Night Of The Blackbird (9 page)

“Michael has beautiful eyes.”

“Beautiful? If you say so. Rather hard for me to tell. So okay, beautiful, if you insist, but still beady.”

She sighed with impatience. “Good night, Danny.”

“Good night, Moira.”

As she started up the stairs, she could hear the clink of glasses. She hurried to her home above the pub and quickly locked the door at the top of the stairs.

The house was very quiet. Down the hallway, all the bedroom doors were closed. Her parents had taken Patrick's old room and given him and Siobhan the master bedroom, with the little nursery off it for the kids, Brian happily taking possession of the air mattress. She had offered to sleep with Colleen, so the children could have her room and her parents could stay in theirs, or to take a room at the Copley with the rest of her crew, but her parents had wanted no part of that. They were too happy just to have their family together. Their children, their grandchildren and Siobhan, whom they loved like a daughter.

She hadn't seen her sister-in-law yet, she thought. Unusual. Siobhan had gone to visit her folks, but it was odd that she hadn't taken the children or come into the pub when she returned.

Moira passed the master bedroom as she headed for her room. She had nearly reached her door when she was startled to hear the sound of voices. Muffled, low, angry voices. One masculine, one feminine. Obviously her brother and sister-in-law.

“Oh, Christ, Siobhan, get off it!”

Then Siobhan's voice, so low that Moira couldn't catch the words.

“I'm not involved in anything.”

Siobhan again, still too soft to hear.

“No, it's not going to lead to anything else. It's a cause for children, for God's sake!”

Siobhan must have spoken, though Moira didn't even hear her voice.

“Baby, baby, please, believe me, believe in me….”

His voice trailed off. A few seconds later, she heard her parents' old bed squeak.

Standing alone in the hallway, she flushed so hotly that she felt her face flame. Great. First she'd been standing there eavesdropping on her brother and sister-in-law, and now she was listening to them have sex.

“At least someone is getting some.”

She jumped and almost screamed at the sound of her sister's soft whisper.

“Colleen,” she managed to say.

Colleen covered a giggle, dragging her down the hall.

“I didn't even hear your door open,” Moira said.

“I wasn't in my room. I was on the phone.”

“The phone?”

“It's only eleven in California.”

“Business at eleven?” Moira asked.

Colleen waved a hand in the air.

“A guy. A new guy, nothing deep or heavy or anything like that. I mean, I wouldn't crawl all over him in Dad's own pub in front of Dad the way you did with your Michael tonight.”

“Do you crawl all over him when Dad isn't around?”

Colleen laughed. “What have you become suddenly? The moral conscience of the family?” she said teasingly.

“I didn't mean to be eavesdropping. I just…I heard voices on the way to my room.”

“Voices, yeah, right.”

“Seriously, Colleen, they were arguing. And I really didn't mean to listen.”

“But since you did, you're about to ask me if I know if anything is wrong between them.”

“Well?”

“Not that I know about. But I just came in today, too. Speaking of which, should we make tea? No, no, way too late, and you're here working, right? We'll have to talk tomorrow. I'm dying to hear. He's good-looking—your Michael, that is. Tall, broad-shouldered. Big feet. And you know what they say about men with big feet.”

“That's an old wives' tale.”

“I'm sorry to hear that.”

“Damn it, Colleen, what about asking me how the show is going, what's coming up next—”

“I watch television, and the show is doing just fine. And if I had anything good to tell you, I'd give you all the juicy details.”

“More so than I'd need to know,” Moira agreed.

“I was wondering, with Danny here and all…”

“Danny has nothing to do with anything.”

“Oh, you liar.”

“He's an old friend.”

“Come on, big sister, your nose will grow,” Colleen warned her. “The heat waves used to bounce off you two. And tonight…it was like one of those static electricity things. Wow, come to think of it, I don't envy you. Tall, dark and handsome on the one side, wild wicked past with the bad boy of Eire on the other.”

“Colleen, be quiet, will you? Mum and Dad never knew—”

“They're Catholic, Moira, not stupid. And not even a deaf, dumb and blind female would be immune to Mr. Daniel O'Hara. I think he's as tall, or maybe taller, than your new love. Hmm. Taut muscles, great buns. Wow, choices, choices, kid.”

“Danny is ancient history, Colleen.”

“Sure he is,” Colleen said skeptically.

“You just said that Michael—”

“Yeah, he's pretty damn perfect. Great voice. But then again, Danny's got that wee touch of an accent….”

Moira groaned. “This coming home thing isn't easy. I expect to be tortured by my parents, but you're worse than they are.”

“I'm your sister, the only one you've got, and you're supposed to thank Mum and Dad daily for giving you a sister,” Colleen informed her.

“I get that speech, too. But enough about me. What about this guy in California? What's his name? Is he tall? Big feet? You can check out that anatomy equation for yourself.”

“His name is Chad Storm, and yes, he's tall.”

“Chad Storm?” Moira rolled her eyes. “Is he an actor? Couldn't he have made up a better name?”

“He's a graphic arts designer, and he didn't make up the name, it's the one he was born with,” Colleen said indignantly.

“Shush! We're going to wake up the house.”

“All right, all right, we don't want our cherubic little rug rats waking up. Patrick and Siobhan will kill us. I mean…well, they'd really kill us! I'm going to bed, and I'll let you get your beauty rest. But tomorrow I want details. Down and dirty, graphic and—”

“Go to bed, Colleen.”

“You're going to confess all, you know.”

“Good night, Colleen.”

“Yeah, yeah, good night.” They exchanged a warm, brief hug and started down the long corridor to their doors, opposite one another at the end of the hallway.

As they passed the master bedroom, they could still hear the bed creaking. They looked at one another, burst into laughter and quickly slipped into their own rooms.

 

Daniel thoughtfully dried the last of the glasses and glanced at the nineteenth-century clock at the rear of the bar.

Nearly two. He'd taken his time picking up the place, feeling distracted and wounded. Tense night. Naturally. Here he was, closing in on Saint Patrick's Day.

He'd scoured a number of the pubs in the city, learning what he could, watching, always watching.

Just as he was probably being watched himself.

He would keep watching, too. He'd seen the man who had sat by himself at the rear table before. The man wasn't all that good at what he did. A man came into a pub and interacted if he wanted to go unnoticed. Still, Daniel was convinced that the man he was looking for was going to be someone he had never seen before. Someone who shouldn't know him, either.

Unless, of course, it turned out to be Patrick.

“You're slowing down, boy,” he told himself, setting the last glass on the wooden ledge behind the bar. Maybe he hadn't taken so long. The pub had stayed open late that night.

Kelly's didn't always keep the doors open until one, though sometimes, on a Saturday night, the pub was known to be open until two. It all depended on the clientele. On what was happening. The kitchen closed at ten, but if a hungry soul wandered in after that hour, someone could usually be found to scrounge up some food. Kelly's never changed. From the time Daniel had been little more than a kid, he'd been coming here. Eamon was a good man. A hard worker and a lover of mankind. No harm should ever come to Eamon or anyone in his family.

The phone began to ring. Danny picked it up. “Kelly's,” he said automatically. Then his fingers tensed around the receiver.

“Kelly's,” he repeated. He hesitated, then added, “Where Blackbird plays.”

“Blackbird?” a deep-throated, husky voice inquired. Male or female?

“Yes, Blackbird,” he said firmly.

“I—” the caller began, then, “wrong number,” the voice uttered harshly. And that was it.

The line went dead. Not the wrong number, he wanted to shout.

Then he heard a slight clicking sound.

The phone had been answered by someone upstairs, as well. Had the caller paused because two people had answered? He hit star sixty-nine on the phone. The number came up as unavailable.

With a sudden fury, he hurled the rag he'd been using across the bar. He shook his head and, gritting his teeth, opted for a shot of whiskey before bed. He swallowed it in a gulp. Damn, but it burned.

He walked through the office and storeroom to the stairs leading to the home above. At the top, he checked the door. Locked.

In the bar, he suddenly bolted out the front and ran to the side, taking the stairs two at the time. The outside door to the residence was also firmly locked, although anyone with a real intent to get in and a talent for breaking and entering could jimmy the bolts.

He went down the stairs, into the pub, to his allotted room.

He took a hot shower, then slid beneath the sheets and comforter. He flicked on the telly. CNN. The world was in bad shape. Violence flaring in the Middle East. In Eastern Europe, a terrible train wreck, the fault of an antiquated switching system. The weather taking a gruesome toll in South America.

Then the news reporter, who had just given a grim tale regarding flooding in Venezuela, put a smile on her face and began talking about Saint Patrick's Day. She showed a cheery scene in Dublin, crowds in New York, then a brief interview with the Belfast politician, hailed worldwide, who was en route to Boston to help celebrate with the Boston Irish.

The news continued. Dan stared at the picture on the screen but didn't hear much more.

It was a very long time before he slept.

T
he house seemed quiet when Moira left her bedroom the following morning. She saw that Colleen was just ahead of her, walking down the hall to the kitchen.

She followed her sister. “Good morning,” she murmured, as they entered the kitchen together. Her mother had evidently been up already; coffee had been brewed in the automatic coffeemaker, and a pot of tea sat on the big kitchen table, as well. Her brother was up, sitting at the table, sipping coffee, reading the newspaper.

“Top o' the morning to you,” Colleen returned, eyes rolling as she turned them on Patrick. “And you, brother, dear. You're looking well-rested for a man who spent half the night playing—”

“With the band.” Moira interrupted in horror, amazed that Colleen would make any reference to the fact that they'd been outside his door the previous night. She slid into her old chair at the table and cast Colleen a warning glare.

“Playing with the band,” Colleen repeated. “That's exactly what I was saying,” she continued, glaring at Moira, eyes wide with innocence and mock indignation.

Moira felt like hell. She hadn't fallen asleep until three or four. And then, perhaps out of force of habit, she'd found herself wide awake and unable to pound her pillow into any semblance of comfort when she'd realized she didn't have to be awake so early this morning. She did have things to do, of course. Michael and Josh had done their work well. Permits to tape the parade and the goings-on in various areas of the city had been procured. But she needed a plan of action, and she needed to pretend that she had been on it from the moment she had hung up after talking to her mother and making the decision to come to Boston.

Patrick looked at them both, slightly puzzled. “I feel just fine, thanks. Colleen, you look all right, but Moira…hmm. Trust me, you don't look as bad as you sound. Wouldn't do, would it? Can't have bags beneath your eyes that stretch to your chin when you're on camera, now, can you?”

“Great. How come Colleen looks all right but I merely look better than you think I feel?” Moira asked him.

Patrick grinned. “You've had this shell-shocked look since you arrived,” he told Moira.

“Has she?” Pouring coffee, Colleen turned to study Moira.

“If you're going to turn that cup-filling ritual into a day long event, perhaps you could let me go first,” Moira said.

“Give her the coffee—she needs it,” Patrick said.

Moira glared at her brother. “How come you're saying that?”

“I heard you tossing around all night.”

“Me!” Moira protested. She stared at Colleen, and suddenly she couldn't help it; she burst into laughter, and Colleen followed suit.

“What's the inside joke?” Patrick asked, eyes narrowing as he looked from one of them to the other.

“Well, we were trying to be discreet…” Colleen began.

“But honest to God, surely, that old bed frame hasn't created such a noise since…well, probably since Colleen was conceived,” Moira said.

Patrick's heritage was instantly visible as his cheeks flamed a brilliant shade of red.

“You two are full of it,” Patrick managed to sputter. “How rude. I mean, this is our parents' house….”

“Hey, we're not chastising you,” Colleen said, retrieving the coffeepot from Moira.

“No, we're simply happy—”

“For you both, of course,” Colleen interrupted.

“That after all your years of marriage,” Moira continued.

“And at your ripe old age,” Colleen added.

“You can still get it up, that's all,” Moira finished.

Patrick set his cup down, shaking his head, eyes lowered. Then he stared at them both across the table. “Well, all that from the woman who nearly attacked a stranger in the bar last night.”

“Michael's not a stranger,” Moira protested.

“Hey, we've never met him before.”

“I know him very well.”

“Apparently so. What, you met him after the Christmas holidays? That doesn't exactly make you eligible for a diamond anniversary band.”

“Cute,” she told Patrick.

“Well, she probably only did it because of Danny,” Colleen said, yawning.

Moira glared at her sister. “Hey, whose side are you on here?”

Colleen instantly looked sheepish. “Sorry.”

“You're not supposed to be taking sides against me to begin with,” Patrick protested.

“Ah, now, are the girls beating up on you again, Patrick?” their mother asked, sweeping into the kitchen from the hallway. “Shame on you, the both of you. Now, don't I spend half my life reminding you that—”

“That we're all the greatest gifts you ever gave to any one of us,” the three of them said in unison, creating an outbreak of laughter around the table.

Katy shook her head. “One day you'll know the truth of it. When the world is against you, when friends have failed you, you always have your family.”

“Oh, Mum,” Moira said, rising and walking to her brother to give his shoulders a hug—and his arm a pinch. “I adore my big brother. Honestly.”

“And me, too, of course,” Colleen said.

“And you, Patrick?” Katy demanded of him firmly.

“And me?” Patrick asked, grinning at Moira. “Why, my sisters are the light of my life. Though there is that other person. My wife. Oh, and my kids, bless the little demons. My life is just one big radiant ray of light.”

“Enough of that,” Katy said with a grin. “Moira, move back a bit. Patrick, scooch in your chair. The children are awake—they'll be out for breakfast any minute now. Let me get the eggs going. Girls, would you give me a hand?”

“Girls?” Colleen asked.

“Aye?” Katy asked, puzzled.

Moira slipped an arm around her mother. “Mum, what she's saying is that you're being sexist. Patrick can help out just as well.”

“After all, you're cooking for his children.”

“Well, now, Patrick can't help out,” Katy said.

“And why is that?” Colleen asked.

“Because he's the most useless human being in a kitchen I've ever seen. Granny Jon says that he's the only person she's ever met who's incapable of boiling a pot of water.”

“He only pretends he can't cook,” Moira said.

“To get out of the work,” Colleen explained.

“Now, the lot of you!” Katy said indignantly.

“Just kidding, Mum,” Moira said. “I'll get the bacon.”

“The bottom batch, please. The lean stuff at the top from McDonnell's is for the bacon and cabbage we're having tonight.”

“Bacon and cabbage,” Moira murmured.

“And colcannon,” Katy said. “And some broccoli and spinach, because they're good for your father's heart. Moira Kathleen, I need the oatmeal, as well. Your dad has taken to getting it down plain every morning, for his cholesterol.”

Moira brought out the requested items from the refrigerator, then got the oatmeal from the cabinet. She looked at her mother. “That's it. We'll cook. For the show, we'll let you take over, and we'll videotape your preparation of the Saint Patrick's Day meal.”

“We're not having bacon and cabbage for Saint Patrick's Day, we'll be having a roast,” Katy said.

“Mum,” Moira groaned. “I don't care what we're really having on Saint Patrick's Day. Bacon and cabbage is a traditional Irish meal. It will be a terrific segment for the show.”

“Oh, now, daughter, I'm not good on a camera,” Katy protested.

“Can we put Patrick in an apron?” Colleen asked hopefully.

“Not on your life,” Patrick protested.

“Oh, yeah, great. Let him be traditionally Irish by drinking beer and playing with the band,” Colleen teased.

“You know, it's just one of those things,” Patrick said. “I can wear a suit well, which is good for an attorney. I look pretty good in hats. Aprons…I just don't seem to have the right build.”

“We won't film you in an apron,” Moira said. “Since you can't cook, you can do the dishes when we're done.”

“I've got an appointment this morning,” Patrick protested.

“I bet he just thought it up,” Colleen said.

“Do you really have an appointment?” Katy asked him.

Before he could answer, there was a tap on the inner door. Moira felt an inexplicable wave of tension instantly tighten her muscles.

Her mother and sister had turned toward the sound. Only Patrick was looking at her.

“So, it is Danny,” he said softly.

“Don't be ridiculous,” she murmured. “Should I get it?” she asked her mother.

“No, it's just Danny, at this hour,” Katy said. “Come in, Dan!” she called.

“I locked it last night when I came up,” Moira said.

“Danny has a key, of course,” her mother replied impatiently.

She heard the key twisting in the lock even as her mother spoke.

She wondered why it bothered her so much that he had a key. To her home. No, not
her
home, her
parents'
home.

And he had always been welcome here.

He walked in, freshly showered and scrubbed, as evidenced by the dampness that remained in his combed hair and gleamed on newly shaven cheeks. He was wearing jeans and a gold knit sweater beneath a casual leather jacket. She had to admit that he looked good. A bit of age had given his natural ease a slightly weathered and dignified look. He wasn't as handsome a man as Michael, she thought, almost analytically, and only partially defensively. Michael had classic good looks. Pitch dark hair, striking blue eyes and a clean-cut face. Daniel was craggier. His chin a bit squarer, cheeks leaner, features more jagged. He had good eyes, though. A strange shade of hazel that made them amber at times, almost gold at others. He saw her studying him but only smiled, addressing her mother.

“I could smell Katy Kelly's coffee way down in my room,” he told her, slipping his arms around her waist affectionately and kissing her cheek.

“There's a coffeepot behind the bar,” Moira said rather sharply. Patrick looked at her. She widened her eyes. “How else would we make Irish coffee?”

“I think we're all aware that there's a coffeepot behind the bar,” her brother said.

“I was merely suggesting—” She began.

“Ah, but my coffee would never be as good as Katy's,” Danny interrupted.

“And you'd not be wanting to have it alone,” Katy said firmly. “You've been up here every morning, and now the girls are here, as well. Naturally you want to spend time together.” Katy said the last casually, but sincerely.

“Of course we want to spend time with him. He's like another older brother. A nice one,” Colleen teased.

Patrick groaned audibly.

“Just like a brother,” Moira said sweetly.

Danny had poured coffee and taken a seat next to Patrick. “Sibling torture this morning, eh?”

“Tell me, would you wear an apron so that your sister could humiliate you on national television?” Patrick asked.

“It's just a cable show,” Moira murmured.

“A highly rated cable show,” Patrick said. “Well?”

For a moment, as Danny stared at her, Moira thought that his face had hardened strangely with anger. “I don't have a sister,” he said.

“But you're just like a nicer older brother,” Patrick reminded him.

“Oh, right. Well, what does the apron look like?” Danny asked, and the casual conviviality was back in his voice.

“I'm sure Mum has one with a leprechaun on it somewhere,” Colleen said.

“No one has to wear an apron!” Moira protested.

“Right. We'll cook neatly,” Danny said.

“I didn't say anyone but Mum needed to be in the show,” Moira reminded them.

“That's right. The long-suffering siblings get to wash dishes offstage,” Patrick said.

“Hey,” Colleen protested, “I've got the kind of face they say can launch a thousand ships.”

“Naturally you're invited to cook with us on camera,” Moira told her sister.

“Thanks. I'll have to check with my agent.”

“Colleen Mary!” Katy said indignantly.

“Just kidding, Mum.”

“That
is
a face that could launch a thousand ships—
sis,
” Danny told Colleen. “Congratulations. I'm seeing it more and more every day now.”

“Really, Danny?” Colleen asked, her voice a little anxious. For a moment Moira reflected that her sister was really just a nice kid. She was doing exceptionally well, yet she was still amazed that people really thought her looks worthy of attention. She had managed to develop enough confidence to go forward and retain enough humility to remain grounded.