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“I can be there, if you want.” He wondered if he should tell her that he wasn’t in Florida. Maybe he’d better leave that one for Josh.
He was silent for a moment. Yes, there were other women in the world, he knew that well. The fingers of his free hand tensed and eased, tensed and eased. But none like her.
“Aye, me love, at ye olde pub!” he said, giving her his best Irish accent. “If you insist that we wait that long.”
“You’d really drive all night…?”
“I would.”
“I’d rather have you alive in the future than dead in such an effort,” Moira said firmly. “Boston, night after next, Kelly’s Pub, you’ll meet the folks. I’ll see you there?”
“All right,” he told her. Then, though he had expected it, he found himself dreading the fact that they would all be in Boston together. He, Moira, her family, her past—and the future. “I love you,” he added, and he was surprised by the almost desperate ardor in his voice.
“I love you, too,” she said, and he believed her.
A few moments later, they rang off.
Though it was late and he was still exhausted, Michael found himself rising and getting dressed. He glanced at the clock. Not that late; just after midnight.
He dressed and left the hotel room.
His destination was within easy walking distance. Boston was a good city in that respect. Narrow, winding streets in the old section and even in the newer areas. There was little distance here between the colonial and the modern. He liked Boston. Great seafood. A sense of history.
He walked quickly and came to the street he had checked out earlier that day. There, in the middle of the block, beneath a soft yellow streetlight, was the sign.
Kelly’s Pub.
He stood there, staring at it.
And damning the days to come.
The doors were still open, though it looked quiet within. Weeknight. He thought about sauntering in, quietly ordering a draft, sitting in a corner, taking a look.
No.
At twelve-thirty, he turned and walked away.
Twelve forty-five.
From the shadows cast by the long buildings, another man watched Michael McLean leave the premises. He hadn’t really seen his face, had never known the man previously, but even so, he was fully aware of who he was.
Dan O’Hara watched the man thoughtfully until he had disappeared. He had avoided the streetlight on the opposite side of the block and therefore had hardly been even a dark silhouette in the night.
He leaned against the old building. With the street clear, he lit a cigarette, slowly allowing the smoke to filter out of his lungs. Bad habit. He needed to quit, he thought idly. So that was Michael. He didn’t have enough basis for any rational judgments, but by virtue of instinct, he disliked the guy. But then, Moira could be seeing a Nobel Peace Prizewinning certified saint and he would still dislike the guy.
He had to force himself to hold back any conclusions on Michael McLean. He couldn’t even blame the guy for wanting a good look at the pub.
Kelly’s. Dan loved the place himself.
How long had he been gone this time? Too long. Of course, last time he had come back, things had been different. No Moira.
How many times had he pushed her away? Doing the right thing, of course. At first she’d been too young. Then, even when they’d become lovers, he’d just known that he was wrong for her. Yet he hadn’t realized that he still lived with the belief that she was his, that she would still be there. He truly wanted her to be happy, but he wasn’t a man without an ego. Somewhere inside, he had believed that happiness for her would mean waiting for him.
Okay, so he was an ass.
An ass…yet he had done the right thing. She was a strong character, with a sense of the world, of right and wrong and everything that being an American meant. He hadn’t been able to help it; he was Irish. An Irishman who loved America, but who felt…
Obligated.
Was he always going to feel obligated?
Hell, was he going to survive?
He thought angrily of how much he didn’t like what was going on, and there seemed to be no help in the knowledge that it wasn’t his fault. He’d never put any of this into motion, but there wasn’t a damn thing he could do.
Moira was coming home. He’d talked to Katy Kelly on the phone today, and she’d been in heaven, knowing that she would have her whole family home and in one place for the special holiday. She was also a little nervous. “She’s been seeing a man, one her da and I have yet to meet,” Katy had informed him, trying to keep her disapproval out of her voice.
“He’s probably a great guy,” Dan had told her. “She’s grown up a smart woman, Katy, you know that. You should be proud.”
“He’s in television, too. Working for her and Josh.” Katy had sighed. “Now Josh…there’s a good man.”
“A fine man.” Danny could say so easily. He liked Moira’s partner. And the fellow was married, was truly a friend and had never had an intimate relationship with Moira.
“Well, this new fellow is Irish.”
“Oh? And what’s his name.”
“Michael. Michael McLean.”
“Well, there you go. What more can you ask for?”
Katy sighed again. “Well, I suppose…for you two to have married, Danny.”
“Ah, Katy. We were going different ways. Besides, I wasn’t meant for marriage.”
“I think you were.”
She had gone on to insist that it wouldn’t matter that Moira and her crew would be there—the back room of the pub was his, as it always was when he came to Boston. And yes, Moira knew that he was coming.
A strange sense of nostalgia stole over him. This place really was home to him, certainly as much as any other. His early years seemed a very long time ago. Living with his uncle, he had traveled a great deal. Brendan O’Toole, his mother’s brother, who had married a cousin of Katy Kelly, had been a scholar and broker for antique manuscripts. He had given Dan his first love of literature. Of the written word and the power within it. He’d been a storyteller, another talent he had passed on to Dan. His house in Dublin had been home, but they’d been on the go constantly. Dan had seen many foreign countries, and he had spent a great deal of time in America. He did love the States.
And after any length of time away, he missed this old place.
It was time for him to be there. He could go on in. But he had said he was arriving in the morning. He would wait. No reason to tell the folks that he had been in Boston a bit before checking in with them.
Aye, he would wait.
As he stood there against the building, he saw another man striding down the street. He wore a huge overcoat and a low-brimmed hat. Nothing odd in that. Boston could be frigid this time of year.
But this man approached the pub oddly; then, as Dan had done himself, he paused, staring at the windows.
He stood there for a long time. Dan dropped his cigarette to the ground and remained still, watching the watcher.
The man was peering through the windows, trying to see who was in the pub.
Apparently he didn’t see the person—or people—he was seeking, because after a long moment, he turned away and started down the street again, back in the direction from which he had come.
Nothing odd in that. A guy out to find friends at a pub, taking a look for them, realizing they weren’t there, deciding to leave.
Nothing odd in that.
Except that the man in the huge coat and low-brimmed hat was Patrick Kelly, son of the owners of Kelly’s Pub.
Dan lit another cigarette, feeling a new tension, as if rocks were forming in his gut.
He waited awhile longer, then hiked up the collar of his coat and started off down the street, as well.
Moira seldom paused to window-shop; she was usually running somewhere, and besides, she had been in New York a long time. She still loved the beautiful displays that were put out for holidays, and she appreciated the fact that she could buy almost anything in the world in the city where she lived and worked. She loved clothes, but she also loved a day when she could take the time to try on outfits, go through a zillion pair of shoes, driving salesmen crazy.
But that morning, walking toward the new French restaurant in the Village where she was to meet the lady from Maine to discuss their taping schedule, she found herself stopping to stare at an incredible Saint Patrick’s showcase. The stores usually had out all their Easter wares along with their Saint Patrick’s Day items. This particular window had been done with real love. There were shamrocks everywhere, arranged artfully. A field of lovely porcelain fairies had been hung to fly above a rainbow with the traditional pot of gold at the end. Finely carved leprechauns with charming faces were set around the rainbow, as if they were busy at daily tasks. The leprechaun in the middle sat on a pedestal, facing a fairy on another pedestal. The fairy was exquisite, poised on one toe, with wings painted the colors of the rainbow. Pausing without realizing it, she stared at the fairy, charmed. She realized that it was a music box.
She glanced quickly at her watch and decided she had time to take a closer look. She went into the store, not surprised to discover that the shop owner was the cashier, that she still carried a bit of an Irish accent and that she was delighted with Moira’s interest in the item.
“My mother would absolutely love that piece,” Moira told her, and asked the price.
It was high, but the woman quickly explained. “The piece is one of a kind. The fairies and leprechauns, you see. The porcelain fairies are limited, but the carved pieces are handcrafted by two brothers in Dublin. Each is individual, and signed. I believe they’ll be very popular in the future, but it’s not the fact that they may be highly collectible one day that makes them so dear. It’s the time taken for the work that goes into each one.”
“I hate to ask you to take it out of the window.”
“Oh, no, dear, I love the darling little things. Please, it’s my pleasure, even if you don’t buy. You seem to truly appreciate the art of it.”
Moira assured her that she did, indeed. And when the woman took the piece from the window and put it before her, she found that it was even more beautiful than she had thought. The carving of the face was exquisite. The fairy created a feeling that was totally ethereal. She was simply magical. All that is good and enchanting about the Irish people, Moira thought.
“I’ll take her,” Moira said.
“Don’t you wish to hear her play?” the woman asked, twisting the key at the bottom of the small pedestal.
“Sure, thank you. What song does she play?”
The woman laughed softly. She allowed her accent to deepen as she jokingly said, “Why, besure and begorrah, dear. She plays ‘Danny Boy.’ You know, ‘Londonderry Air.”’
The little fairy began to spin, to fly on her pedestal. The music tinkled out, charming, beautiful, sweet, the haunting melody familiar and yet light, different.
“Danny Boy.” Of course. What else? There were so many beautiful old Irish tunes, but naturally this box would play “Danny Boy.”
“Is something wrong?” the woman asked.
“No, she’s lovely, thank you so much. I’ll definitely buy her for my mum.”
“I’ll wrap her very carefully for you.”
“Thanks so much.”
As Moira waited, she realized that she would be spending the next week listening to “Danny Boy.” Might as well get used to it now.
“Are you sure there’s nothing wrong, dear?”
“Not at all. In fact, I’d like both of those little stuffed leprechauns, please. They’ll make cute little gifts for my nieces. Then I need something for a boy.”
“I have a small, hand-held video game just in. Banshees against fairies, with the leprechauns being the chance factor, some of them good, some of them bad.”
“Sounds perfect,” Moira said. “Thank you so much.”
Tomorrow she was going home. And suddenly, here in this shop, anticipation mingled with her dread.
Kelly’s Pub was already in full nightly swing when Dan O’Hara emerged from the back room of the tavern, the guest quarters, where he had been staying. The pub band, Blackbird, was already playing a mixture of old and new Irish music with a bit of American pop thrown in here and there. He knew all the members from way back.
It was the first time he had come into the pub during opening hours, and he was ready for the greeting he knew he would receive.
“And there he is!” Eamon Kelly called from behind the bar. “The best and brightest of you lot of reprobates, Mr. Daniel O’Hara.”
“Hey, Danny, how are you?” asked old Seamus.
“Danny boy, you’re back in town!” Liam McConnahy said.
The lineup at the bar was made up of Eamon’s longtime friends, some old country, some born and bred in the USA. He recognized Sal Costanza, an old school chum who had grown up in the Italian sector along the North Shore. Eamon Kelly had created his own little Gaelic empire here, but he was a good-hearted, friendly fellow, with a keen interest in everyone around him and—usually—a nose for a decent character in any man. But now Dan didn’t like what was happening here. He would have done anything in his power to keep Kelly’s Pub and the Kellys themselves out of what was happening. But things had been set in motion; he had no choice. Whatever was going down had been given the code name Blackbird, and that could only refer to Kelly’s Pub.
Hell, a Kelly could be involved.
“Back in town,” Dan said easily, embracing both old Seamus and Liam, then shaking hands with the others as each man spoke a quick greeting.
“So,” Seamus said, his thick, snow-white brows rising over cloudy blue eyes, “have you been hanging around back in the old country or gallivantin’ around the States?”
“A bit of both,” Dan said.
“You’ve been in Ireland recently?” Liam asked. He had the same cap of white hair as Seamus, except that his was thinning now.
“That I have,” Dan said.
“The Republic—or the North?” Seamus asked, a slight frown denoting his worry.
“A bit of both,” Dan said. “Eamon, how about a round for my old friends at the bar? It’s good to see them again. Sal, how’s it going in the pasta business in Little Italy? I’ve been hankering for a taste of your mom’s lasagna. No one makes it as good as she does.”
Sal answered, and Dan kept smiling, nodding in reply to the thanks he received for the round of drinks. But as he engaged in the banter at the bar, he looked around the room. Though the band was in action at one end, the scene remained fairly quiet. An attractive young couple, with either his or her parents, were having dinner at a center table. A group just off from work—probably from the IBM offices or the bank around the corner—huddled around a couple of tables near the band, winding down from their nine-to-five workday. Patrick Kelly was in. Eamon’s son, tall, with a head full of dark hair touched by a reddish sheen. He was a good-looking fellow, on stage now with the band, playing along with the violinist. He saw Daniel and gave him a wave and a grin, beckoning to him. Daniel nodded and smiled in return, motioning that he would join them all soon. Patrick nudged Jeff Dolan, lead guitarist and group leader, and Jeff, too, nodded Dan’s way.
Still scanning the room, Dan saw a lone man in a business suit seated at a far corner table, a darkened table. A stranger. Dan had the feeling the man was surveying the occupants of the pub, just as he was doing himself.
“What are you drinking yourself?” Eamon asked him.
