The Delaney Woman (9 page)

When Claire's labor began, the matron called him. Gently, she explained that Claire would not see him, but that the child would have to be removed. In the end it was his mother who brought the tiny scrap that was Heather back to him. Without a word, she'd handed him his daughter. That was seven years ago. Not once in that entire time had he heard from Claire, nor she from him. He'd heard
of
her, of course. She was something of a celebrity in Banburren, a town that harbored Nationalist sympathizers. Information filtered down even to those who had little use for it.

His mouth turned up in a brief, humorless smile. No one who had ever really known his wife would believe that this woman who cooked and cleaned and smiled and devoured books as if they were religion could possibly remind him of Claire. But why had she come and, more importantly, why was she staying? He'd been working at the answers to his questions for some time without success. Tom no longer had the connections he once had. He preferred it that way. All his instincts told him that Claire's look-alike was troubled. Not that it was any of his business, but she had come to him and he had a curious streak.

Perhaps he was going about this the wrong way. Perhaps he should exercise a bit of the charm that had won Claire, if that was still possible. Perhaps this woman would respond to a different kind of attention, the kind every woman wanted. The very idea of subterfuge was repugnant to him. Gone were the days when he had to manufacture emotion. He was Tom Whelan himself. He'd paid a dreadful price but he was alive and walking free in the town of his birth. Many had less. Still, it wouldn't hurt to be kind to the lass. She had her own demons to vanquish and if he was completely truthful, he rather enjoyed having her around. She was a grand cook. The house was warmer somehow, cozier. Heather was happier, settled, more childlike, less precocious. Tom couldn't put his finger on it but he noticed the difference. So had his mother.

Susan Whelan wasn't one to stamp her mark of approval on just anyone. Tom was surprised when she befriended Kellie. “Take the woman out for a bit of supper,” she'd told him. “She's worn out with fixing meals and cleaning house for you and Heather. I'll keep the child with me tonight if you like.”

He'd never considered it. The thought frightened him. An evening alone with a woman, maintaining casual conversation, living a lie. “I don't think so, Mam,” he'd said quickly. “This is just temporary after all. She'll be leaving eventually. Better not get involved.”

Susan had shrugged her shoulders. “Stranger things have happened, Tom. Don't be trying to live in the future. Look at what you have today and see if it's such a bad thing.”

He wondered if he'd gone mad, if he was the only one who could see the obvious. Did his mother believe he could replace Claire, his Claire? Susan Whelan was a shrewd woman. Either she was turning a blind eye or something else was up her sleeve. The years had mellowed Tom. He no longer lived on the edge of his nerves. Neither did his mother concern him. There was no need to analyze his mother. She had his best interests at heart.

* * *

Kellie dipped her finger into the font of holy water and crossed herself. Eight o'clock Mass was poorly attended. Ireland was a country whose population slept late, a result of daily rain and dark skies until nine in the morning for most of the year.

She genuflected, crossed herself again, rose, slipped into the pew and pulled out the knee rest. She knelt again. Perhaps the man she was meeting would allow her to stay for the entire service. Oddly enough, her research verified that terrorists were religious. Religion was the issue along which boundaries were drawn, Catholics the persecuted, Protestants the persecutors.

Out of habit, she bowed her head and closed her eyes. She was no longer sure how she felt about her religion. She believed in God. That was an absolute. Centuries of Catholicism were too heavily ingrained for her to believe otherwise. But she wasn't quite sure about a benevolent God, one who considered her prayers. More likely His grand design was unfolding without influence of the lonely mortals He created.

Kellie much preferred addressing her requests to the mother of Christ, Mary, a mortal, mother of a son too early taken from her. Kellie found comfort in reporting to a woman, a woman like herself whose pain was universal.

She opened her eyes and slid back in the pew. Someone slid in behind her. She felt the give as he knelt, his breath against her neck. She tensed, waiting. A hand touched her shoulder. Words breathed in a gravelly whisper brushed against her ear. Her heart pounded. Her breathing was labored, ragged and harsh in the dim silence of the church.
What was he saying?
Her mind refused to register. Kellie closed her eyes again and concentrated.

“Dennis McGarrety wants you to leave Banburren. It's dangerous for you here. Do you understand?
You must leave Banburren
” The words took root in her brain. She was clear now. She knew what he wanted of her. Slowly, she nodded. She felt him leave, felt the absence in the space behind her.

Waves of relief flooded her body leaving her limp, exhausted. She would go home and sleep. Thinking could wait. She would think later.

A door behind the altar opened. The priest emerged and the congregation, such as it was, rose. She tensed, waiting. “The Lord be with you,” the priest droned. The ancient soothing response of the Catholic ritual rose to her tips. “And also with you.”

The house she shared with Tom and Heather was set back on a green knoll that would serve as a garden in spring. The house was lovely, nestled between two oaks, painted white with a dark roof and red door, a streak of life in the muted colors surrounding it.

Her hand closed around the doorknob. Drawing a deep breath she turned it and stepped inside. “Hello,” she called out tentatively.

No answer. Thank God, she was alone. Quickly she moved through the sitting room and down the hall to her bedroom. She closed the door behind her and leaned against the wall until the fluttering in her stomach normalized. She was exhausted. Her lack of sleep and the mind-numbing message delivered by the harbinger of a man she had been taught to respect and fear for as long as she could remember had taken its toll. She could no longer think. Dropping her handbag, she stepped out of her shoes, pulled the covers back and climbed into bed. She would sleep now and think later.

Tom shook the rain from his hair, wiped his feet on the mat and opened the door. The house was quiet. He frowned. No tantalizing aromas from the kitchen, no hum from the computer, no roar of the vacuum, not even her step on the floorboards. Where was she?

In the kitchen he turned on the burner under the kettle. He read portions of the paper while the water heated, his mind only half-aware of the words he read.

Fortified with a mug of tea, he stoked the fire in the sitting room and walked down the hall. The door to her room was solidly shut. She was home, the forbidding door a message as powerful as if she'd hung a Do Not Disturb sign above her head. So much for his new resolve. She was obviously not of like mind. He wondered if she was ill. Should he inquire? The door would not be locked. There were no locks in Banburren.

Deciding against disturbing her, he turned back toward the study and pressed the power button on the computer. He was a coward. The truth was she disturbed him. Her presence and her energy stirred his emotions, pulling him into the world again, forcing him into feelings he would just as soon have left alone. Would he ever be comfortable again? There had been some degree of comfort these past few years, but no real pleasure. With the exception of a few fleeting moments with Heather, true pleasure had eluded him. There was something about this woman, something that pulled at him. He couldn't describe it, he who was usually proficient with words. Tom knew that she felt it, too. She was stretched to the limit. It was only a matter of time before she snapped.

K
ellie walked into the kitchen and glanced at the stove. Soup bubbled on the burner. Tom and Heather sat at the table, their attention focused on an open book. “Can I help?” she offered.

Tom looked up and smiled. She looked relaxed, her eyes wide and free of makeup, her hair wild and sleep-tousled. He motioned toward the stove. “I thought I'd give you a rest.”

“It smells wonderful.”

Heather closed her book. “Can we stop now, Da? I don't need to finish this until Thursday.” She reached under the table and patted the dog. “May I take Lexi for a walk?”

Tom grinned. “Run along but don't be all night about it. Dinner is almost ready.”

Tom waited until Heather left the room. It was awkward between them without the child. He stood and leaned against the counter, arms folded against his chest. “You've slept the day away,” he said. “Are you ill?”

Kellie shook her head and sat down at the table. “Just tired. I haven't been sleeping well.” She looked around the kitchen and repeated her initial request. “Can I help you with anything?”

He shook his head. “I'll manage for a change. Do something you'd like to do. We'll eat in about twenty minutes.”

Their eyes met and the words burst from her mouth. “I don't mind doing my part, Tom. You've been quite generous with me.” She bit her lip. The question of the pipes and Connor and Tom, who they were and how it was all connected was like a weight she couldn't shift. She didn't know where to begin. “May I ask you a question?” she blurted out.

“Of course.”

“How do you live?”

“I thought we'd cleared that one up,” he said. “I play a bit of music now and then and I'm paid for my poems. It isn't much but we don't require much. There's no mortgage on the house.”

“What about making uillean pipes?”

“The pipes take an enormous amount of concentration. I can't take many orders at a time. Fortunately, I'm one of a few in Ireland who makes them. Pipes are expensive. One can make a living.”

“I see.” She avoided his eyes, looking at a spot directly above his head. “I know what you were,” she said finally. “I looked you up on the computer in the library.”

“So, that's what this is all about.” He knew his own computer had been tapped as well. He'd known it from the beginning. He hadn't even bothered to change his password. Kellie Delaney was looking for something. Whatever it was, she was more than welcome. He didn't have it and he wasn't hiding anything. In fact, he knew more about her from the sites she pulled up. “My past isn't a secret. Everyone in Banburren knows. I don't talk about it much but I never intended to hide it.”

“Are you through with it?”

“Yes.”

Minutes passed.

“Is there anything else?” he asked gently.

“No, not for now.” She sounded defeated, tired.

He cursed under his breath, crossed the room and rested his hands on her shoulders. The words came, sincere and low, from deep within him. “This is killing both of us. I wish you would trust me.”

She stiffened and pulled away. “I wish I could,” she whispered, and walked out of the room.

He dropped his hands and let her go. Whatever she hid was consuming her. He felt it. She wasn't a woman given to deception. He could see the haunted desperation in her eyes. She'd lost weight. The lies would eat at her from the inside out until she couldn't hold them in anymore. All he had to do was wait. Somehow the thought didn't cheer him. He heard the lock on the bathroom door click into place. He was a fool. Only a fool would feel the sting of conscience in a situation like his. She was the one with the burden. Why should he feel stirrings of guilt?

He returned to his meal, turned down the flame, tasted the soup and added more salt. Logic told him to ask her to leave. But that wasn't what he wanted. She was a puzzle he was curious to piece together. Besides, he'd never before run from a challenge and he didn't think this woman was the place to start.

* * *

Kellie leaned her head back against the tile wall and closed her eyes. The hot spray bathed her throat and chest. Trust. What did it mean, really? He had asked her to trust him. Had she ever trusted anyone with anything so important as her life? Some did, every day. The man she'd met in the church. Did he have a wife? What did she know of his chosen profession? What of Ireland's heroes, Hugh O'Neil, Daniel O'Connoll, Wolfe Tone, Eamon De Valera, Michael Collins? Did their women trust them? Did they trust their wives with secrets? Doubtful. Ireland was a patriarchal country. Women counted for very little, even today.

Tom Whelan was a mystery. A man who wrote poetry, a musician, a loving father, on the surface a gentle decent man with pain in his eyes, a sharp wit and a quiet strength. This was his face, the face he showed the world. Was it also the face of a man who'd completely changed his stripes? Possibly. Quite possibly. But what did she know? How did a woman gauge a man practiced in the craft of murder and deception even if those events took place years ago? Did it really matter in the end? Did one ever recover from the decisions one makes in the beginning?

She toweled herself dry, pulled on her clothes and looked into the mirror. What would her mother think if she saw her now, a woman with lines around eyes that took up too much of her face and hair plastered to her skull? Her mother who wore her prejudices for all to see, who stereotyped all nationalities with fierce impartiality, who condemned her oldest daughter for the immorality of marrying an Italian. The boys she left alone. Far be it for a mere woman to criticize the men in her family. What would she think of Tom and of her need to know him as he really was? The answer popped unbidden into Kellie's mind. She would hold up her hands and glare.
A man's ways are not ours, lass. Let him be, for God's sake. Mind your own business and do your duty.

Kellie stifled a laugh. Perhaps it would be best if she didn't ask advice from her mother. She combed out her hair. Feathery curls were already drying around her face. How long had it been since she'd dressed up? Impulsively, she pulled out her makeup bag, sat on the floor in front of the long mirror and dumped out its contents, picking over the shadows and blushes she'd been given what seemed a lifetime ago and never used.

Lining up her selections, she applied them carefully, foundation first, then powder and blush along the cheekbones. Pale taupe across the eyelid, cream over the brow and a line of deep navy along the bottom ridge of the eye. The mascara tube separated with a pop. Gently, she worked it into her lashes, lengthening, thickening, separating. Only her lips were left. She chose a shiny berry color to fill in both the top and bottom. She was finished, a painted woman, done up for what purpose? To allure, perhaps, or else simply to be more interesting than she was before.

Staring critically at her reflection, she decided she looked nothing like herself.

“Kellie?” Heather knocked on the door. “I have to use the toilet.”

Kellie kept her eyes on the mirror. She reached up and unlocked the door. “Come in.”

Heather opened the door, took a cursory look at Kellie and looked again. Her thumb edged towards her mouth. “What are you doing?”

“I've taken a shower and now I'm dressing for dinner.”

“You look different.”

“I'm wearing makeup. Do you like it?”

The thumb was wedged tightly in her mouth now. She spoke around it. “I don't think so.”

Kellie turned her head to the left and then the right. “Why not?”

“You look different.”

Something in the child's voice caught her attention. Heather was troubled. Reaching out, Kellie took her hand and drew the little girl into her lap. “Different isn't always bad, is it, love?” she asked gently.

Heather shrugged, fighting back tears.

Kellie kissed the top of her head. “Shall I wash my face? Would that make you feel better?”

Again the child shrugged.

“I know what we'll do. We'll both be different.”

“How?”

“We'll both wear makeup.”

Despite herself, Heather looked intrigued. “Will you put it on me?”

“If you like.”

Heather thought a minute and then nodded.

Keeping the little girl in her lap, Kellie nodded at the assortment of colors and pointed out the specifics. “This is color for your eyelids,” she explained, “and this is for cheeks and this for lips. Which ones would you like to wear?”

Interested at last, Heather picked over the vials. “I want these,” she said at last, and held them up.

Kellie smiled and selected a small sample compact and a brush. “Let's start with this one.”

Ten minutes later a glowing Heather, clutching Kellie's hand, stood in front of the dinner table. “Look at me, Da,” she ordered.

Tom turned around. “Good lord.” The words leaped from his mouth. His eyes met Kellie's. He recovered quickly. “Don't you look lovely, the both of you, all dressed up and ready to go out.”

Heather beamed. “Kellie did it. She was wearing makeup and she said I could, too.”

“Did she now?”

“We were in a mood,” explained Kellie.

His eyes were very bright. “Will you be expecting an evening on the town?”

“May we?” Heather breathed.

Tom thought a minute. This was Banburren after all. Not much was open after eight o'clock in the evening except for the pubs and that was out of the question. “Where would you like to go, love?”

“We could go to Mrs. Reilly's café and order a pudding.”

Tom considered her suggestion. “What do you think, Kellie? Shall we order a pudding at the café?”

“What a lovely idea.”

Heather clapped her hands and Tom laughed. Kellie stared at him. It occurred to her that she rarely saw him laugh. He looked younger, more vulnerable. His eyes were very blue above the blue of his shirt.

“Shall we eat?” he asked.

Heather took her usual place. Kellie followed while Tom ladled out the soup, a delicious cabbage and onion variety.

His hands were large, capable, the nails short and clipped. Masculine hands. Awareness flooded through her as if she had awakened from a long and dreamless sleep. Her senses were sharper, cleaner, the details of the kitchen, the sounds and smells, the child and the man who sat across the table from her were clearly defined for the first time. She noticed his wrists, the bony strength of them, the way he turned up his shirtsleeves below the elbow, the faint shadow of hair growth on his chin, the way his eyes, an ice-flecked blue, direct, intelligent and light-filled, rested on her face when she spoke to him.

Horrified at the path her thoughts had taken, she looked down at her plate. What was the matter with her? Her appetite had disappeared. She left the soup and crumbled the bread on her plate. How much longer could she manage this? How had she ever believed it was possible? She had her answer although it wasn't the one she'd come for. Tom Whelan was no more a murderer than she was. It was time to go home. Why then, did the thought of leaving turn her stomach inside out?

The small café was cozy with flowered cloths on the tables, linen napkins and windows steamy with heat. A peat fire smoldered in the corner hearth and copper pans hung from the ceilings. Mrs. Reilly beamed as she ladled out lumberjack portions of her apple tart and cream. “Isn't it a lovely thing to have an outing on a weeknight?” Birdlike, she cocked her head. “Is there an occasion?”

“Heather wanted a pudding,” Tom offered.

“The darling. Do you like the tart, love?”

Heather nodded, too busy delving into the sweet to answer.

“And how are you settling into our town, Miss Delaney?”

Kellie swallowed a bit of apple before answering. “It's a lovely town.”

It took no more than that. “It is, isn't it? I've never been away, not in sixty-two years. Not for me the bright lights of Dublin or Galway. My husband wanted to leave when he retired. He's a Ballybofey man. But I said to him, ‘There's nothing in Ballybofey that you can't find in Banburren.' So we stayed and we're happier for it. I'm sure Tom feels that way, too, don't you, Tom?”

Kellie smiled, hoping she appeared interested.

Tom spoke up. “We don't want to be keeping you, Alice. I'm sure you're nearly ready to close up. Perhaps a pot of tea would do with our sweets.”

Mrs. Reilly's face lit. “The very thing. I'm sorry I didn't think of it myself.”

“She's very friendly,” Kellie observed when the woman had disappeared into the kitchen.

“Alice Reilly was always a gossip,” Tom replied. “She's lonely since her husband passed on. We all bear with it.”

Kellie nodded. Her dilemma was very much on her mind. Distracted, she pushed her dessert to the edges of her plate.

“I'll be driving into Galway tomorrow to visit Kenny's Bookstore,” Tom announced. “Would you care to come with me?”

At first Kellie didn't realize he was talking to her. He repeated the question.

Surprised, she looked up. “Who will pick Heather up after school?”

“My mother. She'll stay with her until we come home. I'll turn on the answer machine to take any bookings.”

Tomorrow. Tomorrow. Why not?
Recklessly, she agreed. The idea of a day driving through the green-and-gold bogland of Ireland appealed to her.

Morning dawned clear and cold with no sign of rain. A milky sun filtered through silver-and-pink clouds. Breakfast was simple, oats and brown toast, tea and cocoa, a special treat for Heather.

Tom walked his daughter to school, returning home just as Kellie had finished the last of the dishes. She lifted her coat from the peg and pulled on her gloves. She felt light and free, a brief glimmering of what she'd known before.

He took the direct route out of town, through the roundabout, circling the one-way street around the square. Soon they were traveling at a comfortable speed down the two-lane road leading to Galway, Ireland's cultural capital.