Whiskey Island (40 page)

She thought, vaguely, of how different this was for her, and how very different it must be for him. To give in to passion after years of suppressing it, to take what had so long been denied him. She felt that passion had been denied her, as well. Not the act of lovemaking, but all the intensity that could accompany it. The need to please another, the fervent wish that intimacy would never end.

“We should go upstairs, where there’s room.” His voice was a hoarse rumble.

“We won’t make it that far.” She knew as much, even if he didn’t.

“I’m hurting you. I’m afraid I’ll crush you.”

“I’ll welcome it.” She gasped as he pulled her sharply across him and found one breast with his lips. One shin struck the floor, but she didn’t care. She moved more fully over him, arching her body to give him better access.

His belt buckle dug into her waist, and she unlocked and parted it. His zipper rasped against hers, and she tugged it down. His capable but inexpert hands settled at her waist, pushing, straining, grappling with her jeans until they were sliding down her thighs.

Fleetingly she thought of movies she’d seen where clothes danced away as if choreographed by Graham or Fosse. The rest of their clothes fell away, one wretched piece at a time, pooling and catching at knees and ankles, rasping like sandpaper against sensitive skin, until they were finally free of them.

He was as beautiful as she’d allowed herself to imagine, a Roman warrior or a marble statue of Zeus. But unlike the statues, this man was fully erect.

She watched him drink in the sight of her, the short legs, the ample hips, the small round breasts. For the first time in her life she was truly sorry she’d got the short end of the stick when looks were being passed out to the Donaghue sisters.

“Megan…” He met her eyes. “You’re so beautiful.”

He meant it. She saw that he did, that somehow the peculiar combination of imperfect body parts that was Megan Donaghue was all this man needed to make him happy tonight. Doubt fell away, and she felt beautiful.

“You defy description,” she whispered.

“Have I given you any pleasure at all? Because I don’t know whether I’ll be able to give you any more. I want you so much…”

“You will before the night is over,” she promised. “I’ll make sure you do.”

He started to speak, but she covered his lips with a finger. “Shh…”

She straddled him and lowered herself slowly over him. For that moment she found all the pleasure she needed in his cry of fulfillment.

25

H
e did not know if sexuality could be stored up like paychecks in a savings account, but if it could, Niccolo felt like he was on an all-time spending spree.

The second time they made love, upstairs in a bed large enough to hold them both, Megan had found her pleasure. He was sure there was a lot more to this than he’d yet perfected, but now, with her head nestled in the hollow of his shoulder and her eyelids closed tight in exhaustion, he thought that perfection could wait. She looked happy enough to satisfy him.

His body glowed with a profound sense of well-being. He was overwhelmed with the gift he’d received. He was also nagged by two conflicting thoughts. He was not supposed to have done this, and he was not supposed to have done it without being married to the woman beside him.

He had dealt with both those problems in his head before making love to her. He was no longer a practicing priest, and no doctrine required him to live like one. The second was harder. He had counseled young men and women to wait until marriage before they had sex, had heard their confessions when they didn’t and bestowed God’s forgiveness on them afterward. At the time he had believed he was doing the right thing.

Now the only part of him that felt guilty was the part that had censured others. How could he despise himself for loving Megan Donaghue? This was not casual. This was not just about finding pleasure. It was about a woman and a man struggling to come together. The world he’d left behind had answers for everything. The only answers left to him were written in his heart.

“You’re not asleep.” Megan opened her eyes. “You should be worn-out. That was quite a display of prowess.”

“Was it?”

“Take my word for it.”

“I guess I’ll have to.” He fingered a curl flopping over her cheek.

“You’re not sorry, are you?”

“No.”

“Neither am I.”

“I’m glad. I never want to make you unhappy.”

She smiled up at him, her brown eyes warm with feeling. “I don’t want to make you unhappy, either, but I have that effect on men.”

“You’re warning me.”

“Yes.” She reached up to stroke his hair. “I’m hard to get along with.”

“This I’ve noticed.”

“I need my privacy, and I don’t like taking care of people.”

“I’ve noticed that, too. Just your family, the patrons at Whiskey Island, little Ashley, Jon—”

“Nick, I’m serious. If you have some idea that this will end in marriage and kids, you can forget it.”

“Oh?”

“I’m no good at that stuff.”

He wondered how anyone could be so completely oblivious to who she really was. “You’d know that for a fact?”

“You’re making fun of me.”

He leaned down and kissed her. “Uh-huh.”

“I just don’t want you to get the wrong idea. About me.”

“I promise that won’t happen.”

“And how do you know you’d be any good at it, anyway? You’re a complete novice at relationships.”

“I’m a quick study. You said so yourself.”

She was trying to look stern, but her face broke into a smile. “I did, didn’t I?”

“We’ve got all the time in the world to see what happens. Just don’t close yourself off, okay? Stay open to all the possibilities. Maybe together we’ll decide this is a bad idea. Maybe you’ll fall madly in love with me but I’ll decide I want to go to Vegas with Cindy and be a Wayne Newton groupie.”

“Fat chance.”

“Or maybe we’ll grow old together….”

“That’s even more unlikely than you blissing out on endless choruses of
’Danke Schoen.’
”

“My grandfather’s a handsome old man, and I’m said to favor him. It might not be as depressing as you think.”

“I’m going to be dumpy, and white hair won’t suit me at all.”

“I’ll adore every wrinkle.”

“You aren’t going to let go of this fantasy easily, are you?”

“One fantasy already came true tonight.”

She slid her fingers along his hip, let them linger on his thigh, then took them on a shortcut east. He could feel himself growing in her hand, and she began to caress him. “You’re not quite done with that one, are you?”

He thought he knew how a caged tiger might feel when it was finally freed. “Maybe not, if you’re not done in.”

“Are we making up for lost time tonight?”

“I’d rather think we’re working on a future.” He turned her on her back and stretched himself over her.

“We’ll compromise and work on tonight.”

“Agreed.” He kissed her again, but it wasn’t a bit like work.

They ate a light supper at about eight o’clock. Megan scrambled eggs, while Niccolo toasted bruschetta and made a simple fruit salad.

They ate in silence, smiling at each other, but with little need to speak. His house had never felt so much like a home. It was no longer just a project, but the place where they had come together. She had learned her way around his kitchen and unconsciously made changes for the better, switching tea towels with pot holders, turning glasses upside down in his cabinets. He moved the table slightly so they both had a window view, found the woven blue place mats Iggy had given him as a housewarming present, set a glass filled with dried flowers in the table’s center.

They were finished and the dishes were drying in the drainer before he brought up the subject of Rooney again.

“Shall we take the boxes I’ve packed out to Whiskey Island? It looks like it’s going to be a cloudy night.”

“Are you planning to leave them if he doesn’t appear?”

“I think so. I’ll go back early in the morning, and if they haven’t been touched, I’ll take them home and try again another night.”

He waited. When she didn’t speak, he went on. “You don’t have to go. For that matter, I don’t have to, either. But I’d like to get the things to him as soon as I can.”

“I was just trying to decide if it’s a good idea to come with you. I might scare him away.”

He had considered that. But it wasn’t really necessary for them to see Rooney tonight, only that Rooney come out after they’d left to get the boxes. Niccolo told her as much.

She looked away. “I’d like to see him. I’d like to be sure.”

“I know.”

“Can you wait a few minutes?”

“Sure.”

“I’m going to write a letter and tell him about us, what we’re doing, how old we are now. Phone numbers for everyone in the family. We can put it in one of the boxes.”

“I’ve got paper and pens in the drawer.” He gestured. “I’m going to check on the paint job and a few other things the kids did earlier.”

He didn’t hurry, making sure she had enough time to write what had to be the hardest letter of her life. When he thought she’d probably finished, he went back into the kitchen. A folded sheet of paper sat on the table, and she stood. “I’m going to follow you in my car so I can go home afterward.”

He’d expected as much, but he was still disappointed. He knew better than to ask her to spend the night, even though he’d hoped she might want to. “Just park right behind me. It’s dark out there, and I don’t want you to get lost.”

“I’ll be right there with you.”

The trip took only minutes. Megan parked behind him and joined him beside the door of his car.

“It looks like they’re starting construction over there.” He waved his hand toward an open space just beyond the trees. “They’ve got big plans for the area. That’s going to make it next to impossible for Rooney to continue living down here without getting caught.”

“He’ll find another place, unless we convince him to come home. He’s managed on his own for a long time, and I doubt he’s been here for all of it.”

“What makes you think so?”

“Uncle Frank only just began to hear stories. He would have heard something earlier if Rooney was here, or someone else who knew Rooney would have. He was well-known in the community, and for a while there were occasional Rooney sightings. Then I think he probably left town.”

Niccolo realized she had grown accustomed to the idea that this really was her father, that she no longer qualified her references to him. “That may be, but I wonder what made him return and why he settled down here?”

She folded her arms. “I don’t know, but it might be some peculiar connection to family. I told you, this is where the Donaghues lived when they came from Ireland. Maybe he’s going back in time.”

“There’s usually no rhyme or reason to delusions, at least not to the people watching from the outside.”

“He grew up on stories of the hard times down here.”

“I’m reading a journal written by a priest at St. Brigid’s during that period, a Father McSweeney.” He explained how he’d gotten the journal. “The times
were
hard. The stories your father heard weren’t exaggerations.”

“Have you come across any mention of the Donaghues?”

“Not yet. It’s a very personal account of Father McSweeney’s life. He talks a lot about a young couple, the Tierneys, but most references to other parishioners are fleeting.” He realized they were talking to avoid the real reason for this trip.

She seemed to realize it, too. “I’ll take one box, you take the other.”

He got the lighter of the two out of the back of his car and handed it to her before he retrieved the second. “I have a flashlight, but I’d rather not use it until we have to. If there are security guards on the property, I don’t want them coming to see what’s going on.”

“Just go slow. I’ll let you lead the way.”

They followed the path he had taken the night before. He was sorry Rooney preferred cloudy nights. Moonlight would have been a blessing. In the deepest part of the woods, he turned on his light and slowed. Finally he stopped where he’d found Rooney before, near the makeshift shelter.

Niccolo set his box on the ground. No one was there, but he wouldn’t be at all surprised if Rooney materialized from the woods. “Shall we wait awhile?”

“If he doesn’t come soon, I doubt he’ll come at all.”

He suspected if Rooney were anywhere nearby he already knew they were here. “Why don’t you tell me some memories of your father?” He hoped that if Rooney was listening, this might incite him to appear.

“Like what?”

“What did you do together? Were there special games you played? Books you read?”

“Rooney read to me sometimes, but most of the time he told stories he made up himself, or recounted Irish folktales. Finn MaCool the giant was a favorite of his. And he had a song he’d sing every night before I went to bed.”

“Do you remember it?”

She seemed to understand what he was hoping for. She cleared her throat and looked away.

“Sleep my child and peace attend thee

All through the night…”

He listened to her sing the familiar lullaby. She had a lovely voice, clear and true. He forgot it was cold, that the woods were growing darker as the clouds thickened. He listened to her sing and wished he could put his arms around her.

“That’s lovely,” he said, when she’d finished.

“It sounds like a cliché, but Rooney loved all the Irish standards. ‘Danny Boy,’ ‘I’ll Take You Home Again, Kathleen.’ He had a wonderful voice. When he’d had even just a bit to drink, he could be convinced to sing. The saloon would get so quiet you could hear the traffic down on the Shoreway whenever he took a breath. Grown men who’ve never set food on Irish soil would weep for their lost homeland.” She laughed. “Rooney would always take up a collection at that point. He wasn’t above making a dollar or two from nostalgia.”

“You loved him, didn’t you?”

“He was my father. And life with him was never boring.” She paused, and her voice softened. “He was a good father, but when my mother died, he started to unravel. I think she’d kept him together. Or maybe he loved her so much he fought whatever demons possessed him, just to stay sane for her.”