment alone would have evoked wild applause. But she did love the song, and she and Colleen had done it together since the Saint Pat’s program at church when they had been in grammar school. Her sister’s voice harmonized perfectly with hers. They might not have produced the most melodious Irish beauty ever, but they did the song proud. She loved the music. There was a magic to it, to being home, to singing with Colleen…and even in knowing that Daniel O’Hara was playing a soft beat on the drums behind her.

Naturally the crowd went wild when they ended the tune. Of course, here, it was singing to a group of proud relatives. Moira smiled along with Colleen, thanking those who called out compliments. She felt an arm around her, and before she could completely stiffen, she realized it was her brother.

“Patrick, hey.” She hugged him.

“What about me?” Jeff protested.

Jeff Dolan looked like a latter day hippie. She gave him a hug and a kiss. Jeff had put himself through the wringer. On drugs, off drugs, politically wild—protesting everything from toxic waste to government spending. He’d survived. Cleaned up. He was still an activist, but one with temperance and vision. At least, she hoped so. She gave him a warm hug, along with the three other regulars, Sean, Peter and the odd man out, Ira, an Israeli.

“Did you notice me back here?” Danny asked her. “Or am I supposed to line up?”

“Danny,” she murmured, trying to sound as if missing him was an oversight. She kissed his cheek perfunctorily. “How could anyone ever forget you?”

He grinned, catching her after the kiss, hugging her tightly and planting a kiss firmly on her lips. She escaped his touch as quickly as possible. It was far too easy to underestimate Danny. The quick strength with which he held her belied the lean appearance his height afforded him. Energy always seemed to radiate from Danny. In a flash of time, she felt as if her flesh burned.

“Good to see you, Danny,” she murmured.

“Something light, fellows,” Jeff instructed the band members.

“‘Rosie O’Grady,”’ Ira suggested.

Stepping from the stage, Moira looked across the room to the bar—and froze. Josh and Michael were in the pub, standing behind the taps near her father.

They had arrived far earlier than she had anticipated.

Josh had a camera running. Michael was still applauding, meeting her eyes, a sparkle in his. She wasn’t sure why, but she felt as if she had been caught off guard. She was irritated with Josh, filming her unaware, and yet warmed by Michael’s presence and his never faltering support. She also wondered if Danny, pounding out a new beat, was aware that Josh had arrived with another man. She was sure that he had noticed; Danny always seemed to be aware of what was happening around him. And certainly, since Danny had apparently been there awhile, he had spoken with her parents and knew there was a man in her life.

She wasn’t given to effusive public demonstrations, but she smiled at Michael and hurried across the room, leaning past a bar stool to give him a welcoming, openmouthed kiss. Very emotional, she thought. And perfectly natural, despite the sound of her father clearing his throat. She hadn’t seen Michael in a while. He’d been traveling, making connections, when she’d made the decision to come here for Saint Patrick’s Day.

“Beautiful, babe,” he said softly.

“Thanks.”

“Very nice,” Josh agreed.

She gritted her teeth, wondering why she was so irritated with Josh for taping the performance and wondering just how much of it he had captured on camera. Why was she angry? This was the centerpiece of their planned coverage: an Irish pub in America. She was a performer; she was on a show almost every day of her life, vulnerable to criticism and ridicule. Part of the game. But this…

This was her personal life. Danny had kissed her on stage.

An old friend, that was all.

And she herself had opened this can of worms.

She lowered her head, counting for a minute.

Her smile was still forced when she looked at Josh. “Josh, you know my dad. And, Dad, I guess Josh has introduced you to Michael…. I didn’t know they’d be arriving so early.”

“I did all the introductions,” Josh said.

“Great. When did you arrive?” she asked him.

He arched a brow, knowing her well, and noting the tone of her voice when no one else did. “In time to tape the whole thing,” Josh told her.

“You know your partner,” Eamon said, making an attempt to speak lightly. She grimaced inwardly, aware that her father was a bit put out that she had greeted a man he had just met with such public affection.

“It was terrific,” Josh said, determined to show her that he was amused by her restrained annoyance. “A real demonstration of the diversity of Americana. You’ll like it—trust me.”

“How did you two manage get here so early?” she queried.

Michael slipped an arm around her, grinning. He had a terrific smile. Dimples. A square face that still offered a fine bone structure and a strong chin. He was tall, well-built, as gorgeous as usual in a handsome business suit. She loved the aftershave he used. Everything about him was perfect—perfect for her. She knew her own mind and who she should be with.

As long as Michael was there. As long as he stood beside her.

“Josh gave me a call at the hotel and said you’d left already, so he managed to get us on an earlier flight, as well,” Michael said. “I met him at the airport, then we came straight here.”

“Wonderful,” she murmured

“I can tell you’re thrilled,” Josh teased.

“I like to know when on I’m on camera,” she said.

“Well, there, then, that’s the beauty of it, eh?” Liam chimed in. Her father’s cronies never seemed to think that there might be a conversation in which they weren’t included. “You’re doing a real live Saint Paddy’s Day show, me darling, and what’s better than a picture of you and your sister singing ‘Danny Boy’ at home? It was lovely, girl, lovely.”

“Thank you, Liam.”

“Your nose isn’t a-shinin’ or anything, Moira Kathleen,” Seamus added.

“Thanks, guys, thanks so much,” she said softly, and her words were genuine. The men were all sincerity, her true supporters. “Dad, I think I’ll take Michael up to meet Mum—”