скачать книгу бесплатно
“What’s he drinking?” Seamus said indignantly. “Give him a whiskey and a Guinness!”
“Now, Seamus, I’m in the grand old USA,” Dan protested. “A Bud Lite on draft, if you will, Eamon. It may prove to be a long night—back with a party of Boston’s black sheep!”
“How’s the place look, Danny?” Liam asked. “You miss it when you’re away?”
“Why, the pub looks just fine, and old friends look even better,” Dan replied. He lifted the stein Eamon had brought him. “Slainte! To old times, old friends.”
“And to the old country!” Eamon declared.
“Aye, to the old country,” Dan said softly.
The sky was overcast when Moira’s shuttle from New York to Boston made its initial descent for landing. Even so, she stared out the window for a bird’s-eye view of the city where she had grown up, and which she still loved so much. Coming home. She was excited; she loved her family dearly. They were all entirely crazy, of course. She was convinced of that. But she loved them and was happy at the prospect of seeing them.
But then…then there was this whole Danny thing.
The plane landed. She was slow to take off her seat belt and slow to deplane. No one was picking her up; she had made the last-minute decision to take an earlier shuttle than the rest of the cast and crew, who would be taking the last flight. When the people in the seats behind her had filed out, she grabbed her overnight bag and walked out, thanking the flight attendant and the pilots, who were waiting for her exit to leave themselves.
Outside Logan, she hailed a taxi. Once seated, she realized that the driver, a young man of twenty-something with a lean face and amber eyes, was staring at her by way of the rearview mirror.
“You’re Moira Kelly!” he said, flushing as she caught his eye.
“Yes.”
“In my cab! Fancy that. You just travel on a regular plane and get in a regular taxi?”
“Seems to be the best way to get around,” she told him, smiling.
“You mean you don’t have a private jet and a limo waiting?” the man demanded.
She laughed. “I don’t have a private jet at all, though sometimes we do hire private cars.”
“And no one recognizes you—and hounds you?”
“I’m afraid that all of America doesn’t tune in to the Leisure Channel. And even those who do don’t necessarily watch our show.”
“Well, they should.”
“Thank you. Very much.”
“What are you doing in Boston?”
“I’m from here.”
“Wow. Right. And you’re Irish, right? Are you home to see family, or are you going to film stuff here?”
“Both.”
“Wow. Well, great. Hey, it’s a privilege. If you need more transportation while you’re here, call me. I’ve got the cleanest cab in the city. I grew up here, too. I know the place backward and forward. No charge, even. Honest.”
“I’d never take advantage that way of anyone making a living,” Moira said. “But give me your card, and I promise when we need transportation we’ll call you.” In fact, he did seem to be a good driver. Boston’s traffic was as crazy as ever. There was always construction; the freeway was as often as not a stop-and-go place. Once they were out of the tunnel and off the highway, the streets were narrow and one-way. And then there were the traffic circles…. The old character and ultra-thin roadways were part of the charm of the city—and the bane of it, as well.
The young man kept his right hand solidly on the steering wheel and slipped her a card with his left hand.
“Hey, I’m Irish, too.”
“Your name is Tom Gambetti.”
He grinned at her in the rearview mirror. “My mom is Irish, Dad is Italian. Hey, this is Boston. There are lots of us living on pasta and potatoes! Both your folks are Irish?”
“Oh, Lord, yes!” Moira laughed.
“Right off the old potato boat, eh?”
“Something like that,” she said, then leaned forward, pointing. “There it is—Kelly’s Pub.”
The street was narrow. Though both corners held large new office buildings, the rest of the block still had a lot of old character. The building that housed the pub was two stories, with a basement and an attic. It dated from Colonial days, as did many of its nudged-in neighbors. An old iron tethering pole remained in front, from the days when the country’s forefathers had come to knock back a pint or two. Kelly’s Pub was lettered on an attractive board above the door, and there were soft friendly lights issuing from lamps on either side. When the weather was warm, tables spilled onto the narrow enclosed patio in front. There were two windows in the front, as well; they were closed now, in deference to the winter, but within the pub, the lace-edged curtains were drawn back so that passersby could see the welcoming coziness to be found inside.
“Want your suitcase right in the pub?” Tom asked.
“No, thanks, just on the sidewalk. I’m going upstairs first.”
“I’ll be happy to take it up for you,” he suggested.
She shook her head. “No, thanks. I appreciate it, but—”
“But a homecoming is best alone,” he said.
She paid him as he set her bag down. “Thanks. And I will call you if we need transportation.”
“You may not have to call me. It looks like a great pub.”
“It is,” she murmured, listening to the laughter and music coming from within. “It’s everything a pub is supposed to be. Céad mile fáilte.”
“What does that mean?”
She looked at him, smiling wryly. “A hundred thousand welcomes.”
“Nice. Well, good luck. I’ll be seeing you.”
“Thanks.”
He got in his car and drove away, it seemed regretfully. Nice kid, she thought. Then she hefted her suitcase and started up the outside stairs that led to the family living quarters above the thriving business.
Her mother was a model of domesticity. The porch beside the front door of the home area was set with white wicker café tables, and the canvas overhang was clean as a whistle, even in the dying days of winter. Moira set her case down by the door and knocked, her fingers colder than she had realized inside her gloves. Knocking was easier than trying to find her key.
The door opened. Her mother was there, taking one look at her face and giving her the kind of smile that would have made a trek halfway around the world worthwhile. “Moira Kathleen!” And then, though Katy Kelly was thin as a reed and two inches shorter than Moira’s five feet eight, she enveloped her daughter in a fierce hug with the strength of a grizzly.
“Moira Kathleen, you’re home!” Katy said, stepping back at last, hands on her hips as she surveyed her daughter.
“Mum, of course I’m home. You knew I was coming.”
“Seems so long, Moira,” Katy said, shaking her head. “And you look like a million.”
Moira laughed. “Thanks, Mum. Good genes,” she said affectionately. Her mother was a beautiful woman. Katy didn’t dye the tendrils of silver threading through her auburn hair. God was granting her age, in her words. A head full of silver wasn’t going to matter. Katy was trim from moving a thousand miles an hour every day of her life. Her eyes were the green of her old County Cork, and her face had a classical beauty.
“Ah, sweetie, I miss you so!” Katy said, kissing her. “It’s been so long.”
“Mum, we’re just heading into Saint Patrick’s day. I spent Christmas here. And we all did First Night in the city together, remember?”
“Aye, and maybe it’s not so long, but your brother, Patrick, you know, manages to get back at least once a month, he does.”
“Ah, yes, my brother. Saint Patrick,” Moira murmured.
“Now would you be mocking the likes of your brother?” The question came from behind Katy. Moira looked past her mother to see her grandmother standing there, Granny Jon. On a good day, Granny Jon might be considered an even five feet. At ninety something—no one, including Granny Jon, was quite sure what year she’d been born—she was still as straight as a ramrod and spry as a young girl. Her keen sense of humor sparkled in hazel eyes as she playfully accosted Moira.
“And there—the heart of Eire herself!” Moira laughed, stepping forward to hug her grandmother. As she hugged Granny Jon, she felt the old woman shake a little. Spry and straight she might be, but her grandmother was still a tiny mass of delicate bones, and Moira adored her. She’d given Moira leprechauns and legends, wonderful tales about the banshees being tricked or bribed to go away, and then, when she’d been older, true tales of the fight for freedom for the Irish through long years of mayhem throughout history. She was keen and wise and had seen the battlefield of her city torn to shreds, yet had somehow maintained a love for all the humanity around her, a glorious sense of humor, and a sound judgment regarding both politics and people.
“Why, Moira, you haven’t aged a day,” Granny Jon teased. “Katy, have a heart now. The girl is out there doing us proud. And she is living in New York, while Patrick has stayed in the state of Massachusetts.”
“Um. As if western Mass weren’t nearly as far away as New York City,” Katy said.
“But it hasn’t the traffic,” Granny Jon said.
“Then there’s my evil younger sister,” Moira teased, rolling her eyes.
Katy inclined her head with a wry smile for the two of them. “Well, then, Colleen has gone as far as the west of the entire country now, hasn’t she? And she’d never even consider not being here for Saint Patrick’s Day.”
Moira sighed. “Mum, I’m here, and I’m even bringing in the non-Irish for you to convert,” Moira told her.
“Ah, now, ’tis enough,” Katy said. “We’ll give you a quick cup of tea. Granny Jon was just brewing—”
“And it will be strong enough to pick itself up and walk itself right across the table, eh?” Moira said, teasing her grandmother and putting on her accent.
“We’ll have none of that,” Granny Jon said. “And I do make a good pot of tea, a real pot of tea, nothing wishy-washy about it. And what have we here?”
The main entry to the living quarters was a foyer, with the kitchen—a very large room with added warmth in winter from the oven—and a hallway leading to the bedrooms, library and office straight ahead. Moira hadn’t heard a thing, but when she looked beyond Granny Jon, she saw three little heads bobbing into sight.
Patrick and his wife, Siobhan, had nearly repeated her parents’ pattern of procreation; their son Brian was nine and daughters Molly and Shannon were six and four respectively.
“Hey, guys!” Moira called delightedly, hunching down on the balls of her feet and putting her arms out for the kids. They came running to her with whoops and hollers, kissing her, hugging her.
“Auntie Mo,” Brian said. As a baby, he’d never quite gotten her name right. She’d been Auntie Mo to the kids ever since. “Is it true we’re going to be on the telly?”
“On the telly? Oh, dear, you’ve been hanging around the Irish too long, me lad!” she teased. “Yes, of course, if you wish, you’ll be on the telly.”
“Cool!” Molly told her.
“Cool!” Shannon repeated, wide-eyed.
“Oh, yes, all the kids at the preschool will be talking!” Moira said, ruffling her nieces’ hair. Brian was almost a Mini-Me of her brother, with his hazel eyes and deep auburn hair. The girls had acquired their mother’s soft true-blond hair and huge blue eyes. Leave it to Patrick. They were wonderful children, well-behaved without being timid, full of personality and love. Chalk that all up to Siobhan, Moira thought. Her sister-in-law was a doll. Patrick…well, as Granny Jon had once said, he could fall into a mire of cow dung and come up smelling like roses. She adored her brother, of course. She just wished he didn’t manage to go his own way all the time and still wind up appearing to be the perfect child on every occasion. He should have been a politician. Maybe he would be one day. He’d gotten his law degree and now practiced in a tiny town in western Massachusetts, where he also owned land, kept horses and a few farm animals and still maintained a home that always seemed as beautifully kept as something out of Architectural Digest. Business frequently brought him to Boston, where, naturally, he always stopped in to see his parents.
Her brother had married well, she decided. She knew Siobhan, née O’Malley, had taken a chance with Patrick after his wild days in high school, but apparently the chance had paid off. They both seemed happy and still, after ten years of marriage, deeply in love.
“Cool, cool, cool, Auntie Mo!” Shannon repeated.
“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.”
