Night Of The Blackbird (18 page)

Patrick arrived from downstairs, Granny Jon walked in, and the family sat. Eamon said grace, but before the amen he paused and looked around the table. “Thank you, Lord, for letting me have me family all here. Thank you for this squabbling tribe of ruffians who still do their old dad proud by coming home for Saint Patrick's Day, and thank you, too, for old friends who are like kin, and giving us Danny here for this happy occasion, as well.”

“Amen to that, and let's eat,” Patrick said.

“Patrick, your father was praying,” Katy moaned.

“Aye, and bless the Irish, and let's eat!” Patrick said.

“I wasn't quite finished,” Eamon said sternly. “I was about to bless the Lord for gracing me with a daughter-in-law like Siobhan, beautiful inside and out, a lady who has given me three of the greatest gifts a man could ever hope for, Brian, Shannon and Molly, who helps to make the world's most incredible toast.”

“Here, here,” Moira said, staring at her brother. “To Siobhan—and the kids, of course.”

Molly giggled. Granny Jon glanced at the old silver watch pendant she always wore. “To Siobhan. And Patrick's right—let's eat. We'll be closing in on communion if we're not careful.”

“The very last toast,” Danny announced, lifting his coffee cup. “To Eamon Kelly, his lovely wife Kathleen, and to the bacon and toast.”

“Ah, there we go. Now, let's wolf this down and get going,” Patrick said.

“Busy day?” Siobhan asked him sweetly.

He looked at his wife. “Church,” he replied, just as sweetly.

“Mass waits for no man,” Danny murmured.

 

Michael, Josh and his family were already at the church. Since it was her family's church, Moira greeted Michael instantly and affectionately but discreetly, despite the fact that she had sat in the back of the family car between Siobhan and Danny on the way to Mass and had been dying to throw herself at Michael the moment she stepped into the cathedral. She was able to be more openly enthusiastic with Gina, Josh's wife, hugging her friend and admiring the twins, who seemed to grow by leaps and bounds every week. She instantly picked up one of the twins to hold during the service. The babies were angelic little boys who already looked like Josh. She held Gregory, the older of the two, who lay in her arms sweetly sleeping.

She sat during the sermon, giving more attention to the warm bundle in her arms than to the priest, until she heard him talking about Saint Patrick's Day and announcing the arrival of Jacob Brolin in the city of Boston and asking his congregation to pray for Brolin and the message of peace he brought not only to Northern Ireland, but to all men in Ireland, all men of Irish descent and all men throughout the world. His sermon was stirring, one that reminded his congregation that more than the arms procured for violence in other places came from American financing, that American businesses and tourists helped bring prosperity and the hope of peace. It was a good sermon, earning a round of applause at the end, despite the final words being, “Let us pray.”

The applause woke Gregory, who immediately began to cry. Moira tried to soothe him, only to find the infant being plucked from her arms by Danny, who lifted the boy high in his arms, whispered a few words and immediately—to Moira's annoyance—elicited a coo of soft baby laughter. “I'll take him back,” she whispered.

“You'll only get him crying again.”

“I will not.”

“You're edgy, and he knows it.”

“I'm not edgy.”

“You reek of hostility. You're even angry that I can manage an infant.”

“I am not.”

“You're arguing, Moira, during the most holy passages of the Eucharist.”

“Damn it, keep the baby.”

“Moira Kathleen Kelly! We're in church.”

“Darn it, then. Keep the baby. What are you doing next to me, anyway?”

“I slipped past Colleen when I saw that you were in distress.”

“I'm not in distress.”

“There's your good Michael, on his knees next to you, love. Don't you just feel the urge to kneel down beside him? He's praying. What do you think he's praying for? Peace among the Irish, or for you to make good on a promise and show up in his hotel room in the middle of the night? Or even…for something more sinister?”

“Danny…”

“I know what I'm praying for.”

“Peace in the world?”

“Oh, that, too, of course.”

“I'm going to hit you in a minute, even if we are in church.”

“Your whispers are growing awfully loud.”

“
My
whispers?”

“You're supposed to be on your knees, Moira. Bonding with your love. I truly wish I could hear your Michael's prayers.”

“You should be on your knees.”

“I'm holding a baby, in case you haven't noticed.”

Moira ignored him, kneeling beside Michael, taking his hand. He squeezed hers in return. When Moira rose for the Lord's Prayer, she managed to take the baby from Danny, and, after kissing or shaking hands with her family and everyone nearby, she changed her position to Danny's other side.

Outside the church, the Kelly children dutifully greeted all their parents' old friends, and Moira introduced Michael around.

Danny had enough friends of his own.

Standing with Michael, waiting for her folks to finish the after Mass coffee, Moira felt the warmth of their close-knit little community within the large city. She closed her eyes for a minute. She loved New York, but she also loved Boston. She even loved the Irish eccentricities of her family and friends. Everyone was so enthused about the arrival of Jacob Brolin. They spoke about him as if they were speaking about the Second Coming.

“He's from Belfast, isn't he?” Michael said.

“What?”

“Your old friend. Danny. He's from Belfast.”

“He was born there, yes. I don't know that much about when he was really young. He was brought up by an uncle who traveled a great deal. He was here a lot, and he also spent some time growing up in Dublin, I think.”

“I've heard he was a wild man in his youth. IRA?”

“Was Danny actually in the IRA? I don't think so,” Moira said, noticing that the man in question was approaching them.

“Well, Michael, how did you survive family day at church?” Danny asked cheerfully.

“It's rather charming,” Michael said.

“Yup. Everyone praying for Jacob Brolin.”

“He must be quite a man. Moira, you should call him ask about an interview for the show.”

“You're the locations manager, right?” Danny said. “You haven't tried to reach him yourself?”

Michael shrugged, ignoring the suggestion of rebuke in the question.

“I'm not Moira Kelly. I think that kind of request would be better coming from her. I just handle places, she handles people. Having him on tape. That would be a coup for the show. Right, Moira?”

She was listening to Michael but noting that Seamus was in a group not far from them. “Excuse me, will you? There's Seamus. I have a bone to pick with him.”

“We'll say hi, as well,” Danny said, following her as she started in Seamus's direction.

The group around Seamus was saying goodbye. Seamus didn't seem to notice. He was too busy staring at the three of them as they approached.

“Seamus, there you are,” Moira said. “Why did you run out on me like that last night?”

Seamus wasn't looking at her. He was watching the two men.

“Seamus?”

He suddenly snapped his attention to her. “Ah, Moira, I merely took myself on home.”

“You were behaving so strangely.”

“I'm Irish, eh? We all talk fairy tales. I'll be seeing you later, Moira Kelly, at the pub. Drinking me ale and nothing more. Ta, now.”

He turned and left.

“What on earth is up with him?” Moira murmured, more to herself than to Danny or Michael.

“He's Irish, like he says. You can't go worrying about every one of your father's friends. The old coot is eccentric. Let it go, Moira,” Michael said.

She felt Danny's hand on her arm and heard his soft whisper. “For once, lover boy is right. Let it go, Moira. Let it go.”

“B
eady eyes, eh?” Moira whispered to Danny.

He seemed impossible to shake.

They had decided to take their filming to the streets of Boston that afternoon. Moira still wanted a segment on her grandmother telling the old tales, but after a meeting with Jeff and Michael, they had decided that they also needed more general scenes in the Boston area, so she'd decided to combine the two. Michael had already arranged a permit for Quincy Market and the Faneuil Hall area, so they had brought the cast and crew to the historic area where shops designed to meet contemporary tastes now abounded.

Her mother, always concerned that things work out, had arranged for friends to bring their children. Moira had her grandmother seated on a bench, surrounded by a flock of children.

It was an old adage, but true—it was never easy filming animals and children. She hadn't asked for any animals, but the children were all going crazy over every pooch being walked through the area by a pup-loving Bostonian.

Michael was doing the best anyone could expect on critter control, herding children to where they were supposed to be, assuring dog owners that they could be in a crowd shot as long as they were willing to sign releases. As the last minute camera angles were set up, Michael took control of the children, assuring them that since there were a few monsters in Irish lore, they would be entertained. After getting the last child seated, he left, placing a gentle hand on Molly's head as he went. Moira hadn't been about to keep her nieces and nephew out of this group, and she'd been glad of it, because Patrick and Siobhan had come to watch the taping, and their offspring, together.

“Okay, so he's good with kids and canines,” Danny admitted, drawing her line of thought away from her family. “Just remember, Hansel and Gretel thought the witch in the woods was a kind old lady until they were nearly stuffed in the oven.”

“Wise, Danny, wise. I'll remember that.”

“Your grandmother is holding her own,” he pointed out.

It was true. Granny Jon had her crowd spellbound. “The banshee, you see, is a death ghost. She howls and cries in the night when she comes for the souls of those about to depart this world. In America you have hundreds of monsters—so many from the cinema, right? Well, when I was a little girl in Ireland, we had the banshees. We knew the terrible wail they could make and knew when to be afraid. And the older folk used to warn us to behave, because if we didn't, do you know what could happen?”

The kids were all watching her expectantly.

“What?” whispered one young boy, perhaps eight or nine years old.

“The banshees would get you on your way in or out of the outhouse.”

“What's an outhouse?” a little girl asked.

“Ah, well, there I go, showing just how old an old woman I am,” Granny Jon said. “Way back when I was a girl in Dublin, we didn't have a bathroom right in our house. No charming little place with tile and scented soaps and the like. Our loos—” She paused and looked at the kids and laughed. “Sorry, our toilets were in a little house behind the main house. And sometimes, at night, when it was very, very dark, and maybe a storm was coming, and you slipped outside at night, you could hear the wind howling in the trees. The branches would sway and cast huge shadows, and in those shadows, you could see the sad, dark form of the banshee as she swept down into the night.”

“Did she ever get you?” a little boy asked anxiously.

“Well, now, no, of course not, or I'd not be here to tell the tale.”

The kids burst into laughter.

“Please tell me they had the tape running for that,” Moira murmured.

“You've got it,” Danny said, pointing to the cameraman.

“There's another tale involving children,” Granny Jon went on. “There was a great king, and his name was Lir. He had four children, and he loved them dearly. He lost his lovely wife and later remarried. But his love for his children remained the greatest love in his life. His new wife had magical powers, and she was very jealous of the children. She took them to the lake and cast a spell upon them, turning them into swans for nine hundred years. She wasn't really a terrible witch, and she felt guilty immediately, so she gave the swans the gift of song. They could sing like nightingales. The swans became honored all over Ireland. That was in the ancient days, and during those nine hundred years, a man named Saint Patrick brought Christianity to Ireland. The nine hundred years ended, and the children turned into people again, but their years of being swans had weakened them, and they were frail. They were baptized, however, before they passed on, and became children of God. Their father was bereft and ordered that, in their honor, no swan should be killed in Ireland, and to this day there is a law protecting swans in all Ireland.”

“Their father was still alive?” a towheaded girl asked, amazed. “He was even older than my daddy!”

“Oh, yes, he was very, very old,” Granny Jon said, and winked. “That's why we have stories, though, myths and legends and tales. And in most legends, a little bit is true, a little bit is exaggerated, and some of the story is a downright lie. But Irish stories are like all others, tales we tell to explain what goes on in life, or perhaps stories that are just for fun.”

“Like leprechauns?” a boy asked.

“Oh, no,” Granny Jon said. “Leprechauns are real. Well, so legend has it.”

The taping went wonderfully. Stray children wandered over to join the crowd. Patrick and Siobhan watched delightedly, arm and arm, as they observed their own brood piping up with pieces of information they already knew, becoming stars to the kids around them.

When filming was finished, the Boston crew broke quickly, making arrangements with Michael and Josh for the following day. Granny Jon was tired, eager to go home. Danny immediately volunteered to take her and suggested the kids might want to go, too, telling Patrick and Siobhan not to worry, if Mum was worn out, he would do the baby-sitting. Siobhan gratefully accepted the offer.

Josh suggested that they have supper somewhere in the area.

“Little Italy has some of the best food in the world,” Patrick said.

“Not as good as Kelly's Pub, surely,” Michael said.

“Sal's family has a place down here, and it's excellent,” Moira said. “And Italian will be a wonderful change.”

“I won't tell Mum you said that,” Patrick told her.

“Mum loves Italian food,” Moira said. “But we won't stay late, anyway. This may be Sunday, but that never stopped an Irishman from going to a pub. And we're getting closer and closer to Saint Patrick's Day. I don't want to leave Dad in the lurch.”

“Colleen is home,” Patrick reminded her.

“Yes, but he may need more help.”

“That's true,” Patrick said. “We should stick around and help, as much as possible.”

“Yes,” Siobhan murmured. “You have so many friends and associates coming in these days, after all.”

There was an underlying bitterness to her tone, Moira thought, but she was the only one who seemed to hear it.

“We won't be long,” Josh said. “But Italian food sounds great right now.”

“Josh, you sure as hell don't have to work at the pub,” Patrick said. “Why are you worried about time?”

“I can't leave Gina at the hotel all night with the kids alone.”

“Call her and tell her come down,” Moira suggested.

“No, she'll have eaten and she'll be getting the twins to sleep. I'll grab something with you, then head on back. It shouldn't take too much time.”

“No, it's early for the real dinner crowd. We can walk over. Little Italy is right across the road,” Siobhan said.

As they walked, Patrick commented that they never quit with the roadwork in Boston. Siobhan pointed out that they were in the very heart of a city that was trying to accommodate a growing population, so the work was necessary.

“It's a crazy city,” Patrick said.

“I love Boston,” Moira protested. “It has something for everyone—the old, with buildings dating from the birth of the nation, and the new.”

“It has the ethnic—the Irish and the Italians,” Siobhan added.

“And everyone else now. A growing Asian population, Hispanic, European, everyone,” Moira protested.

“Let's not forget Boston baked beans,” Patrick said dryly.

“And if the kids were here, they'd tell you that Boston baked beans make the snobby people fart, and then they can't be so snobby anymore,” Siobhan said.

“There you go, a city with everything, culture—and wicked good farting,” Patrick said.

He slipped an arm around his wife. As they walked, Moira found that she and Michael were at the rear of the crowd, almost alone. They passed a restaurant where an outside sign advertised Live Maine Lobster, 2 for $19.95.

“Does that mean we'd have to eat them while they were still alive?” Michael queried lightly.

“A grim thought, those claws snapping at you as you munched down,” she responded.

“This is nice,” Michael said.

“What?”

“Me, you. A distance from the rest of your world. The absence of your old buddy boy, Dan O'Hara.”

“Michael, he's a longtime family friend. There's not much I can do about that.”

“I'm delighted that he skipped dinner.”

“So am I.”

His arm around her shoulder, he squeezed her tightly to him. “You know, he was right about one thing.”

“What's that?”

“I should have contacted Jacob Brolin's people.”

“I'm sure he's being bombarded by the networks and the major cable stations.”

“But you have an edge. You're a beautiful woman, and you're Irish.”

“I'm an American—and thanks for the compliment.”

“First generation, and the compliment is due. I think you definitely have an edge. Maybe…maybe I was afraid to say much more at the time. I feel this macho power struggle thing with your Mr. O'Hara, and I didn't want to admit that I might fall short in any way. But in all honesty, I think you might want to try to make contact yourself. You are an Irish American, a woman, and your father does run one of the most prestigious Irish pubs in the city.”

“Hmm.”

“What?”

“I don't know. I never thought of the pub as being prestigious. Warm, fun, a great place. My dad is an excellent host. He creates a really great atmosphere. But we're not like a gourmet restaurant or anything.”

“I'm willing to bet that if old Jacob Brolin has heard anything about Boston, he'll have heard about Kelly's Pub.”

“There are tons of pubs here.”

“But your father's is down-home authentic.”

“All right, I'll call Brolin. Or call his people—that may be as close as I can get.”

“Good for you. I'm convinced you're the best man—sorry, woman—for breaking the ice.”

“Maybe you're right.” She pointed to a shop along their way. “You can buy the best cannoli in the world in that store. Sal's aunt owns it. The older generation sits outside, arguing in Italian and playing checkers—when the weather is decent, of course. The Old—”

“—North Church is right down there,” Michael finished for her. “Hey, I'm your locations manager. I scout things out.”

She laughed, hugging him.

“C'mon, quick kiss. Your brother isn't looking.”

“My brother knows all about you.”

“You talk about that with your brother?”

“Well, no, but I'm sure he knows the extent of our relationship.”

They paused in the street, where he pressed the lightest kiss against her lips. She felt the bulk of his shoulders in her arms, the strength in his height as he cradled her to him. She buried her face against his chest. Yes, she was in love with him.

“You know,” he murmured.

“What?”

“Watch out for him.”

“Who?”

“Your friend. Danny.”

She drew back. “Watch out for him. Why?”

He shook his head. “Last night, when I was trying to hunt down the group that stiffed me on the bill, he was outside. In the shadows. Looking very suspicious. The guy
is
from Belfast. He could be a loose cannon. I don't know—maybe I'm just jealous of his position in the bosom of your family. But…for me, be careful. Something about him makes me uneasy. I know he's a good friend and all, and this is just a feeling, but keep your distance a little, huh? Just to humor me?”

He was staring at her, deep blue eyes incredibly serious.

“Hey, are you two coming?” Patrick called.

Moira realized that they were standing in front of Paul Revere's house. The sun was completely gone; the last of the tourists were leaving.