Selkie's Song (Fado Trilogy) (14 page)

Tynan pulled a chair back and sat. He surveyed her kitchen. It wasn’t an unusual kitchen, but told him much about the woman at the counter, preparing his coffee. He had a strong suspicion Muireann didn’t find the gastronomic arts to be her main venue of expression. In fact, the high-tech espresso maker appeared to be the only evidence of culinary interest.

She had kicked off her clogs at the door and the sight of her bare feet prompted his heart to take an extra beat. He hadn’t thought of himself as a foot fetishist, but he did ponder how it would feel to have those naked toes run up his leg just about now. The casual sense of intimacy she emanated only contributed to his imaginings.

“What else can I get you?” she asked as she turned and set two steaming cups of cappuccino on the table.

“Uh, this is grand.”
How about a little of what we started last night?
“Got plans today?” he asked instead.

“Sure now. I’ve always got a plan of sorts.” She didn’t look up as she stirred her coffee.

“Wanna share?”

“Share?” Her head lifted and her eyes met his. “Share what?”

“Your plan,” he said and sipped his coffee while keeping his eyes on hers. He felt a nudge against his ankle and looked down at Cú’s big, watery eyes. “How’d you get under there? And where’s my shoe?”

Muireann laughed, choked and sputtered. Trying to stifle the laugh caused tears to overflow her eyes and drip onto her cheeks. “I’m sorry,” she gasped between breaths. “He must like you. He ordinarily doesn’t abscond with shoes.” She gave Cú a disapproving shake of her head. “They were very nice shoes.”

Ty threw his head back and looked toward heaven. “Ferragamos. It was Miguel’s idea. He thought I should dress for success.” It had actually been his idea of dressing to get laid should the opportunity arise.

“Who’s Miguel?”
Muireann stood and walked to the fridge.

Ty tipped his chair onto its back legs and stretched out. “The easiest way to explain Miguel Santos is …well, not so straightforward.” Family friend, female impersonator, fashionista. “He helps out at the pub. Sharp dresser. You really have to meet him to get the full impact.”

She returned to the table with bread and jam. “Well, apparently he and Cú like the same shoes.”

“You never did tell me what your plan for the day was. Any chance it could include myself? And we could leave the hound of Chulainn home with a bowl of gruel or …the other shoe.”

Muireann laughed again. She seemed to have a whole repertoire of musical laughter, from silly to sensuous, and it was all pleasant to his ears.

Laughter may not have seemed an important point on which to judge a woman, but Tynan had suffered the experience of courting a beautiful girl with a laugh that raised chill bumps on his neck.

“I’m going to see about my mam this morning. Care to join me?”

It was his turn to chuckle. “Are you saying you’re taking me home to meet the folks?”

“Let me put it to you this way, Ty. Did Mary see you come in last night?”

He felt a flush of blood creep up his neck and into his face. “Busted.”

“Shoeless and covered with mud?” She stood and grabbed a jumper that hung from a peg by the door. “Speculation is always more interesting than reality in a village such as ours. Folks around might not be able to tell you what they had for supper last night, but they never forget a potential scandal involving a tourist and one of their own.”

****

Ty liked a woman nimble enough to keep up with his long strides. He liked a lot about Muireann. Perhaps he liked her too much, but for today at least he was willing to overlook the gnawing sense that he might be all too easily distracted from the business that had called him to this place. But times like this, by her side with the wind tangling her hair around her shoulders and the sun’s tawny glow on her cheeks, he thought it might not be such a disastrous distraction after all.

“I’d almost forgotten how much I love being out here in the open land,” Ty said, as much to remind himself as to let Muireann know something about him. “In Boston, I walk or ride my bicycle everywhere. It’s a lot like Dublin in that way.”

“I’ve never been to America. Never had any interest.” Muireann looked straight ahead as she spoke. “Everything I need is right here.”

As they walked side by side, he was tempted to take hold of her hand, but she had them stuck into the pockets of her jumper. The heavy Aran knit seemed more a barrier from the world than from the weather.

“Still, you should give Boston a try. You might actually like it.”

“I’ve done Dublin, thank you.” Then she laughed. “Sounds like a porn film. Can’t you just see it in neon lights?
Muireann Does Dublin
.” She jogged over to a mailbox, opened it, and retrieved a packet of letters. “My mam is probably the only person left in Ballinacurragh who refuses to use e-mail. She gets all her letters by post.” She pointed up a dirt path. “This is home.”

The bungalow sat amidst the most prolific flower garden Tynan had ever seen. He could no sooner name the constellations in the night sky than the plants and shrubs scattered from the front stoop to the stone wall that marked the perimeter of the plot.

Baskets of purple and white blooms hung suspended under the eaves of the roof. A lazy yellow cat curled confidently in the mossy groundcover and bees worked in unison taking advantage of the dry day.

A slender woman, straw hat protecting her fair skin from the sun, stood bent over a potting table. She turned toward the visitors and her somber face took on a radiant smile. Tynan looked from her to Muireann. No mistaking this genetic pool. Dervla was Muireann in thirty years. The same dark eyes but with a hint of pain, shoulder-length sable hair streaked with silver, secured at her neck with a slide made of a scallop shell, and her face refined as though an artist had gently added the years of care.

Muireann enfolded the woman in her arms. “
Dia duit ar maidin, mo chroi.
” Good morning to you, my love. The Irish greeting stroked seldom played memory cords. His own mam had often used the Irish with family in much the same way.

He couldn’t make out the next whispered words between mother and daughter, but he saw the muscles in Muireann’s jaw tighten and distress in her eyes.

“Mam, this is Tynan,” she said in a tone one might use with a child. “He’s staying at Mary’s.” She turned to Tynan. “Ty, this is my mam, Dervla Ni Conghaile.” Muireann introduced her with her proper name of birth. She was, of course, Mrs. O’Malley now, but she had been a Conneely. One of the selkies’ kin?

The sense of déjà vu caused chill pricks up his arms. The scent of peaty soil, fresh herbs, and the pleasant warmth of Dervla’s face flashed though his memory and took him back fifteen years. He felt like a youth again.

Dervla offered her hand but then pulled it away and removed her garden gloves. “Sorry, I was just starting these herb seedlings. Please come into the house and have a cup of tea.”

When he did take her hand, it was not as delicate at it appeared. Though long fingered and refined, these were the hands of a woman used to her share of hard work over the years.

“Now, Tynan, I understand you’ve met Ronan’s hound. Ran off with your shoes, did he?” Her dark eyes seemed to look past him into some dimension beyond this earthly one. “I’ll have to speak to my son about controlling the big beastie. But no worries. No hounds here.”

Ronan’s hound?
Dervla O’Malley spoke as though her son was still alive.

Pain flashed across Muireann’s face and she looked at Ty as though to beg him not to react to her mam’s comments.

“I thought Mary had you confused with someone else when she said you were from America.” Dervla shook her head and looked more closely at this face. “I told her you’re from just up the road.”

“Then you do remember me, Mrs. O’Malley?”

“You would be hard to forget, young man. Your mother was cousin to my husband’s uncle, Albert O’Malley’s, wife. So no panic, we’re not blood kin.” She gave a reassuring smile toward her daughter. “When Cromwell stole the O’Malley land, the only way to save the portion with the fortress was to put it in the name of the wife of the chieftain. She was Ni Moillin, an Aran Islander.”

Dervla grinned and headed for the doorway. “Now set yourself. I’ll make the tea, and then I’ll tell you more about it.”

Tynan shrugged and gave in to the inevitable. No use in arguing with a woman bent on making you tea. He followed the two women into the house. It would have been a typical middle-class dwelling if it hadn’t been so carefully tended. Tynan could see where Muireann got her sense of style. Her parents’ cottage was pleasantly appointed though not extravagant in any way.

From the telltale slope of the floor he knew this dwelling had been here through the ages. As the land shifted and settled, the structure had adapted and reshaped. “How long has this cottage been here?” he asked.

“Oh, now, many generations,” Dervla said. “It’s said to be the birthplace of Mara Conneely…some four hundred years back.”

Muireann took his arm by the elbow and firmly, so he could not refuse, headed toward the kitchen. “Mam, Ty and meself are going to get the tea.”

“Is that the same Mara who disappeared off the cliffs?” Tynan asked. “Mary told me there was a fable involving the ‘stone man.’”

“Please, don’t let her get started down that road,” Muireann whispered, rolling her eyes in the direction of the parlor. “My mam is a direct descendent of Bardán Ó’Conghaile, brother to the legendary Mara.”

“So, what’s the big secret?” Ty pulled her close and copied her whispering tone. Muireann melted into him and then straightened.

“Look, first…don’t ask my mother anything about Ronan. She is completely mental when it comes to him. One minute she’s weeping over his death…the next she’s fixing his favorite tea to welcome him home at the end of the day.”

Ty’s chest squeezed. “I’m so sorry,” he said and meant it more than she would know. He’d known the pain of loss when his mother passed from cancer only a few years before. For so long he would walk into the house, expect to hear her singing, and then realize she would never be there again. Only the passage of years and leaving Ireland had settled the ghost out of his life.

“What else should I know? Any other taboo subjects?”

“I’ll explain later.” She pushed back with her hands on his chest and reached for the tea kettle. “It’s complicated. Just please don’t get her started on selkies and fairies.”

Tynan took the tray of cups and biscuits. “What’s the fun of an uncomplicated family, I ask ya?” he commented under his breath before he took a seat and gazed around the room.

Neat and impeccably clean, the parlor smelled of beeswax and fresh flowers. Heavy framed photographs hung from an old-fashioned picture border on one wall, with smaller ones set about on the mantel and end tables: Muireann as a girl, dark hair whipped in the wind, Ronan with Cú as a pup. A traditional wedding photo of Muireann’s parents sat on the sideboard next to a picture of a young and vibrant Dervla on a beach with a dark-haired infant in her arms. A few black and white photos had faded with time, but the rugged faces of fishermen and weather-beaten landscapes hadn’t changed.

The emphasis of this home was clearly the family dwelling in it and the family passed on before.

The atmosphere in the room warmed his chest the same as a hot whiskey tea might. He yearned for the comfort and stability of the roots and branches only heritage can offer. Perhaps losing his parents in his young adult years had given Tynan an enduring respect for the kind of solidarity he saw in this home.

Dervla poured tea into three cups. “Do you take anything in your tea?”

“No, thanks. Plain is perfect.” He reached for a home-baked scone. “This is grand, Mrs. O’Malley.”

“I remember our last meeting as though it were only a fortnight ago.” Her smile was genuine. “Your mother was a stunning woman. Dark, almost black, curly hair and pale creamy skin.” Dervla smiled at a recollection. “Your twin never spoke. She sang. And she seemed to know every tune one could imagine.”

“Yes, that would be Kerry,” Tynan agreed.

“And, oh heavens, hard to forget the wee one…a fussy little red-headed sprite,” she laughed. “Had an unusual gift for the fiddle, she did.”

“Flannery.” Ty almost choked on his tea and scone. This woman
did
remember his family.

“You all came of a weekend to hear the storyteller. Bertie took a special fondness for you, Tynan,” Dervla continued. “We could all see a connection between the two of you. As though he knew you understood the value of our oral tradition.” She gazed on Tynan’s face with acute intensity. “So much like my Ronan.”

At the mention of her brother, Muireann cleared her throat. “Mam…we should be going,” Muireann said as she stood to leave. “I’ve a whole day’s work to finish. Simon will be waiting on me.”

The sharp edge to her words didn’t begin to mask her distress.

“Sure, now, I’ll walk back with you.” Tynan offered a hand to Dervla. “Lovely to chat with you. I hope to visit again before I leave for home.”

“And when will that be?” she queried.

“I planned a couple of weeks here. My sister has a wee one due and I’d better not miss the event.”

Muireann’s heels sounded hard on the plank floor as she marched the three steps to the front door. “I’m for leaving now,” she announced without preamble.

Whatever caused Muireann’s sudden need to depart, Ty decided he’d best not question the expediency of it. Something had her sensibilities singed and he knew there was no benefit in waiting until she ignited full on. “We’re off then,” he said, nodded his goodbyes to Dervla and followed Muireann out the door.

She was halfway to the post box before Ty caught her.

But catch her he did, grabbed at the sleeve of her jumper, and unbalanced her enough to slip on the wet grass.

Muireann fell back against him and they both hit the turf with a thud. “Dammit. What the hell do you think you’re doing?” she said, tried to stand and slipped again.

“Feckin’ stop right there.” He got to his feet, pulled her up, and locked his arms around her so she couldn’t move. “What was that all about back there?”