This Irish House (9 page)

Minutes passed. What next? The ride back home and the appointment with the therapist she'd scheduled for Kevin. Groaning, she turned the key, felt the engine catch and backed out of the car park. Across the street at the primary school, children played on an ancient jungle gym. Directly ahead an empty guard tower, barbed wire still intact, hung forbiddingly over the treeless neighborhood. Young men loitered outside a
Catholics
only
pub. Women held children by the hand, pushed babies in prams and gossiped outside half-open doorways. Ragged strips of green, white and orange, the flag of Ireland, hung from every doorway, black flags and green
H's,
commemorating the twentieth anniversary of Bobby Sand's death by starvation in the H-blocks swung from street signs, a typical afternoon in Belfast, except that Belfast was never typical, not even now.

She hesitated at the light and looked at her watch. It was too late to swing by the university and hope that Deirdre was in her room. Even though she came home on weekends, Kate missed her dreadfully. Nothing was quite the same since Deirdre had left for Queen's in the fall. Because there were only three of them, her absence was all the more obvious.

Kate bit her lip. She wouldn't be one of those mothers who kept a stranglehold on her children, binding them through guilt, reluctantly obligating the carefree years of their youth. Deirdre deserved her freedom and a chance to live her life away from her family's troubles.

It was Kevin who needed her attention. With a cautious eye on the road, Kate concentrated on the meeting to come, on the words she would choose to maximize the hour they would have. Kevin was always her challenge. Kate was a fighter. She wouldn't back away from a challenge, especially when he was her son.

I
t happened so quickly, Kate had less than an instant to react. She had barely turned left from Grosvenor Road to the Westlink and the M1 when a nondescript compact hurtled across the divider, spun out of control and crashed into the passenger side of her car. She felt the impact, a wave of dizziness and then the loss of orientation as her Volvo tilted sideways, careened for terrifying seconds and then rolled over. Imprisoned by the seat belt, Kate hung upside down for what seemed an eternity before the car rolled again landing on the embankment. She closed her eyes, breathed a silent prayer of gratitude and waited.

Minutes passed. Her heart shuddered. Gingerly she touched her head, stretched her muscles. She wasn't hurt, probably not even bruised. Breathing deeply, she sucked in as much air as her rapidly constricting lungs would allow. She needed her inhaler. Where was her handbag?

Voices blended together outside. Help had arrived. Thank God. A large fist knocked on the window. She pressed the automatic control and the pane inched down.

“Are you all in one piece, miss?”

“I think so,” Kate managed.

His voice changed. “Mrs. Nolan, is that you?”

She looked at her rescuer for the first time. “It is, Mr. Anderson. You're a welcome sight. What are you doing here?”

“I pulled up just as you were hit. Are you injured?”

“I don't think so.” She tried the door. “I can't seem to get out.”

He grasped the handle and pulled. The door opened, he unlatched the seat belt and helped her out.

Kate gripped his arm. “I need my handbag.”

“You need a hospital. You're pale as a ghost.”

“I'm an asthmatic,” she explained, between wheezes. “I can't breathe. My inhaler is in my bag. It was in the front seat but I can't find it now.”

He took another quick look at her face, opened the back door of the car and ran his hands along the seats and the carpeted floor. “Here it is.” Unzipping the leather side compartment, he handed Kate the inhaler.

Ordinarily she was self-conscious about her condition, but not now, not when her chest was so tight she felt as if she were breathing through a pinhole. Sealing her lips around the plastic she depressed the nozzle, drew the life-sustaining medication into her chest and held it there. Exhaling, she leaned weakly against the car.

Neil Anderson reached out to support her with his arm, but she waved him away and, once more, lifted the vial to her lips. Relief was still minutes away.

He watched the blue leave her lips. A hint of color crept back into her cheeks. Neil relaxed for the first time since he saw the small car leap over the divider and slam into Kate's Volvo. He hadn't known who she was until she'd rolled down the window. It was odd, the extent of his relief, considering who she was and, more to the point, who Patrick Nolan had been.

The singsong whine of an ambulance was very close. He hadn't even checked on the other driver.

“Wait here,” he said and jogged over to the Other vehicle. Already two police cars were positioned on either side of the blue car. The man inside was slumped over the wheel. “Is he alive?” Neil asked the officer standing nearby.

“I believe so, sir. The medics are on their way.”

Neil leaned into the window and pressed his fingers against the pulse point in the man's neck. It was faint but steady. He straightened and nodded. “If he's treated quickly enough he might make it.”

“What can have gotten into him, sir? Eye witnesses say the car ran right over the center divider.”

“Most likely several pints of Guinness,” replied Neil grimly. The inside of the car smelled like a brewery. “Is everything under control?”

“Aye, sir. We'll have him up the road in no time.”

Neil nodded and sprinted back to Kate. She looked dazed and unsteady but no more than that. “I'd like you to see a doctor,” he said.

She shook her head. “I've got to be back in Donegal by six o'clock. I have an appointment.”

“You won't be going home in this car even if you were in any condition to drive.”

“The appointment is for Kevin. I must be there.” She gripped his arm. “Please. Will you take me?”

Keeping his expression carefully neutral, he studied her, wondering what it had cost her to make such a request of him, a woman like her, serious, almost prim, exuding the faintest scent of perfume, Irish skin, dark hair falling around her face, wide-eyed, utterly feminine, quietly fierce. It would be Kevin. For who else would she place herself under such obligation? “Of course,” he said quietly. “Would you like to leave now?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

“Where would you like your car towed?”

Kate shrugged, bewildered. “I don't know. I have no experience with this sort of thing.”

Neil's mouth turned up in his first smile since he'd witnessed the accident. She was entrusted with the integration of Northern Ireland and yet she was lost when it came to towing her car. “I'll take care of it, but first I'll walk you back to my car.”

She smiled gratefully and walked beside him, through the flare pattern in the street and around the stopped traffic to where his car sat on the side of the road. He opened the passenger door and she slid into the seat.

“Will you be all right for a minute or so while I see about your car and the chap who started all this?” he asked.

She leaned her head against the seat and closed her eyes. “I'm most grateful, Mr. Anderson. Don't worry. Take all the time you need.”

He was back very soon.

“Is he badly hurt?” Kate asked, a stricken look on her face.

“He'll make it.”

“Thank God.”

She'd nearly died, yet her concern for the misguided young man in the blue car was genuine. Turning the key, Neil maneuvered the car out into the afternoon traffic. He was a very good driver, confident but careful. He pressed the power button on the radio hoping the steady hum of the engine, the smooth ride and the soothing music would work its magic on Kate's frazzled nerves.

His eyes never left the road ahead of him but he knew when her breathing deepened. Not for the first time did Neil marvel at the resilient quality of Irish women. Perhaps they were made differently, born with the quality of endurance and a resigned acceptance that life was not meant to be kind or equitable or fair. There could be no other explanation. An English woman, or any other he'd come across, would have been terrified after an accident like the one Kate had survived. She could have been killed and yet she asked for nothing, not even sympathy or a friendly ear to hash it out. She was Tony Blair's hope for the restructuring of Northern Ireland, she supported two children on her own, she'd suffered a harrowing trauma, her son was in serious trouble and her husband—Neil deliberately stopped his thought and continued in a different direction. Kate Nolan was unlike anyone he'd ever known.

She dozed through the lake country of Lough Neagh, the flat marshy bog land of Tyrone and the meandering road bordering the River Erne. Not until he breathed in the familiar smell of the Atlantic, tangy, saltier than the Irish Sea, did she fully awaken again. “We're almost in Ardara,” she said, surprised.

“Yes. I was about to wake you. Shall I take you home or drop you somewhere?”

Kate looked at her watch. “It's still early. I have time to make dinner and drive back to Donegal with Kevin.”

“How will you get there?”

“My father has a car. I'll use his tonight and rent one tomorrow.”

“Grand.”

Kate hesitated. “I appreciate this very much, Mr. Anderson. It's a very long way for you to go. I can't imagine what I was thinking.”

“You were thinking about your son.”

“Yes.” Kate nodded her head. “That must have been it.”

“You're very close to him,” he observed.

“I'm close to both my children. Deirdre is at Queen's.”

Neil knew that but said nothing. “When I pass the roundabout, where shall I turn?”

“Take the main road across the lake. We're at the end of the first street.”

Neil turned down a narrow street with no access that led to three homes, separated by a wide expanse of grassland, all with magnificent views of the sea. “This is a lovely neighborhood,” he said. “Have you lived here long?”

“Patrick and I bought the house about ten years ago.” Kate's voice was flat, her eyes empty. She stopped, bit her lip and started again. “I grew up in Ardara and my father still lives here. I wanted to be close to him.” She pointed to the house on the end, a lovely, spread out gray-gabled home with a stone fence and large, diamond-paned windows. “Here we are.”

He pulled into the long driveway, turned off the engine and walked around the car to open the passenger door. “You might consider seeing a doctor. The accident was a nasty one.”

“All right.” Kate walked beside him to the front porch. At the door she turned and hesitated. Courtesy warred with wariness. Courtesy won. “You've gone to a bit of trouble. May I offer you a bite to eat, Mr. Anderson? It won't be fancy, but at least you'll have a meal before you return home.”

“I think not,” he said, frowning. “You can't possibly mean to cook a meal after what you've been through. You need rest, possibly a visit to a physician, if not a hospital.”

Kate's eyes widened. “Of course I mean to cook. We have to eat.”

He frowned. “I can bring food in.”

Kate laughed. “In Ardara?”

“There must be something.”

She folded her hands and looked up at him. “Cooking soothes me. Feeding people is extremely satisfying. Please, you've been very kind. Allow me to make you a meal.”

Perhaps it would be best if he stayed. If she collapsed, he would be nearby. It was an excuse. He knew it as soon as the thought crossed his mind. Something told him Kate Nolan had never collapsed in her life. She was a survivor. But there was her son to consider. “What about Kevin?”

“Perhaps you'll get to know him better.”

There was a motive behind her graciousness. He found it didn't bother him a bit. Smiling a slow, genuine smile, he said, “That would be grand. Please, call me Neil.”

The door was unlocked. She preceded him into the entry. He was conscious of light, rich and warm streaming through colored glass, warm golden wood, greenery and comfortable furnishings. This was a home, a real home where people lived.

Kate stood at the bottom of the staircase, her hand resting on the carved railing. “Kevin,” she called out, “are you home?”

“Aye, Mum. I'm upstairs.”

“We have a bit over an hour before we leave. Call Grandda and ask him if we can use his car.”

“What's happened to ours?”

“It's in the shop. Come down and say hello. We have a guest for dinner.”

Kevin appeared at the top of the landing. He peered over the railing and his face froze.

“Hello, Kevin,” Neil said. He recognized terror when he saw it. The boy's hands trembled.

“Why are you here?” Kevin asked.

Keeping his voice calm, Neil answered him. “Your mother was in an accident. I happened by at the right time. She needed a lift home and she invited me to dinner.”

Kevin relaxed. “I'm not hungry, Mum. You don't have to fix me anything.”

“Kevin—”

Neil interrupted her. “Perhaps I should leave.”

Kate's beautiful manners prevailed. “You'll do no such thing. I've invited you to dinner and you've accepted. If Kevin isn't hungry, he'll eat later.” She smiled bracingly. “Would you like a drink?”

“Only if you join me.”

Kate walked to the antique sideboard, opened the cabinet and poured out two glasses of Irish Mist, no ice.

He lifted his glass. “Cheers.”

“Slainte,”
she returned. “It was very nice of you to drive me all the way here. I hope you didn't have plans.”

“None that would be a problem to reschedule. I would like to make a phone call. Is there somewhere I can do that without disturbing you?”

“Of course.” Kate led him into a beautifully appointed study with hunter-green walls, Persian carpets, thick white moldings and a couch and chair done up in burgundy leather. A natural golden light spilled across book-lined shelves filling every available wall and corner.

Confused, Neil looked around for the source. Kate pointed toward a skylight paned with yellow and amber glass. He wasn't a man to wear his emotions on his sleeve but the sight of streaming golden light filtering into a room that belonged in
Architectural
Digest
took his breath away. His voice was reverent. “This is incredible. Did you do it yourself?”

“Thank you. I planned it but I hired someone to install the window and paint the walls.”

“It must be difficult to leave in the morning.”

“Sometimes,” Kate admitted. “I'll leave you to your phone call and start dinner.”

She had stuffed and browned the chops, torn the spinach, tossed the salad and started on the table when Neil returned to the dining room. “Is everything all right?” she asked.

“It's my once-a-month weekend with my daughter. She comes up from London,” he explained. “My ex-wife and I don't always agree on how we should share her time.”

“Strange, but I hadn't imagined you a father. How old is she?”

“Thirteen.”

“Ouch.” Kate smiled. “A difficult age.”

“A lovely, responsible child who takes a great deal on her shoulders.”

She changed the subject. “Are you hungry?”

“Starved.”

“Good. We'll eat soon. Will it be water, fruit juice or wine with dinner?”

“Water, please. Otherwise I won't be worth much on the drive home.”

They ate informally, on the wooden table in the kitchen, sitting not at the head and foot of the table, but on either side, companionably. They spoke of the Peace Accord, of Belfast, of changes in the Six Counties. She described her job.