The Delaney Woman (16 page)

“We will,” Tom assured her. “We'll take our marks and be there before you can say, ‘God save Liam Parnell.' ”

“His name isn't Liam, Da,” Heather informed him scornfully. “Everyone knows that.”

“Do they?” Tom looked amazed. “Isn't education a grand thing?” He appealed to Kellie. “My daughter is smarter than I am.”

“Da, you're teasing me.” Heather laughed and shouldered her bag. “I'm ready.”

Tom took her hand. “Is there anything you need while I'm out?” he asked Kellie.

“Nothing,” she assured him. “Don't rush back if you have something to do. I'm going to read that book you left out for me.” She'd found a volume of his poetry on the nightstand when she woke that morning.

He grimaced. “Don't be too hard on me.”

Her eyes danced and his heart lifted. She was happy. He was making her happy.

“I'll be as kind as possible,” she promised.

* * *

Kellie shook out the damp dish towel and hung it over a chair, swept the floor and deposited the crumbs in the trash container. Settling herself in a chair close to the window, she decided against artificial light. She opened the slim leather-bound volume of poems and began to read. The words drew her in and for the next hour she was completely absorbed in the unique voice of what her training told her was a natural storyteller.

For Kellie, poetry had always been slow going. She took time to savor the words, look up and breathe deeply, think about the metaphors and the literal meaning, go back and read the forward and the credits. It was important to know what was in a poet's head before attempting his verse. In her hurry to read his words, she'd skipped Tom's forward, believing she knew him well enough. But now she changed her mind, flipping back to the beginning. The pages were thin, delicate, gold-embossed, a lovely package of a book.

Something fluttered to the floor. It was a photo. She picked it up. A woman with large, light eyes in a provocative pose stared back at her. An inscription was scrawled across the bottom.
May 1 always be your inspiration. Love, Claire
.

So this was Claire. A beauty by anyone's standards.
Love, Claire
.

The words bothered her. She wasn't a child, nor was she naive. Surely Tom and Claire had loved each other. Why would they have married? And just as surely, those feelings no longer existed between them. But why was her picture in the front of his book, published years after his wife was incarcerated? A cold fist closed around Kellie's heart.

B
anburren was in the throes of preparing for its annual wedding festival. Entertainment would be in the form of musicians from all over Ireland. Every restaurant, convenience store and pub proprietor was polishing, painting and refurbishing his premises. Food preparation was at its peak. Kitchens and bakeries hummed with activity. Every lodging house, bed-and-breakfast and Banburren's single hotel was booked to capacity.

Kellie, in addition to her usual duties, had committed herself to a marbled cheesecake and three dozen butterscotch squares for the occasion. Three of Tom's guest rooms were booked with young women from America. They'd arrived the day before the three-day festival. With new sheets and towels and breakfast to prepare every day, neither Tom nor Kellie had a moment to think of anything else.

There was much more to running a guest house than Kellie had imagined. Silver had to be polished and linens ironed. Cereals and fresh fruit, dear this time of year, were purchased, sliced and set out. A hot breakfast of eggs, bacon, sausage, toast, juice and grilled tomatoes was offered in fine china every day. Fresh flowers sat on the dining table, now converted to a breakfast room, and brochures for sights within driving distance were displayed on a rack in the hallway.

Rising with Tom at six in the morning to prepare breakfast, Kellie didn't sit down to a cup of tea and hot toast until noon when the last bed was covered with new sheets and every pillow fluffed.

“Is it worth it?” she asked Tom the second morning after their guests had arrived. They had flown past each other in the hallway, he carrying laundry for the wash, she with clean sheets.

“I think so,” he said. “The money helps. I could manage without renting the rooms, but a cushion is a grand thing to have.”

“I suppose so.” Kellie looked doubtful.

He laughed. “Don't try and convince me that twenty-five seven-year-olds are easier to manage than nine adults from America.”

She thought a minute. “Oddly enough, they are. Teaching has rules and a curriculum that teachers must teach. Nothing goes as planned here. Someone is allergic to milk, another is a vegetarian. The water is too hot or there isn't enough of it. For pity's sake, this is Ireland. They're lucky to have hot water at all.” Her lips twitched. “I sound like a dreadful complainer, don't I?”

“You sound like a woman who would never run a bed-and-breakfast.”

She laughed. “That, too.”

He reached out a hand to stroke her cheek. “Have you considered staying here in Banburren permanently?”

She caught his hand. “That would be premature, don't you think?”

“No. I don't.”

She said nothing.

“Am I going too fast for you?”

“Under normal circumstances, no. We aren't children.”

“Something's troubling you.”

The picture of Claire was burned in Kellie's memory. She hadn't brought it up because, instinctively, she knew the discussion would be a serious one and there was a chance the outcome would not be the one she would have chosen. She smiled. “No. It's nothing.”

His eyes moved across her face. “You would tell me, wouldn't you?”

“Of course.”

He kissed her lightly on the lips. “I love you, Kellie.”

She held on to the words. Throughout the day, she would recall them, savoring them, believing them. Could a man who touched her the way Tom did, who said the words he said still be involved with another woman? Her heart told her no. But her mind wouldn't let the doubts rest. She and Claire were similar in type, bone structure, eyes and coloring. An ugly niggling doubt told her that her resemblance to Claire was a good part of the reason Tom was attracted to her.

Reason told her it didn't matter. She wasn't Claire, not her mind, her interests or her actions. What did it matter why Tom had taken a second look as long as he liked what continued to unfold. There were huge chunks of the day when she didn't think of anything at all except that fate had brought her to this man, this child, this town. Her nearly rabid desire to rid herself of the taint of Northern Ireland was gone. Five years and the Good Friday Agreement had worked wonders. The hostility she'd grown up with no longer existed in Banburren. People lived, worked and prayed on their own side, but they shopped, visited and recreated together, regardless of religious lines. Quite simply, she was happy. She could see herself settling in, helping to run a bed-and-breakfast, loving Tom, caring for Heather, perhaps teaching at one of the local schools.

There was one large flaw in her plan. Tom was married. Claire Whelan would eventually have to be dealt with. Kellie kept up with the news. Prisoners incarcerated for political crimes were being released according to the terms of the Good Friday Agreement. Where else would a woman go, but home? There would be a reckoning. Either Tom was ignoring the obvious or he hadn't thought it through. Kellie wasn't and she had. There would be a time when he would have to choose. Until she was unconditionally sure he would choose her, she would hold on to the possibility that her months in Banburren would be a lovely memory to be dusted off and held up at some future date when she could look at it again without pain.

She was frosting the butterscotch squares when Heather walked through the door. Kellie kissed her cheek and handed her what was left of the bowl of butterscotch icing. “Hello, love. How was school?”

The child's cheeks were flushed and her eyes sparkled. “Grand. I'm to dance a solo tonight. Miss Mooney says my steps are graceful and confident.” She mimicked the dance teacher's high voice.

“That's wonderful. Have you told your da?”

“Not yet. He's setting up tables on High Street.” She fingered the material of the dress hanging on the coatrack. “Are you wearing this tonight?”

Kellie nodded. “It's the only dressy frock I have.”

“It's lovely.” She tilted her head. “Miss Mooney says my hair needs curling.”

Setting the dessert pan aside, Kellie washed and dried her hands. “We'd better do it now. Your hair is so thick and straight it won't be finished otherwise.” She glanced ruefully at her reflection in the window. “If you had my hair we wouldn't have to do any curling at all.” She pulled at the strands above her forehead. “It's a fright.”

Heather reached up to touch the bright, springy curls. “I love your hair. It's soft, like a cloud around your head. It makes you look happy.”

Kellie laughed. “And I'm terribly jealous of yours, the way it hangs so smooth and straight no matter what the weather.”

“Tonight it needs to curl,” said Heather practically.

“So it shall.” Kellie took the little girl's hand and led her off into the bedroom.

It was a cold night, crisp and clear except for the pockets of mist that settled in the flatlands like a gray blanket shrouding the low-growing shrubs. Banburren glowed with brightly colored lanterns, the streets illuminated, softer but no less bright than daylight. Tables groaning with food, crafts, clothing, trinkets, postcards and CDs lined the streets. Light spilled from the Church where a stage and dance floor were set up. Musicians tuned their instruments. Dancers milled around, fidgeting with curls and checking shoes and costumes. Young people and others not so young gathered in groups, calling out greetings, flirting, smiling, laughing, making connections. Guinness flowed. Spirits were high and inhibitions low. It was a magical night.

Kellie hardly recognized the small town of Banburren. Unfamiliar faces met her at every turn. She was reminded of the stories she'd read about the fertility rites of the early Celts, the festivals of Beltaine and Samhain. The thought flashed across her mind that people hadn't changed significantly in two thousand years.

Balancing a plate of food in one hand and her pint of Harp in the other, she looked around for a seat. Susan Whelan waved frantically at her.

“Kellie, I've saved you a spot. Heather and the others will be on soon.”

Climbing over a sea of legs, Kellie smiled and exchanged pleasantries as she negotiated her way to where Tom's mother sat. Sinking into the chair beside her, she breathed a sigh of relief. “Is it always like this?”

“Every year,” said Susan. “It's our one claim to fame. I'm surprised you hadn't heard of it.”

Kellie looked around. “This really is a lovely town,” she said slowly.

“Lovely enough to stay?”

Kellie laughed. “I knew you wouldn't let me forget that one.”

“You were so definite, letting me know in the most diplomatic of ways that Banburren simply wouldn't do for you. I'm glad you changed your mind.” She smiled warmly at Kellie. “I imagine my son had something to do with your turnabout.”

Kellie refused to be drawn in. “Look,” she said pointing to the stage. “The dancers.”

Heather, dressed in green and white, a green ribbon threaded through her meticulously curled hair, danced out onto the stage. The crowd roared its approval. Other dancers joined her, heels kicking, arms straight, hair bouncing, stage smiles pasted on their faces. One by one, they executed their moves in exquisite precision, every step appreciated anew by their adoring mothers, fathers, aunts, uncles and grandparents. Heather was indeed graceful and confident.

Kellie's heart turned over and the dark cloud that never quite left her returned. What if it wasn't meant for her to be here with this child? What if her mother returned to take her place in her husband's and daughter's life? That was really the bottom line, the final denouement. What did it matter if she was accepted by the Whelans or that she had friends in town or even that Heather loved her? What mattered was Tom and despite what he said and did, he was still largely an unknown.

The dancers disappeared from the stage. Men carrying speakers arranged sound equipment and chairs for the musicians. Lights dimmed and a spotlight was focused in the center. Tom, a fiddler and a man carrying a tin whistle hopped up on stage. The audience cheered.

The moment the musicians struck up their first tune, the crowd was silent. Kellie listened to the music and forgot her food, the woman beside her and her reason for coming to Banburren. Completely caught up in music she hadn't heard since leaving Ireland, she closed her eyes and listened to the hand- clapping, foot-stomping tunes she remembered from childhood. They played a jig, then a reel, then a soft sweet ballad that brought tears to her eyes. When the last note died away, the room was silent for a brief moment before the deafening applause shook the rafters.

Taking their bows, the men disappeared from the stage. Susan wiped her eyes. “My goodness, that was grand.”

Kellie simply nodded. Somehow it seemed profane to speak. She heard Tom's voice in her ear. “Kellie, my love, save me a dance.”

She laughed and turned to him. “My dance card is empty. I'll save you every dance.”

He grinned and pulled her up and out onto the dance floor. The music was soft and melodic and romantic. He slipped his arms around her. “I was hoping you'd say that.”

This was what heaven must be like, thought Kellie. Good food, new friends, lovers swaying together in a church hall. The wedding festival. What a lovely idea. What a lovely night. If only it would last. She rubbed her cheek against his chin. He smelled like the woods. “Do you know you have a wicked smile?” she said, pulling back to look at him.

“Do I?”

“Yes. It's one of the first things I noticed about you.”

He pulled her close again. “What else did you notice about me?”

“You have lovely eyes, but your jokes are dreadful and the decor in the house needs a bit of work.” Tom threw back his head and laughed. When he'd settled her against him again, he rested his lips against her hair. “Do you want to know what I noticed about you?”

“Only if it's nice.”

His voice thickened. “It's very nice.”

“Tell me.”

“You have the loveliest bum I'd ever seen.”

“Did you really notice that?”

“Aye. A man notices these things.”

“What else?”

“Your legs are perfect and you've a mouth made for kissing.”

“Really? I've never thought of myself that way.”

“What way?”

“I never thought a man would look at me and think of sex.”

“Are you blind, lass? What else would a man think?”

She considered his question seriously. “I'm the wholesome type, the kind of woman a man confides in and befriends, not the kind he fantasizes about. I've always been considered something of an intellectual. Men don't often equate the two.” The minute the confession left her lips she could have bitten her tongue. What a fool she was to be telling a man other men didn't find her sexy.

His answer surprised her. “You're a foolish lass, Kellie Delaney, to not know that a woman who is wholesome and intellectual, a friend and a confidante is exactly the kind of woman a man fantasizes about.”

Tom Whelan had a silver tongue. But more than that, he was nice. She would hold on to that thought and what he'd said about her. And just for now she would think of nothing but the feel of his arms around her, the nubby texture of his sweater and the promise in the blue eyes so close to her own.