The Parting Glass

The strains of Beethoven’s “Joyful, Joyful We Adore Thee” sounded from the front of the church. Megan had begged the organist to step up the tempo a little so the trip to the front wouldn’t take so long. Now the familiar melody sounded like the most strenuous selection in a Richard Simmons exercise video. Sweating to the Sacred. Clearly, after the delay, the poor woman was ready to call this gig quits.

“Okay, we’re going in together. Don’t walk too fast and leave me behind.” Megan took a deep breath. “Let’s go.”

“I love you,” Casey said, and Peggy echoed it.

Megan’s eyes filled with tears. “Just go, okay?”

They started down the aisle. She took a step over the threshold and into the back of the church. Like one body the assembled guests rose. From the corner of her eye she saw a lone male figure step into the aisle. Then, as naturally as if he had rehearsed the scene for hours, Rooney Donaghue, shirt buttoned properly, clean shaven and smiling, came toward her and held out his arm.

chapter 3

None of the Donaghue sisters were sentimental, but despite that reputation, Peggy choked back tears during the ceremony. Megan was radiant as she joined her life with Nick’s, and even though Peggy hadn’t spent much of her adult life in church, the familiar rhythms of the wedding Mass touched her. But nothing touched her more than seeing her father take his rightful place at his oldest daughter’s side.

That glorious glimpse into the sacred exploded the moment she opened the door into the Whiskey Island Saloon.

“Ice machine gave up the ghost.” Barry, their bartender, pushed past her on his way outside. “Going for ice.”

“I—”

“And the band says they need more room to set up than you gave them,” he shouted over his shoulder. “So I moved tables out of their way, only now there aren’t so many tables—”

“I—”

“And there’s trees down all over Cleveland, so there’s no hope of getting a crew in tonight to cut it up. We roped off the area around the kitchen so nobody’ll park near the piece that’s still standing. But we can’t even get the car towed until…” His voice trailed off as he disappeared into his car and slammed the door.

Peggy wondered exactly what she was going to tell Niccolo and Megan when it came time for them to make their getaway and Casey’s car—if her tire was fixed by then—was waiting for them at the curb instead of the Honda.

“Peggy?” A strong hand ushered her all the way in. She looked up to see Charlie Ford, one of their loyal patrons. “The bakery just called. The cake’s all set up, but they forgot the petty cash, or something like that.”

“Petit fours. I thought maybe they had just put them in the kitchen.” She was beginning to panic. This was a crowd that would expect sweets before the cake was cut.

“Said they’d be by with them shortly. Not to worry.”

“Easy for you to say.”

Charlie’s eyes sparkled. His only son lived in New York, and the staff and patrons of the Whiskey Island Saloon were his Cleveland family. “And Greta says she’s going to quit if she has to stuff one more piece of cabbage.”

Greta was Megan’s treasured kitchen assistant and a fabulous cook in her own right, as well as a dedicated employee. “She always says that. Anything else?”

“Kieran went down for a nap about an hour ago, and the sitter left. The baby monitor’s in the kitchen with Greta.”

Peggy had expected that. The sitter had other obligations, and they had agreed to this compromise, knowing how regular Kieran’s nap time was. The older woman was one of the few outsiders who was willing to look after Kieran at all. How blessed it was to let someone else assume her son’s care for a few hours, and how impossible that would be beginning tomorrow.

But that was the way she had wanted it.

Charlie clapped Peggy on the shoulder. “Say, have you heard the one about the Irish priest who got stopped for speeding on Euclid Avenue? See, the cop smells alcohol on the good father’s breath and notices an empty wine bottle on the floor, so he knows he has to ask him about it. ‘Father, have you been drinking?’ he says. And the priest says, ‘Just water, my son.’ So the trooper picks up the bottle and holds it out in front of him. ‘Then what’s this, Father,’ he says. The priest throws up his hands. ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph, he’s done it again!’”

She groaned. “Charlie, you’re the worst.”

He grinned as he disappeared into the growing crowd.

Peggy went straight to the kitchen. Greta was supervising a crew of cousins and customers who were setting food on platters and taking it out to the bar for the reception. Behind her, Peggy could hear the front door opening and closing regularly, and she knew that soon enough the saloon would look the way it did on St. Patrick’s Day.

“Everything going okay in here?”

Greta looked up, her moon face glowing with perspiration. “Did you know Nick’s family was bringing food?”

Until she’d seen them at the church, Peggy hadn’t even known Nick’s family were bringing themselves.

Greta waved one hand behind her toward the steel counter on the far wall. “Piles of it. They dropped it off before the wedding. His mother gave me instructions, like I don’t know how to heat up covered dishes? Why didn’t somebody tell me? I’ve been cooking for a week.”

“Nobody knew they were coming, Greta. I’m sorry. But I can guarantee everything you cooked will get eaten. Every single bit of it, and they’ll lick their plates.”

“Manicotti like you never seen. Sausages and peppers. Meatballs!” Greta grimaced. “All of it pretty good, too.”

Peggy put her arms around her for a quick hug. “Soldier on, okay? The Donaghues will eat their weight in corned beef. You can count on it.”

“They better!”

“No sounds from upstairs?”

“Not a peep, and I’ve got the monitor turned up all the way.”

“Just let me know.” Peggy heard the unmistakable pop of a champagne cork and sprinted back into the saloon and behind the bar. “Sam, who told you to start opening that?”

Sam Trumbull, another loyal customer, gave her a cock-eyed grin. He was a little man, with a chronic thirst and a line that could convince any stranger to buy him a drink in ten seconds flat. “Somebody put me in charge. I can’t remember who.”

There was just enough champagne for one good round of toasts right before the cake was cut. Before that the guests would have to settle for the excellent wines Niccolo had chosen, Barry’s mixed drinks, or the best Guinness in Cleveland.

“Not another bottle,” she warned. “Not until I tell you to. It’s going to go flat.”

“I just thought I’d check and see if the temperature was right.” He held out the bottle. “Want to see?”

“One glass, Sam. That’s it. Then pour the rest of it for—” She turned and pointed. “The man and woman over there. That’s my aunt Deirdre and uncle Frank.”

He looked disappointed, but he nodded.

The wind was rising outside, and Peggy checked the saloon clock. “I hope everybody gets here before this storm really breaks. It rains, then it stops, then it rains….”

“Cleveland spring.” Sam lifted his slight shoulders.

“Well, once they’re all here, it won’t matter.” She looked up as the door opened and Jon and Casey came in, followed by a large contingent of distant Donaghues.

Casey found her and pointed behind her, mouthing, “They’re coming,” enough times that Peggy understood. “The wedding party will be here pretty soon,” she told Sam. “Remember, don’t pop those corks until I signal. Promise?”

Casey managed to thread her way over to the bar as Peggy exited. “Where’s Kieran?”

“Upstairs sleeping. The baby monitor’s in the kitchen.”

“You’ve got a lot of people here that want to help you.”

“Kieran doesn’t need a lot of people, Casey. He needs a quiet environment and my full attention.”

“If this sojourn in Ireland doesn’t work out, you know you can always come back, right? Nobody will say ‘I told you so.’”

The door opened again, and this time Megan and Niccolo came through it, just behind Rooney. Behind them were the olive-skinned, regal members of Niccolo’s family. Peggy knew they were Andreanis because they were the only people in the saloon she didn’t know by name.

“Are they behaving themselves?” she asked Casey. “Nick’s family?”

“Actually, they’re charming. His mom’s a little reserved, like she’s here against her better judgment, but the rest of them are great. And can they tell stories. The trip from Pittsburgh’s worth a book. Maybe the Italians and the Irish are cousins under the skin? They’re going to get along with everybody.”

“And how’s Rooney doing?”

“He’s here, isn’t he? And it looks like Aunt Deirdre’s corralled him. She’ll make sure he’s fed and happy and not given anything to drink.”

Megan made her way toward her sisters. She was stopped, hugged and kissed by everybody between them.

“Other people have nice, quiet receptions,” she said. “Sit down dinners. Chamber music.”

As if on cue, the Celtic band—the lead singer was a second cousin on their mother’s side—began to play. The noise level doubled.

“Other people don’t have this much fun!” Peggy hugged her. “You doing okay?”

“We had to park down the street. Uncle Den claimed there wasn’t any room in the lot, not even for the bride and groom.”

Silently Peggy blessed her mother’s only brother and refused to meet Casey’s gaze for fear she would give away the truth. She just wondered how long it would take before someone mentioned the tree to Megan or Nick.

“Who invited all these people?” Megan shouted.

“You did!”

“Niccolo’s family will think he’s married into an insane asylum!”

Peggy looked past Megan to the Andreani gathering in the corner. Only they weren’t in the corner anymore. They were mingling and chatting, and they looked as if they were having fun. Even Mrs. Andreani, who was holding a small black-haired girl, looked as if she were loosening up. She caught Peggy’s eye and gave a slight smile.

There was a brief lull in the music, and Peggy heard Greta calling her. “Uh-oh, I’d better follow that sound. Kieran’s probably up.”

“What are you going to do with him?” Megan said.

“I’m going to bring him down for a while and see how he does. If he minds the noise and confusion too much, I’ll take him back up. There are plenty of people who will take turns watching him.” Peggy started off through the crowd, but she was stopped by her aunt Deirdre before she could get to her son.

“I can’t believe you’re leaving tomorrow,” Deirdre said.

Peggy loved her aunt. Deirdre Grogan was Rooney’s sister, and she and Frank, her husband, had raised Peggy after Peggy’s mother died and Rooney left. At the same time Deirdre, who had undoubtedly wanted full custody, had been sensitive to Megan’s need to have a say in her baby sister’s life. So Deirdre had walked a difficult line. She was kind, patient and completely opposed to Peggy’s decision to take Kieran to Ireland.

“I love that color,” Peggy said, hoping to change the thrust of the conversation. Deirdre always dressed with quiet, expensive good taste. Today she wore a sage-green linen suit that set off hair that had once been the color of Casey’s but had less fire in it now.

“Are you sure you won’t reconsider, darling? After all, what do you know about this woman? What do any of us know? And how can we help Kieran if you’re off in the middle of nowhere?”

Peggy knew that her aunt was distraught, because Deirdre never interfered. Two years ago, when Peggy informed her that she was pregnant and didn’t intend to marry the father, Deirdre had asked only what she could do to assist.

“I know enough about Irene Tierney to risk the trip,” Peggy said. “She’s been warm and welcoming, and she’s anxious to meet even a small piece of her American family. Until a couple of months ago, she didn’t know we existed.”

“But doesn’t it all seem odd to you? She’s in her eighties? And she found you on the Internet?”

“Her physician gave her a computer to amuse her and got her connected. It’s something she can do from home that gives her broader interests. She’s mostly housebound. And I think it’s wonderful that she was so adaptable and eager, and that she found us.”

“I still don’t understand what she wanted.”

Peggy looked toward the kitchen and saw Greta standing in the doorway, pointing toward the stairs. Peggy waved at her to let her know she’d gotten the message. She was growing frantic, the response of any mother of any species separated from her bawling youngster. “I’ve got to get Kieran. We can talk later.”

Deirdre looked contrite. “Can I help? Would you like me to—”

“No, but thanks. Stay. Enjoy yourself. I’ll be down with him in a bit.”

Peggy didn’t add that she planned to take her time. There were a dozen relatives who would try to corner her before the night ended and quiz her about the remarkable decision to fly thousands of miles to live in rural Ireland with a woman she’d never met. She wasn’t anxious to face any of them.

Upstairs, the tiny apartment, often stuffy in late spring, had benefitted from the afternoon’s wind and dark skies. Peggy knew, without opening the bedroom door, that Kieran would be staring at the sheer curtain beside his crib. Even though the window was only open an inch, the curtain would wave with each gust, and Kieran’s gaze would be locked on that movement. He might even imitate it, waving his hand back and forth. When there was no curtain blowing, no clock pendulum swinging, no ceiling fan revolving overhead, she had seen him follow the slow back and forth of his own hand for as long as an hour, mesmerized and calmed by the fruitless repetition as she sat distressed beside him.

If only she could unlock the mystery that was Kieran Rowan Donaghue.

She opened the door and saw that she had been right. Kieran was awake, but he wasn’t sitting up. He was lying silently, waving his hand back and forth in time to the movements of the curtain. If Kieran was capable of happiness, then he was happiest at moments like this. Happiest when he was alone, with no one asking more of him, no one expecting recognition or, worse, love. No one to distract him from the isolation he craved.

“Kieran?”

He didn’t turn, but she hadn’t expected him to. He heard her, though. She knew he did from the way his plump little body stiffened and his hand no longer kept rhythm. His mouth tightened, and he made a sound of distress, an animal sound. Cornered prey.

“Sweetheart, it’s Mommy. How’s my Kieran boy?” She moved slowly toward him. She knew better than to ask him to quickly give up his solitary world. Not so long ago the family had teased about Kieran’s “sensitivity.” He would be an artist, a poet, a musician, their Kieran. He was a visionary, this youngest Donaghue. He saw the world differently, experienced it at a level more visceral, more elemental, than most children.

In those happy days, before the diagnosis of autism arrived with the crocuses and early daffodils and turned a Cleveland spring into Peggy’s personal nightmare.

“Kieran,” she crooned. “Kie—ran.”

He turned to her at last. His angelic little face registered dismay. He had a rose-petal complexion and soft auburn curls. His pale blue eyes were as bright as stars, but whatever dwelled behind them was Kieran’s own secret.

“Mommy’s here,” she crooned. “Mommy loves you, and she’s here. Mommy’s not going anywhere, sweetheart. Kieran. Love.”

He didn’t lift his arms. He didn’t smile. His body, which had been soft with sleep, stiffened into steel. Then he turned away, turned toward the open window and the waving curtain, and began to hum.

chapter 4

So far, Megan had survived. Rooney’s appearance at her side had been a gift. She had never expected to walk down the aisle on her father’s arm, and that small miracle had gotten her to the front, where the man she loved waited to hold her up. Niccolo’s smile and Father Brady’s patient prompting got her through the service.

Now, hopefully, champagne and Guinness would get her through the rest of the reception.

“My car’s missing,” Niccolo shouted in her ear.

For a moment she didn’t understand. The Civic was nearly new. If the engine was missing, that was a bad omen.

“I think somebody took it to decorate it,” he elaborated.

She felt herself turning shades of mottled pink, the curse of a redhead. After the reception, she and Niccolo were leaving for a relative’s cottage on Michigan’s Drummond Island. She had envisioned anonymity and absolute peace on the drive.

“We’re stopping at the first car wash,” she warned.

He grinned. She couldn’t recall ever seeing Niccolo look happier. She wondered what she had done to deserve him, this man who had stood by her through all her doubts, fears and general neuroses.

“I’d like to outrun this storm,” Niccolo said, “but I think we’ll be driving right into it.”

“It’s raining again? Maybe we won’t need a car wash.”

“Pouring. I’m used to odd weather, but this takes the cake.”

Casey pushed through the crowd with a full plate of food and handed it to Megan. “You haven’t eaten a bite. This is fabulous. Both the Andreanis and the Donaghues outdid themselves.”

Megan realized she was starving. “Nick?” But she needn’t have worried. She saw that Jon was hauling him to the bar to fill his own plate. Niccolo’s brother Marco was helping.

“Having fun?” Casey said.

Megan dug into the best manicotti she’d ever tasted. She wondered if Mrs. Andreani would share the recipe. It was probably too soon in their relationship to ask, considering that until just hours ago Niccolo’s mother hadn’t wanted to acknowledge her existence.

“Is this supposed to be fun?” Megan said.

“You’re enjoying yourself, aren’t you?”

A cousin with a full tray of Guinness stopped, and Megan took a pint, suffering a hug while she was at it. “How do I eat and hold this?”

“I’ll hold it.” Casey took the Guinness.

“I’m doing okay,” Megan admitted.

“Everyone’s so happy you married Nick.”

Megan had never realized the Donaghue clan had such remarkable taste. “Nick tells me his car is missing?” She watched her sister’s face. “Casey? I don’t think I like your expression.”

“What did Nick say, exactly?”

“That somebody had probably taken it away to decorate it.”

“That’s the kind of thing people do for weddings, right?”

“You know more than you’re saying.”

“There are good times and bad times to discuss surprises.”

“And there are good and bad surprises.” The band started a chorus of “Cockles and Mussels,” and over her head, drifts of white tulle swayed frantically when someone opened the front door. “This had better not be one of the bad ones,” she continued in a louder voice. “Just tell me that whatever damage you did to the car, soap on the windows, shoes on the bumper, whatever, can be quickly dispensed with once we’re out of sight.”

Peggy arrived with Kieran in her arms. “What’s out of sight?”

Megan’s heart squeezed painfully as it always did when she saw her nephew. “Hey, kiddo.”

She tried to keep her voice low, although that made it inaudible. Kieran responded badly to noise and confusion of any sort, and now, in the center of the raucous crowd, he was eyeing her as if she were a stranger, although Megan had fed and rocked and changed him as often as anyone else in the world.

Kieran had seemed perfectly normal at birth. When he was still an infant, Peggy had started medical school, and Kieran had been lovingly passed among family members who were thrilled by the chance to care for the little boy while Peggy attended classes and studied. But no matter how much time they spent with him, Kieran had never seemed to remember them.

Peggy brushed his auburn curls with her fingertips. “Try saying hi,” she told Megan.

“Hi,” Megan said warmly.

Kieran stared at her, his cherubic face expressionless, then he focused his gaze just behind her. Megan turned to see what had interested him and saw a reflection of the swaying tulle in the bar mirror.

“Hi,” Megan repeated.

Kieran didn’t look at her. He seemed hypnotized by the movement. Just as she started to change the subject, he gave a lopsided smile, then reached toward the mirror. “Hi. Hi. Hi.”

Peggy looked disappointed. “Better than nothing.”

“He’s not quite two,” Casey pointed out. “Boys don’t talk as early as girls.”

“But most boys know the difference between reflections dancing in a mirror and their favorite aunts.” Peggy sounded matter-of-fact. “Well, that’s going to change. When you see him again, you’re going to be surprised at the improvement.”

Megan wanted to argue. She wanted to shake some sense into her sister. When Peggy had learned Kieran’s diagnosis, she’d quit medical school, perhaps forever, divorcing herself from a lifelong dream in order to devote herself to her son. Now she was taking Kieran all the way to Ireland to live with a distant cousin the family hadn’t even known about until two months ago. All so that she could somehow turn him into a “normal” child.

Unfortunately, Peggy was the only Donaghue who believed this was the right course to follow.

“He seems pretty perky, considering all the chaos in here,” Casey said.

Megan knew Casey was trying to divert the conversation and supposed it was just as well. Peggy’s mind was made up, and all the discussion in the world wasn’t going to change it.

“I think I’ll see if I can get him to eat something, then I’m going to take him upstairs for some quiet time. We’ll be back for cake.”

Megan and Casey watched Peggy wind her way to the bar.

“I still can’t believe she’s moving to Ireland,” Megan said.

“Finish your food, Megan. The band’s gearing up for some set dancing, and you’ll be expected to give it a try.”

Megan groaned. “You couldn’t head them off?”

“They’re playing for free. Remember?”

“Hand me the Guinness, would you?”

Upstairs, Peggy settled Kieran on the living room rug with a quilt and a menagerie of stuffed toys. The apartment was plain but serviceable. Best of all, the modest rent came out of her share of the saloon’s profits. The Whiskey Island Saloon had been in the Donaghue family since its construction more than a century before. The three sisters were equal partners, and although nowadays Megan kept the food hot and the liquor flowing, both Peggy and Casey had pulled their share of Guinness along the way.

“Tomorrow we’re going on a plane,” she told her son.

He didn’t look up at her words. For months, before the battery of tests that had pinpointed Kieran’s problem, she had worried that his hearing was impaired. She hadn’t expected autism, so she hadn’t been prepared.

The day she got the diagnosis would be etched forever in her mind.

“Autistic disorder,” the specialist had said matter-of-factly, as if he were diagnosing a head cold. “Moderate, we think, although that’s not as easy to pinpoint as it might seem. It’s really a spectrum, Miss Donaghue. Generally those who suffer with it have problems understanding the emotions of others. They have difficulties with language and conversation, and they often fixate on one subject or activity. The prognosis depends on many things. Early intervention is key, but I’ll warn you, the cost, both in time and money, can be enormous.”

Now Peggy dropped to the floor and sat cross-legged beside Kieran. “We’ll go high in the air, right up into the clouds. And I’ll be with you the whole time. Just Mommy and Kieran.”

He picked at the felt eyes of a teddy bear. He never held or cuddled his toy animals. He found something to pick apart, and he could work at it for long stretches of time, only pausing to rock himself when he tired.

“Then we’ll be in Ireland,” she said. “And Mommy will set up a classroom for you at Cousin Irene’s. We’ll have toys and games, and you’ll learn so much, Kieran. I know you will. And when we come back to Cleveland, you’ll be able to speak and make eye contact and…”