Reunited

“The past is in the past and it’s best if it stays there,” Fiona would have said.

As Keely had grown older, she’d asked more questions about her parents’ past. And the more questions she’d asked, the more her mother had refused to speak—about her father, about Ireland, about relatives Keely had never known. “That was another life,” she’d say. But Keely had remembered one bit of information: Ballykirk, her mother’s birthplace in County Cork. A tiny village on the southwest coast, near Bantry Bay.

“So I’ll find out for myself.” Keely scanned the roadside for the landmarks on the hand-drawn map. She’d found the name in a phone book at the market in a nearby town. Quinn, her mother’s maiden name. Maeve Quinn was the only Quinn in Ballykirk and when she’d asked the elderly clerk whether Maeve Quinn was related to the Fiona Quinn who married Seamus McClain about twenty-five years ago, he gave her a puzzled frown, scratched his head, then shrugged. “Maeve would know,” he murmured as he scribbled a map to Maeve’s home.

She found the place exactly where the clerk had said it would be. The tiny whitewashed cottage was set close to the road, a rose arbor arched over the front gate serving as a landmark. Keely could tell that the home had stood in the same spot for many years. An overgrown garden, filled with a riotous mix of wild-flowers, filled the yard and nearly obscured the cobblestone walk to the front door. Had her mother lived here once, picked flowers in the garden, played hopscotch on the walk? Had she passed her father’s home or was it just over the next hill on the road?

Keely sat in the car, her mind forming images of her mother as a child—racing out of the front door to play, weaving a garland of daisies for her head, chasing butterflies down the narrow lane. With a soft sigh, she stepped out of the car, anxious to get a closer look.

As she approached the stone fence that surrounded the cottage, the front door opened. Keely hesitated, then decided to explain herself to Maeve Quinn and hope for news of her family.

The slender elderly woman with hair the color of snow was dressed in a brightly flowered dress. She held her hand out to the rain, then waved. “Come in, come in, dear,” she called, motioning to Keely. “Jimmy rang me from the market and told me you were on your way. Don’t make me wait a minute longer to meet you.”

Keely reached for the latch on the gate, unwilling to refuse such a friendly invitation. “I don’t mean to disturb you,” she said. “I’m Keely Mc—”

“I know exactly who you are,” the woman said, her Irish accent thick in each word. “You are Fiona and Seamus’s girl. You’re family, that you are, come all the way from across the ocean. And I won’t miss a chance to share a cup of tea with a relative.” She held out her hand and it trembled slightly. “I’m Maeve Quinn. I suppose I would be your cousin then. At least I’m cousin to your father Seamus. So what would that make us?” She waved her hand. “Oh, never mind. It makes no difference at all, does it?”

Keely hesitated. Surely the woman had misspoke. Maeve was a Quinn. She would have been related to Keely’s mother, not her father. Maybe she wasn’t a relative at all. “I think you must be mistaken,” Keely said. “My mother was Fiona Quinn.”

“Yes, yes,” Maeve said. “And she married my cousin, Seamus Quinn. She was a McClain, as I recall. From the McClains that lived down Topsall Road in that big house. Yes, that was it. Topsall Road.” Maeve smiled, her eyes lighting up. “She was the prettiest girl in the village and from a fine family. I was there at their wedding. And how is Fiona? Since her parents passed years back, we haven’t heard a thing from her, or from Seamus, for that matter. But then you wouldn’t have remembered your grandparents. You must have been just a wee child when they died. Donal and Katherine, God rest their souls, treasured each other until the day death separated them. Donal couldn’t live without her and he died just a week after she did. Many say from a broken heart.”

“Donal and Katherine?” Keely slowly sat down on the chair she was offered, trying to digest all the information. Katherine was her middle name! But it had been over twenty-five years since her parents had left. It was no wonder the elderly lady got things mixed up, names and places.

“I’ll get tea,” she said, as she hurried out of the parlor into the rear of the cottage. “I have the pot on right now.”

Keely glanced around the tidy room, from the handmade lace doilies to the delicate crystal figurines, pretty landscape paintings and embroidered pillows. Tiny reminders of her mother’s home were scattered around the room, knickknacks that she’d never known were of Irish origin. She reached out and picked up a delicate Belleek porcelain dish, examining the fine basketweave surface.

“Here we are,” Maeve chirped. “Tea and a bit of gur cake.” She set the tray down on the table in front of Keely and poured her a cup. “Milk or lemon?” she asked.

“Milk, please,” Keely said. She took the cup and saucer from Maeve, along with the thin slice of fruitcake tucked beside. She hesitated, then set the tea down in front of her. “There’s something I have to clear up,” she said. “It’s about my parents. My mother’s name was Fiona Quinn and my father’s name was Seamus McClain. Maybe it’s just a coincidence but—”

“Oh, no, dear. You must be confused.”

Keely sighed in exasperation. “I can’t be confused about my parents’ names. They’re my parents.”

Maeve frowned, then quickly stood. “Well, we’ll just have to sort this tangle out.” She crossed the room, opened a cabinet, and withdrew a leather-bound album. “Here,” she said, returning to Keely’s side. She sat down next to her and opened the album. “Here they are.”

Keely stared down at the picture. Her mother had never kept old photos around the house. She had never considered this odd until she’d grown older and asked about her long-dead father and her grandparents, suddenly anxious for any proof of their existence. There was even a time when she’d wondered if she’d been adopted or kidnapped by pirates or even left in a basket on the church…

Her gaze instantly froze on the pretty young woman standing near the sea. It was her mother, there was no doubt about that. She pointed to the photo. “That’s Fiona Quinn,” she said.

“Yes,” Maeve said. “And there’s your father, Seamus Quinn.”

“My—father?” Keely asked, her voice dying in her throat. She ran her fingers over the faded edges. “This is my father.”

“He was always a handsome devil,” the old woman said. “A favorite of all the girls in the village. But he only had eyes for your mother, and though her parents didn’t approve of the match, there was nothing that could stop them. I expect he still is quite dashing, though that black hair has surely turned to gray.”

Keely’s heart lurched and she felt the blood slowly drain from her brain. Her father was dead. Didn’t this woman know? He’d been gone for so many years, since just after she was born. Her mother had to have sent the news in a letter or at least made a phone call. Or maybe Maeve had simply forgotten her relatives so far away. Though the woman didn’t appear to be feebleminded, Keely decided to forgo the revelation about her father’s death. The last thing she wanted was her new cousin to collapse from a heart attack at learning the sad fate of Seamus McClain.

Instead, Keely continued to stare at the only image she’d ever seen of her father. He was handsome, with his dark hair and fine features. Had she passed him on the street in New York she would have turned for a second look. Now she had an image to fix in her mind, a face to put with her father’s name. “He is handsome,” Keely murmured.

“All the Quinn men were,” Maeve said. “And I do believe they knew it, too.”

“Here’s another photo taken that same day. I believe it was the day they left for America. Taken with the boys. I remember trying to get them all to stand still for a photo was nearly impossible.”

“The boys?” Keely asked, following Maeve’s finger to the next page of the album.

“And here they are again,” Maeve said, pointing to another photo.

Keely glanced down at the picture, the color images washed out by time. This time Fiona and Seamus were surrounded by five young boys of various ages and sizes. “Are these your children?” Keely asked.

Maeve laughed as she pulled the photo from the album. “Then you don’t recognize them? Why, these would be your brothers. Let me see if I remember correctly. The eldest was Conor. And then there was Brendan and Dylan, though I can’t remember which of those two comes first. I suppose they’re all grown and married now, with families of their own. And the twins. Now what were their names?” She turned the photo over. “I do believe your mother was pregnant.” She pointed to the swell beneath Fiona’s windblown dress. “That was probably you.”

Keely quickly pushed to her feet. This couldn’t be right. This wasn’t her family. This wasn’t her story. She didn’t have brothers. She was an only child! “I really should go,” she murmured. “I’ve already taken too much of your time.”

“But you haven’t touched your tea. Please stay and visit with me.”

“Perhaps I’ll come again tomorrow,” Keely said, desperate to find a moment to herself, a moment to think about what Maeve had told her.

“Well, here, then. Take this with you.” She handed Keely the photo, who reluctantly took it and tucked it in her purse before she hurried to the door.

“Tomorrow,” she said as she stepped outside into the soft rain that had begun to fall.

By the time she reached the car, her mind was spinning with confusion. She wanted to believe Maeve Quinn was a crazy old lady who couldn’t keep her facts straight. But every instinct told her that Maeve was in full possession of her faculties and she was the one who didn’t have the story right.

Keely numbly started the car and steered it down the road. But her head pounded and her stomach roiled. A wave of nausea overtook her and she slammed on the brakes and stumbled out of the car. Bracing her hands on the front bumper, she retched, her emotions overtaking her body. When her stomach finally settled, she took a ragged breath and pressed her palm to her forehead.

Damn it, why did this always happen to her! This was what she got for acting so impulsively. Yet she couldn’t be sorry she’d come. Ireland had revealed a past she’d never known, a past her mother had hidden from her for years. And if this wasn’t the truth, then she’d be damn sure she’d get the truth, either here or back in the States. On wobbly legs, she slipped back into the car.

Keely withdrew the photo from the pocket of her purse and stared down at it. The faces of the five boys were undeniably familiar. If they weren’t her brothers, then they were most certainly related. Minutes passed, but Keely couldn’t take her eyes off the photo. A knock on the car window startled her out of her thoughts and she turned to find a grizzled old man staring at her with a toothless smile. A tiny scream burst from her lips.

“Are ye lost?” he asked.

Keely rolled the window down a few inches. “What?”

“Are ye lost?” he repeated.

“No,” Keely said.

“Ye looked lost,” he said. He rubbed his chest then hitched his thumbs in the straps of his tattered overalls and glanced up at the sky. “It’s a soft auld day, that it is. You sure you’re not lost?”

“I’m not,” she snapped.

The old man shrugged and started down the road. But before he got more than a few yards from the car, Keely jumped out and ran after him. “Wait!” she called.

He turned and waited for Keely, his hands now shoved in the pockets of his overalls.

“Have you lived in this village for a long time?” Keely asked.

“All me life,” the old man replied. “Not long. But long enough.”

“If I wanted to find out about a family that used to live here, who would I ask?”

“Well, Maeve Quinn would be the one. She’s lived here for—”

“Besides her,” Keely said.

The old man scratched his grizzled beard, then moved on to the top of his balding head. “Ye can try the church,” he suggested. “Father Mike has tended this flock for near forty years. He’s married sweethearts and buried old folk and christened every child in the village.”

“Thank you,” Keely said. “I’ll talk to him.” She turned and started back toward the car, but once she got back inside, she was hesitant to put the car back into gear.

Did she really want to know the truth? Or would it be better to just believe that Maeve Quinn was some crazy old lady? But if Maeve did have her facts straight, it would explain a few things. How many times had she walked in on her mother, only to find her lost in her thoughts, a quiet pain suffusing her expression? And why was Fiona so reluctant to speak of the past, unless that past was one big lie? Did Keely really have five brothers? And if she had, what possible reason could there be for Fiona walking away from five fatherless boys?

Keely’s heart froze. Could her father still be alive? Was the story about his accident at sea just part of one big deception? Another surge of nausea made her dizzy. So many questions and no answers.

There was only one thing to do. First, she’d have to prove that Maeve Quinn had spoken the truth. And if she had, then Keely would catch the next flight home. She had a few questions that needed answering. And only Fiona McClain—or was it Fiona Quinn?—could answer them.

SMOKE HUNG THICK in the air at Quinn’s Pub, adding to the disreputable atmosphere already cultivated by spilt beer, loud music and raucous arguments. Rafe Kendrick sat at the end of the bar, a warm Guinness in front of him. The spot gave Rafe enough privacy for his own thoughts, yet also offered him a decent view of the patrons—and the men behind the bar.

That’s why he’d come here to South Boston, to get a good look at the Quinns. By his count, there were seven of them, six sons and the old man, Seamus Quinn. Rafe had entire dossiers on each one of them, every detail of their lives outlined by his head of security at Kencor. But Rafe Kendrick always believed that it was better to study the enemy close up, to learn their faults and their weaknesses firsthand. All the better to exploit those weaknesses later.

Fortunately, all the Quinns spent plenty of time at the pub. Over the past few months and three visits to the bar, he’d had plenty of time to observe each of them. There was Conor, the vice cop, quiet and serious, a man who took his responsibilities seriously, yet didn’t always abide by the rules. Dylan, the fireman, was easygoing and gregarious, the kind of guy who laughed at danger and everything else in life. The third brother, Brendan Quinn, made his living as an adventure writer and seemed to be the most introspective of the trio. Rafe had read two of his books and found them quite riveting. He’d been surprised at the guy’s talents.

Their professional talents were nothing compared to their talents with the ladies. An unending parade of women strolled through the front door of the pub, their sights set on attracting the attention of one of the bachelor Quinn brothers. If one of the older boys wasn’t interested, they were left with three other eligible candidates—Sean, Brian and Liam Quinn.

Like their older brothers, they were awash in feminine attention, holding court with any number of beautiful females. Rafe had found the whole thing amusing to watch, the casual flirtation, the circling and advancing, and then the final denouement when one of the brothers would walk out the door of the bar with a woman at his side. And none of the brothers were seen with the same woman two nights in a row.

But then Rafe had never considered that particular trait a weakness, since he possessed the same. Rafe had been with his share of women in his life, though they came from a world very different from Quinn’s Pub. They were cool and sophisticated, not nearly so obvious with their desires and their physical attributes. They were women who enjoyed the company of wealthy men, appreciating what money could provide, knowing how to play the game to their fullest advantage. And when Rafe became too busy or too bored, they’d accept the fact and move on to someone else without a second thought.

Rafe caught himself staring at a woman at the other end of the bar, a woman who had been flirting with Dylan Quinn until Quinn had focused his attention on her companion. Rafe looked away, but not soon enough. A few moments later, the woman slipped onto the stool beside him, tossing her honey-blond hair over her shoulder. She pulled out a cigarette and placed it between her moist lips, then leaned forward, offering a healthy view of her cleavage. Rafe knew what was expected. But he wasn’t interested, so he simply slid the book of matches across the bar.

The woman didn’t take the hint. She gave him a dazzling smile. “I’m Kara,” she murmured. “Would you like to join me for a game of pool?”

Rafe didn’t bother returning her smile. “I don’t play pool,” he said softly.

“Darts?” she said, arching her eyebrow and allowing her hand to brush against his sleeve.

Rafe slowly shook his head, then glanced over his shoulder. “I’m sure there are any number of men in this bar who’d enjoy your company tonight…Kara. I’m just not one of them.”

She blinked in surprise, then, with a sniff, slipped off the bar stool and returned to her friends at the other end of the bar.

“Can I get you another Guinness, boyo?”

Rafe glanced up from his warm beer. The patriarch of the Quinn clan stood in front of him, a towel tossed over his shoulder. His thick gray hair dropped in a wave over his forehead and his face was lined from years of harsh sun and sea spray. “Or maybe ye’d like a bite to eat? Kitchen closes in fifteen minutes,” Seamus added.

Rafe pushed the warm beer away from him. “Scotch,” he said. “Neat.”

Seamus nodded then went to fetch the drink. Rafe studied the old man coldly. How many times had he heard the name Seamus Quinn? His mother used to murmur it like a mantra, as if she had to remind herself over and over again that her husband was dead—and that Seamus Quinn was responsible.

Rafe glanced up when the old man returned with his drink. He couldn’t ignore the surge of hate that heated his blood, better than any twelve-year-old Scotch could. But he had to push that aside for now, for reckless emotion had no part in his plans for the Quinns. It wouldn’t be wise to tip his hand so early.

“You new around here?” Seamus asked, leaning an elbow on the bar.

Rafe took a sip of his Scotch and shook his head. “Not new to Boston,” he said. “Lived here for a while.”

“I know just about everybody in the neighborhood,” Seamus countered, eyeing him suspiciously. “Haven’t seen you around.”

“I’ve got…business in the area,” Rafe replied.

“Oh, yeah. Doin’ what?”

“Tying up loose ends,” he said with a shrug. He gulped the last of his Scotch, letting it burn a path down his throat. Then he stood up and pulled his wallet from his jacket pocket. Rafe tossed a twenty on the bar. “Keep the change,” he muttered before he turned and headed toward the door.

He shoved the door open and walked out into the September night, the streets illuminated by the feeble light from the streetlamps. Though Quinn’s Pub was located in a rough section of town, Rafe felt no qualms about walking the streets. He’d grown up on the streets and had learned to protect himself, first with his fists, then with his wits, and now with his wealth.

As he walked toward his car, he thought about the boy he’d once been, happy and carefree, certain of his parents’ love. But that had all changed one fall day, much like this one. Even now, a sick feeling twisted his gut at the memory of his father’s friends—the men who had worked the swordfishing boats with Sam Kendrick—walking up the front steps of their tiny house in Gloucester.

They hadn’t had to speak. Rafe knew what they’d come for. But still, he listened to the details of how his father had met with an unfortunate accident at sea. His father had been caught in a long line and yanked overboard on the Mighty Quinn, Seamus Quinn’s boat. By the time they’d gotten him back on deck, he was dead. Drowned. Like every fisherman’s kid, Rafe knew the dangers of working the North Atlantic, but he couldn’t believe his father could make such a stupid mistake. Even Rafe knew to be watchful when they were playing out the line.

That day had marked the end of Rafe’s childhood. Lila Mirando Kendrick, already frail of mind and health, took the news badly. Though she’d hated her husband’s choice of occupation, she’d loved Sam Kendrick. It had been an odd match, the rough-and-tumble Irish American and the delicate Portuguese beauty. But they had adored each other and the loss of him was more than she could bear. What emotional stability she had left was shattered along with the family’s financial stability.

Rafe had immediately gone to work to help supplement the insurance settlement his mother received. He had worked from the time he was nine years old, first delivering papers and collecting aluminum cans, until he could get a real work permit. After that, he took anything that would pay at least minimum wage. He worked construction to put himself through college, then parlayed a small investment in a crumbling storefront into a fortune in Boston’s booming real estate market.

By the age of twenty-five, he’d made his first million. And now, at thirty-three, he had more money than he could ever spend. Enough to make his life easy. Enough to buy his mother all the help she needed. And plenty of money to make revenge a simple matter. After all, that’s why he’d come to Quinn’s Pub—to avenge his father’s death and his mother’s grief.

Rafe turned back and looked down the darkened street to the neon lights blinking from the pub windows. He wasn’t sure why he had to do this. A shrink might say he had a need for closure, or a desire to work out his childhood rage. But Rafe didn’t put much stock in the science of psychiatry, even though he’d spent a fortune supporting the profession on behalf of his mother. His motive was much simpler.

He’d find a way to take something away from Seamus Quinn, the same way Quinn had taken something from him. An eye for an eye, wasn’t that how it was supposed to be? Maybe he’d find the means to buy the pub out from under him. Or maybe he’d get to Quinn through his sons. Or maybe he’d finally find the proof he needed to put Quinn in jail for the murder of Sam Kendrick.

Whatever it was, Rafe was determined to make it happen. Once he rid himself of the demons in his past, maybe he could finally get on with his future.

THE LIGHTS OF New York glittered against a carpet of black night. Keely stared out the window of the 747, her cheek pressed against the cool surface. She’d left Ireland five hours ago and somewhere over the Atlantic she’d come to the realization that her life had changed forever.

Her visit to the parish priest had been even more illuminating than her tea with Maeve Quinn. Though he couldn’t tell her if her father was still alive, Keely left believing that somewhere in the world, she at least had five brothers, and probably six. The baby that her mother was carrying when she left Ireland was more than a year older than Keely. She didn’t want to believe that the baby had been a girl and her mother had kept a sister from her for all these years.

Her thoughts wandered back to all the romantic stories she made up about her parents, their enduring love, his tragic accident, her mother’s grief. So what had really happened? If her father was still alive, he would have made some attempt to see her, wouldn’t he have?

“So, he’s not alive. That part of the story is the truth,” she told herself. “He would have made an attempt to see me if he could.” Seamus Quinn had died and her mother was left with five, or maybe six children. She couldn’t take care of them and she…put them into foster care? That would explain her mother’s melancholy moods. But why keep that all from Keely? And why, once she made a decent living at the cake shop, didn’t she find her sons?