Praise for New York Times Bestselling Author
Heather Graham

“Graham shines in this frightening tale. Paranormal elements add zing to her trademark chilling suspense and steamy romance, keeping the pages flying.”

—Romantic Times on Haunted

“Graham’s tight plotting, her keen sense of when to reveal and when to tease…will keep fans turning the pages.”

—Publishers Weekly on Picture Me Dead

“An incredible storyteller!”

—Los Angeles Daily News

“Demonstrating the skills that have made her one of today’s best storytellers, Ms. Graham delivers one of this year’s best books thus far.”

—Romantic Times on Hurricane Bay

“A suspenseful, sexy thriller…Graham builds jagged suspense that will keep readers guessing up to the final pages.”

—Publishers Weekly on Hurricane Bay

“A roller-coaster ride…fast-paced, thrilling…Heather Graham will keep you in suspense until the very end. Captivating.”

—Literary Times on Hurricane Bay

“The talented Ms. Graham once again thrills us. She delivers excitement [and] romance…that keep the pages flipping quickly from beginning to end.”

—Romantic Times on Night of the Blackbird

“With the name Heather Graham on the cover, you are guaranteed a good read!”

—Literary Times

HEATHER GRAHAM
NIGHT OF THE BLACKBIRD

First and foremost, with love for my mother

Violet J. Graham Sherman of County Dublin

for being Irish, for being a great mom.

In memory of Granny Browne and Aunt Amy

who taught me all about banshees and leprechauns—

at least, their versions of the tales.

For my cousin, Katie Browne DeVuono,

for being everything wonderful about the Irish.

For Victoria Graham Davant, my sister, my best friend,

for all that we share from the past and the present.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Epilogue

Prologue

Belfast, Northern Ireland,

Summer, 1977

“All right, my son, my fine lad!” his mum said, bursting into his square little room without even knocking. “Your da has made it home, and we are going to the movies!”

The mother was flushed and eager. Her work-worn face was transformed into beauty, for her smile was a young girl’s smile, and brightness touched her eyes. He held his breath, barely able to believe. He wanted to go to the movies so badly. It was the new American film, making its debut downtown. At nine, he spent much of his time in the streets; few promises his parents made came to pass. Not their faults, just the way of the world, and there were many things that were the way of the world, or the way of his particular world, and that was just that, and he understood it. His father had his work, his mother had hers, and they had their time at the pub, as well, with their meetings and such. He was a tough kid, strong for his nine years, street smart and, sadly—as even he was aware—already wary and weary. But this…

It was a science fiction movie. Full of futuristic knights, space vehicles, great battles. The fight for right and, in the end—or so he figured—the victory of right over evil.

He threw down the comic book he was reading and stared at her with disbelief, then jumped up, throwing his arms around her. “The movies! Really? Wow!”

“Comb your hair now, boy. Get ready. I’ll get your baby sister.”

And soon they were walking down the street.

The street was something of a slum. Old brick walls were covered with graffiti. The houses were old, as well, small, drafty, and still required peat fires in winter. But it was a good neighborhood in which to live. There were plenty of dark, secret places in the crevices in the walls; there were gates to be jumped, places to hide.

Here and there, they passed a neighbor. Men tipped their hats. Women greeted them with cordial voices. The boy was so pleased, walking along with his folks. He held his sister’s hand. She was just five, younger than he, with eyes still so bright and alive. She didn’t know yet that the smiles that greeted them were usually grim smiles, that the people were as gray and strained as the sky that ever seemed dark, as the old buildings that always seemed somber and shadowed. She looked up at him, and her smile was real, beautiful, and though they fought at times, though he was a tough kid, a nine-year-old boy, and she just a little girl, he loved her fiercely. Her pleasure and awe in their outing touched him deeply.

“We’re really going to see the movie?”

“We’re really going to see the movie!” he assured her.

Their father turned around, grinning. “Aye, girl, and we’re buying popcorn, as well!”

She laughed, and the sound of her laughter made them all smile; it even seemed to touch the ancient grimed walls and make them lighter.

They reached the movie theater. Some there were their friends, some were their enemies. They all wanted to see the movies, so some of the smiles were a bit grimmer, and now and then his parents exchanged stiff nods with others.

As he’d promised, their father bought popcorn. And sodas. Even candy.

He’d seldom felt closer to his parents. More like a boy. For a few hours he left his own dark reality for a far-off time and place. He laughed, he cheered, he gave his sister the last little kernel of popcorn. He explained what she didn’t understand. He lifted her onto his lap. He watched his mother hesitate, then let her head fall on his father’s shoulder. His father let his hand fall upon her knee.

They were halfway home when the gunmen suddenly appeared.

They had come from one of those dark and secretive places in the wall that the boy had learned so well himself.

The masked man in the front suddenly called his father by name.

“I am he, and proud of it, I am!” his father replied with strength and defiance, pushing his wife behind him. “But me family is with me—”

“Aye, ye’d hide behind skirts!” the second man said contemptuously.

The popping of gunfire, so suddenly and so close, was deafening.

The boy reached for his sister even as he watched his father fall. It had happened so fast, yet it was almost like slow motion in the movies. He could see the terrible end; he couldn’t stop it.

The gunmen had come for his father. But a stray bullet hit his sister, as well. Somewhere in his mind, he knew that the gunmen hadn’t intended it, nor could they afford to regret it. She was simply a casualty of this strange war.

He heard his mother shout his father’s name. She didn’t know as yet that her baby was gone, as well.

The lad held his sister, seeing the blood stain her dress. Her eyes were open. She didn’t even feel pain; she didn’t realize what was happening. She smiled, her bright eyes touching his as she whispered his name.

“I want to go home now,” she said. Then she closed her eyes, and he knew she was dead.

He just held her, in the darkness of the street and the darkness of his life, and he listened to his mother’s screams and, soon, the wailing of the police cars and the ambulances in the shadows of the night.

They had the services for his father and sister on a Saturday afternoon. They had waked them in the house in the old way, and family and friends had come and sat vigil by the coffins. They had drunk whiskey and ale, and his father had been hailed and put upon a pedestal, the loss of his baby sister made into a cause. There was so much press from around the world that many whispered that the sacrifice of the poor wee dear might well have been God’s way in their great cause.

They hadn’t seen her smile. They didn’t know that she’d been just a child with hopes and dreams and a wealth of life within her smile and the brightness of her eyes.

At last it was time for the final service, the time when they would be buried—though nothing here, he knew, was ever really buried.

Father Gillian read the prayers, and a number of men gave impassioned speeches. His mother wailed, tore at her hair, beat her breast. Women helped her, held her, grieved with her. They cried and mourned and wailed, as well, sounding like a pack of banshees, howling to the heavens.

He stood alone. His tears had been shed.

The prayers and the services over, the pipers came forward, and the old Irish pipes wheezed and wailed.

They played “Danny Boy.”

Soon after, he stepped forward with some of the other men, and they lifted the coffins. Thankfully, he was a tall lad, and he carried his sister’s coffin with cousins much older than he. She had been such a little thing, it was amazing that the coffin could be so heavy. Almost as if they carried a girl who had lived a life.

They were laid into the ground. Earth and flowers were cast upon them. It was over.

The other mourners began to move away, Father Gillian with an arm around his mother. A great aunt came up to him. “Come, lad, your mother needs you.”

He looked up for a moment, his eyes misting with tears. “She does not need me now,” he said, and it was true—he had tried to be a comfort to her, but she had her hatred, and her passion, and she had a newfound cause.

He didn’t mean to hurt anyone, so he added, “I need to be here now, please. Me mom has help now. Later, when she’s alone, she’ll need me.”

“You’re a good lad, keen and sharp, that you are,” his aunt said, and she left him.

Alone, he stood by the graves. Silent tears streamed down his cheeks.

And he made a vow. A passionate vow, to his dead father, his poor wee sister. To his God—and to himself.

He would die, he swore, before he ever failed in that vow.

Darkness fell around his city.

And around his heart.

1

New York City, New York

The Present

“What do you mean, you’re not coming home for Saint Patrick’s Day?”

Moira Kelly flinched.

Her mother’s voice, usually soft, pleasant and well-modulated, was so shrill that Moira was certain her assistant had heard Katy Kelly in the next room—despite the fact that they were talking by phone, and that her mother was in Boston, several hundred miles away.

“Mum, it’s not like I’m missing Christmas—”

“No, it’s worse.”

“Mum, I’m a working woman, not a little kid.”

“Right. You’re a first-generation American, forgetting all about tradition.”

Moira inhaled deeply. “Mother, that’s the point. We are living in America. Yes, I was born here. As disheartening and horrible as it may be, Saint Patrick’s Day is not a national holiday.”

“There you go. Mocking me.”

Moira inhaled deeply again, counted, sighed. “I’m not mocking you.”

“You work for yourself. You can work around any holiday you want.”

“I don’t actually just work for myself. I have a partner. We have a whole production company. A schedule. Deadlines. And my partner has a wife—”

“That Jewish girl he married.”

Moira hesitated again.

“No, Mum. Andy Garson, the New York reporter, the one who sometimes cohosts that mid-morning show, just married a Jewish girl. Josh’s wife is Italian.” She smiled slightly, staring at the receiver. “And very Catholic. You’d like her. And their little eight-month-old twins. A few of the reasons we both really want to keep this company going!”

Her mother only heard what she wanted to hear. “If his wife is Catholic, she should understand.”

“I don’t think the Italians consider Saint Patrick’s day a national holiday, either,” Moira said.

“He’s a Catholic saint!” her mother said.

“Mother—”

“Moira, please. I’m not asking for myself.” This time, her mother hesitated. “Your father just had to have another procedure….”

Her heart skipped a beat. “What do you mean?” she asked sharply.

“They may have to do another surgery.”

“You didn’t call me!”

“I’m calling you now.”

“But not about Dad!”

“He wouldn’t let me call and tell you—he hasn’t been feeling all that well and he didn’t want to disturb you before the holiday. You’ve always come home before. We figured we’d tell you when you got here. He has to have a test on Monday—outpatient, and not life-threatening—and then…well, then they’ll decide just what to do. But, darling, you know…he really would like you home, though he won’t admit it. And Granny Jon is…well, she seems to be failing a bit.”

Granny Jon was ninety-something years in age and, at best, maybe a good eighty-five pounds in weight. She was still the fiercest little creature Moira had ever met.

She would live forever, Moira was convinced.

But Moira was concerned about her father. He’d had open-heart surgery a few years earlier, a valve replacement, and since then, she’d worried about him. He never complained, always had a smile and was therefore, in her mind, dangerous—simply because he was too prone to being half-dead before he would agree to see a doctor. She knew that her mother worked very hard to keep him on a proper heart-healthy regime, but that couldn’t solve everything.

And as to Saint Patrick’s day…

“Patrick is coming,” her mother informed her.

Naturally, she thought.

Her brother, who had property in western Massachusetts, wouldn’t dare miss his own saint’s day. Few men would have such courage.

Still, it was easy for Patrick. He was in Boston often anyway.

In fact, she realized with a small touch of guilt, she had counted on her brother and her sister, Colleen, to make it all right that she wasn’t there for the great family holiday that much of the country saw as an excuse to drink green beer or send out cute little leprechaun cards, though it meant far more to them.

“You want to see Patrick, don’t you?”

“Of course, but I’m mostly worried about Dad.”

“If your father and I were both to drop dead tomorrow—”

“My brother, sister and I would still see each other, Mum. Honestly, you’re not going to drop dead tomorrow, but don’t worry, we love each other, we’d see each other.”

It was an old argument. Her mother said the same thing to her, she said the same thing back. Her mother said the same thing to her brother—who said the same thing back.

Her sister just sighed and rolled her eyes each time.

But Moira did love her family.

“Mum, I’ll be home.” She wasn’t that far away, and it wasn’t that she didn’t get home frequently. This time, this Saint Patrick’s Day, she hadn’t thought much about it—just because she did get home so often. She had just been home for the Christmas holidays. Going home now hadn’t seemed crucial, in part because of the filming schedule.

But it was crucial now.

“Did you hear me, Mum? I will be home for Saint Patrick’s Day.”

“Bless you, baby. I do need you.”

“I’ll call you back as soon as I get things straightened out. You make Dad behave, okay?”

“I will.”

She started to set the receiver down, but then she heard her mother’s voice. “Oh, sweetheart, I forgot to tell you—”

“Yes?” She brought the receiver back to her ear.

“You’ll never guess who’s coming.”

“The great leprechaun?” She couldn’t quite help herself.

“No!”

“Auntie Lizbeth?” She wasn’t really an aunt, just an old neighbor from back home. She came to the States every few years. Moira liked her, though she seldom understood her—she simply smiled at the old woman a lot. She was even older than Granny Jon, had the thickest brogue known to man—and her wolfhound had chewed up her false teeth, since she hated them and was always leaving them on the table. To Moira, she had been almost totally incomprehensible even when she’d had her teeth, and now, well, it was almost impossible for Moira to make sense of her words. Still, Granny Jon and her folks seemed to do just fine understanding the old woman.

“No, silly. Not Auntie Lizbeth.”

“I give up, Mum. Who?”

“Dan. Daniel O’Hara. Isn’t that wonderful? You two were always such good friends. I know you wouldn’t have wanted to miss him.”

“Uh…no,” she said, and her voice cracked only slightly.

“Goodbye, darling.”

“Bye, Mum.”

Danny was coming.

She didn’t realize that she was still holding the receiver with a death grip until her hand began to hurt and the low buzzing sound from the phone began to sink in. Then a recorded operator’s voice. If you’d like to make a call…

She hung up, stared at the phone, then shook her head in disgust. How long since she had seen Danny? Two years, maybe three? He’d been the love of her life—the love of her young life, she corrected herself. But he’d come and gone like the wind. She’d refused to see him the last time he had called to say he was in the States. He was about as dependable as good weather in a Boston winter. And still…

Her heart quivered with a little pang. It would be good to see Danny.

Now that she was really over him.

And she was seeing someone, so she really would be immune to his, “Ah, Moira, just a quick beer.” Or, “Moira Kelly, you’d not take a stroll with me?” Or even, “You’d not like to make time stand still, hop in bed with me, girl, because you know, you do, that we were magic?”

No more, Daniel.

She had a hectic life; she would be busy, especially since she was about to ask everyone to reschedule everything for her.

She loved her business. She was still in awe of the fact that she and Josh had made a go of it, that they were a production company and that their show was a modest success. Ireland, the old country, remained a passion for her parents. America was hers. She’d been born here and she’d grown up here, and the diversity of her country was what she loved best. Since she’d first gone to college, she’d kept very busy. Forgetting what could never be. Or trying to.

Maybe, though, in the corner of her mind, she had always dreamed that Danny would come back. To stay.

With annoyance, she realized that the very thought made her wistful.

Okay, she cared for Danny, she always would. In a far, far corner of her mind! As far as a distant galaxy. She was a realist. She’d seen people through the years—not too seriously, because of her work. And she was seeing someone now, someone bright, compelling and with shared interests, someone who’d entered her life at the right time, in the right way….

So Danny was coming to Boston. Good for him. He would like…

For a moment, her mind went blank.

Michael! She was dating a man named Michael McLean. Of Irish descent, as well, but of normal Irish descent. They had a really great relationship. Michael loved a good movie and didn’t whine about a bad one. He was an avid sports fan but liked a day at a museum just as well and was up for a Broadway show—or Off Broadway, for that matter.

He was nearly perfect. He worked hard for her company, too. He was always on the go, seeing people, checking on logistics and permits. In fact, he was off somewhere right now. She wasn’t even sure where. Well, of course, she knew…she just couldn’t think of it right now. Talking to her mother had that effect on her.

It didn’t matter where he was. Michael always had his cell phone on him, and he always returned messages, whether they were personal or business related. It was part of his being so wonderful.

And still, just thinking about Danny…

Impatiently, she picked up a pencil and tapped it on her desk. She had other things to think about. Like business. She reached for the phone again and buzzed her partner, Josh.

It would be good to see Danny again.

She was startled by the wave of heat that seemed to wash through her with the thought. Like a longing to hop into bed this very second. She could close her eyes and see him. See him naked.

Stop it! she chastised herself.

“What’s up?”

“What?”

“You called me,” Josh said. “What’s up?”

“Can we go somewhere for lunch?”

Mentally, she put clothes on Danny.

Then she sternly forced him to the far corner of her mind.

She realized that Josh had hesitated, and as if she were in front of him, she could see his shaggy brows tightening into a frown. Danny retreated to memory. Her partner was very real, always a part of her life, steady, and just a downright, decent good guy. Josh Whalen was tall and lean, almost skinny. Good-looking. They had met in film school at NYU, almost had an affair, realized instead that they could remain friends for a lifetime but never lovers, and became partners instead.

Danny had been in her life then, coming and going. Josh would have been only an attempt to convince herself that she wouldn’t have to wait forever for a man to love, but she’d realized that before she’d done anything they would both regret.

Once again, she firmly pushed Danny back where he belonged.

Josh was better than any man she had ever dated. They shared a vision—and a work ethic. They’d both slaved in numerous restaurants to raise the capital they had needed to get their small production company going; he had also worked in construction and dug ditches. They had both been willing to give a hundred percent.

“You don’t want me just to come to your office?” Josh asked.

“No. I want to take you to a nice restaurant, buy you a few glasses of good wine….”

His groan interrupted her. “You want to change the schedule.”

“I—”

“Make it a sports bar, and buy me a beer.”

“Where?”

He named his favorite little hole-in-the-wall, just a few blocks from their offices in the Village. He had an interview with a potential new cameraman, she was supposed to have coffee with a potential guest, but they decided to meet right after their appointments.

As it happened, their potential guest missed her connection and called in to find out if Moira would be available in the afternoon. Relieved, Moira cheerfully agreed.

She went out walking. And walked and walked until it was nearly time to meet Josh.

Moira reached Sam’s Sports Spectacular—a true hole-in-the-wall but a great neighborhood place—before her partner. She seldom drank anything at all during the day and was cautious even at night, but this afternoon, she ordered a draft. She was nursing it at the farthest table from the bar when Josh came in. He was a handsome, appealing guy in a tall, lanky, artistic way. He looked like a director or, she mused with a flash of humor, a refugee from some grunge band. His eyes were dark and beautiful, his hair reddish brown and very curly, and despite his wife’s objection, he wore a full beard and mustache.

“Where’s my beer?” he asked, sliding into a chair by the table.

“I wasn’t sure what you wanted.”

He stared at her as if she had lost her mind. “How many years have you known me?”

“Almost ten. Since we were eighteen. But—”

“What do I always drink?”

“Miller Lite. But—”

“There you have it.”

“I’m a bit off today.”

“You are a bit off.” He raised his hand, and their waiter saw him. He gave his order, and the young man nodded in acknowledgment and started for the bar.

“Why are you off today?” Josh asked, leaning forward.

“My mother called.”

He grimaced. “My mother calls almost every day. That’s no excuse.”

“You don’t know my mother.”

“I do.” He grinned and feigned a slight accent. “She’s a lovely lady, she is.”

“Um. My dad’s ill.”

“Oh.” Josh was quickly serious. “I’m sorry.”

“I—” She hesitated. That wasn’t really it. “I think he’s going to be okay, although it appears he may need another surgery.”

“So you want to go home for Saint Patrick’s day.”

“I know we were supposed to be shooting at the theme parks in central Florida, and I know how hard you worked to straighten out all the paperwork and rights and—”

“Things have been postponed before.”

“I truly appreciate your attitude,” she told him softly, swallowing her draft, her eyes lowered.

“I never believed we’d be going to Florida in March.”

She looked at him and flushed. “You think I have no spine?”

“I think your mother could take on the Terminator.”

She flashed him a grateful smile. “I do have another idea. We can do a real ethnic Irish show and arrange with the Leisure Channel to do a live feed. It really might be a great idea. I think the viewers would love it.”

Josh mused over the idea. He lifted his hands. “You could be right. ‘Fun, food, and fantasy—live from the home of the hostess herself.”’

“How do you feel about Boston in March?”

“Wretched, but then, it’s not much worse than New York.” He smiled at her suddenly. “Actually, I thought something like this might come up. I’ve had Michael checking into the permit situation in Boston as well as Orlando.”

“You’re kidding! He didn’t say a word.”

“He knows how to keep a confidence. I didn’t want you to suspect I was second-guessing you.”

“Great.”

“Hey, kid, it’s a show we should have done before this.”

She grinned, suddenly feeling a tremendous sense of relief. “But you and Gina were looking forward to doing the whole Disney thing.”

“We’ll still do it. We’ll just reschedule. And the kids won’t mind—they didn’t really understand what was going on anyway.”

She smiled. He had a point. At eight months, the twins undoubtedly didn’t care one way or the other whether they got to see Mickey Mouse or not.

“Do you want something to eat?” he asked her. “Or are you just going to drink your lunch?” He indicated her beer glass. It was empty, and she didn’t even remember drinking the whole thing.

“I am Irish,” she muttered.

He laughed, leaning forward again. “Hey! No ill will intended. I just wondered if you wanted food or not.”

“Yes, yes, I guess I should eat.”

“They make a nice salad here.”

“Great. I think I’ll have a hamburger.”

“Ah, we’re being a wild renegade today, eh?” He teased, motioning to their waiter.

“What? Are you trying to be just a wee bit condescending, so I don’t have to be eternally grateful for making you change the entire schedule for the season?”

He laughed. “Maybe. Maybe it’s just amusing to see you so afraid of going home.”

“I am not afraid of going home! I go home all the time. Here comes the waiter. Just order me a hamburger—and another beer.”

Josh did so diligently, but there was still a sparkle in his eyes.

“So what are you so afraid of?” he asked softly, once the waiter had taken their order and departed.

“I’m not afraid. I go home all the time.”

“But this time you seem uneasy. Is it the fact that you think we should film at your home as an excuse to go there? The whole thing does fit nicely. There are a lot of Irish in the United States. And on Saint Patrick’s Day—”

“Everyone is Irish. Yes, I know,” she murmured. Her second beer arrived. She flashed the waiter a smile. He grinned and left. She took a sip of the brew immediately, then sat back, running her fingertip along the edge of the glass.

“So? It’s perfect.” Josh said.

“Perfect—and what a cast of characters we have.”

“Your mother is charming. So is your father.”

“Mmm. They are. Just…”

“Just what?”

“Well, they are…eccentric.”

“Your parents? No.”

“Stop teasing. You know Granny Jon. She had me convinced for years that I had to be really good or the banshees would get me on the way to the outhouse. I think that Colleen, Patrick and I were all out of high school before we suddenly realized the great flaw in her terror tactics—we didn’t have an outhouse.”

“Your grandmother is adorable.”

“Like a hedgehog,” Moira agreed. “Then there’s my father, who has yet to accept the fact that in the U.S., the Fighting Irish are a football team.”

“Not true! I’ve watched college football games with him. Though he does root for Notre Dame, I’ll give you that.”

“My mother will give speeches on how the traditional dish is bacon and cabbage, not corned beef, and somewhere along the line, if you’re not careful, Dad will get going on English imperialism against the rights of the Gaelic-speaking people of the world, and then he’ll get going on the wonders of America. He’ll forget that as a country we massacred hundreds of thousands of Indians and he’ll start to list famous Americans of Irish descent, from the founding fathers to the Civil War—both sides, of course.”

“Maybe he’ll avoid talking about Irishmen who rode with Custer.”

“Josh, I’m serious. You know my dad. Please, God, make sure no one brings up the question of Irish nationalism or the IRA.”

“Okay, we’ll keep him off politics.”

She barely heard him as she rested an elbow on the table, leaning over, preoccupied. “Patrick will bring my little nieces and nephew, so Mum, Dad and Granny Jon will all be running around pretending there are stray leprechauns in the house. They’ll have beer kegs everywhere, and everything will be green.”

“It sounds great.”

“We’ll have all kinds of company—”

“The more the merrier.”

She straightened and looked him in the eye. “Danny is coming,” she told him.

“Oh, I see,” he said softly.

He awoke very late and very slowly, and in luxurious comfort. The mattress he lay on was soft, the sheets cool and clean. The woman beside him still smelled sweetly of perfume, and of the scent of their lovemaking. She was young, but not too young. Her skin was tanned and sleek. Her hair was dark, and a wealth of it graced the hotel pillow. She’d had her price, but what the hell, so did he. They’d had fun together.

Coffee had brewed in a pot he’d set to go on a timer last night. Brewed and probably burned. He’d never imagined he would sleep so late.

He leaned against his pillow and the headboard.

America was good.

He had always enjoyed it.

There was so much here. Such an abundance. And such foolish people, who didn’t begin to understand what they had. Aye, they had their problems; he wasn’t at all blind to the world, nor did he lack compassion. But problems were different here. Spoiled rich kids, racial tensions, Republicans, Democrats…and, he had to say, though with all compassion, if they didn’t have enough problems, they just made more for themselves. But it didn’t change the fact that life was good.

The phone rang. He reached to the bedside table; picked it up.

“Hello?”

“Have you the order ready, sir?”

“I do. Shall I deliver, or do you want to come here?”

“It’s probably better if you come here. We may have more business to discuss.”

“That will be fine. When?”

He was given a time; then the phone clicked. He hung up.

The woman at his side stirred and moaned. She turned toward him; her eyes flickering open. She smiled. “Morning.”

“Morning.” He leaned over and kissed her. She was still a cute little thing. Dark-haired, dark-eyed, tanned.

She reached for him beneath the sheets, her hand curling around his sex.

He arched a brow at her.

She laughed. “Freebie. I don’t usually stay until morning—”

“I don’t usually keep a who—a woman—till morning,” he amended kindly.

Her fingers were talented, and he found himself quickly aroused. He noted, though, the light that was beginning to show around the edges of the curtains.

“What’s the matter?” she asked him.

He smiled, crushed out his cigarette. “Nothing,” he told her, drawing her head toward his, kissing her lips, then drawing her downward to continue a more liquid approach to her sensual assault on his body. He glanced at his watch. Plenty of time.

She was very good, and it had been a long time since he’d had such an opportunity to dally. He let her have her way, then returned the favor, and when he made love to her—if one could, even politely, call the act “making love” when it with a woman who was a stranger and a whore at that—he did so with energy and pleasure, a courteous partner despite the fact that he swiftly climaxed. Even as he rolled to her side, he checked his watch again.

“Late,” he muttered, then kissed her lips and headed for the shower. “Coffee’s on. Cigarettes are by the bed.”

He showered quickly, with an economy of motion learned over the years. He emerged well scrubbed, hair washed. He grabbed a towel from the rack and studiously worked at drying his hair while he opened the bathroom door and exited, head covered, body naked.

“Did you get your cof—” He began politely, but then paused, muscles tightening “What are you doing?” he asked sharply.

She was on her knees, his pants in her hands.

“I—” she began, dropping his pants, looking at him. She stumbled to her feet. Had she been about to rob him?

He wondered what she had seen. He noted quickly that she had been through more than his pants. Drawers weren’t quite closed; the dust ruffle around the bed was still up at the foot of it. What had she discovered that had caused the look of fear she wore?

Or was it merely what she was seeing in his eyes?

She stood, clad in her bra slip and stockings. He watched the workings of her mind. She was wishing she’d got dressed and got the hell out while he had showered.

But she hadn’t.

Her eyes, glued to his, registered her fear. He didn’t look away; he saw the room with his peripheral vision. She’d done a good job in the time she’d had. Thorough. She was just a working girl—and, it appeared, a thief.

Or was she?

“I was just looking around, just curious,” she said, moistening her lips.

Whatever else she was, she was a damn poor liar.

“Ah, love,” he said softly. “Hadn’t you ever heard? Curiosity killed the cat.”

“Ah, your good friend Daniel O’Hara,” Josh teased. “Think of it. If it hadn’t been for old Danny boy, you and I might be married now.”

“And divorced—we’d have killed each other in a week,” Moira reminded him.

“Maybe, maybe not. Let’s see, you were intellectually in love with me, but you lusted after your old flame. I was the good, decent man who meant to do all the honorable things, but he was an unobtainable, intriguing and dashing young lover, and though never present, he took your heart as well as your—well, you know.”

“Josh, we would never have gotten married.”

“Probably not,” he agreed, a bit too cheerfully.

“Well, I don’t appreciate the dramatics. He’s an old family friend—”

“And the fact that he’s built like a linebacker and looks like an Adonis has nothing to do with it?”

“You’re being incredibly…shallow. As if I don’t judge men by other standards. Besides, you’re a very good-looking man yourself.”

“Thanks. I’ll take that. But I’m not sure I compare with your exotic foreign lover. And no, it’s not just his looks that affect you. It’s the accent, the voice, the tradition, the fact that he’s an old family friend.” He put on a Hollywood Irish accent. “Aye, me lass, your lover has a definite presence.”

“He’s not my lover!”

“How quickly you protest.”

“I haven’t even seen him in years.”

“I can tell you when you saw him last. Summer, almost three years ago. And you wound up lying to your family, saying you were coming back to New York, but you stayed at the Copley with him in Boston. You thought he’d stay here, because you wanted him to. He wasn’t ready, you got mad. And when he called again the following Christmas, you refused to see him.”

“I never told you all that!”

“Well, I may not have made it as husband material, but I am your best friend. And there’s something about him you can’t quite shake.”

“You’re wrong.”

“Am I?”

“Trust me, I have shaken him.” She looked at her watch. “How time flies when you’re being tortured by your supposed best friend. I have to meet Mrs. Grisholm. She missed her connection this morning. She’s the lady from that little mystery theater group in Maine where the audience joins in and they do the show together. They even cook and eat dinner together. You know. I told you all about her, and it sounds like a—”

“What’s Michael going to say about the return of your old flame? Did you ever tell him about Daniel O’Hara?” Josh interrupted, amused.

“Dan is my past, Michael is none of your business.”

Josh started laughing. Her cheeks flamed.

“Saint Patrick’s Day could be lots of fun. Your sleeping arrangements may be none of my business, but we hired Michael as location manager before you two became involved, so I assume he’ll be joining us in Boston.”

“Yes, of course he’ll be joining us in Boston.”

Josh was still grinning.

“Oh, will you wipe that smirk off your face?”

“I’m sorry. As your one-time would-be lover, I find it amusing that you’ve spent half your adult life in celibacy and now you’re going to have both of the great loves of your life home for the holiday.”

“Josh…” she said warningly.

“Maybe that’s not so bad. Mum and Dad can protect you.”

She stood up. “I would thank you for being such a great business partner—”

“If I wasn’t being such a prick.” He was still laughing.

“I could tell your wife you’re being a horse’s ass.”

“She knows all about my ancient crush on you. I think she’ll find the situation just as much fun as I do.”

“You’re impossible, and I’m leaving.”

“You’re leaving because you’re late, and you love me anyway,” he called after her, since she was already heading for the door.

“I don’t love you,” she called, turning around. “Make sure you get the check, and leave a decent tip.”

“You adore me!” he called after her.

At the door, she looked back. He was still wearing the same shit-eating grin. He arched a brow to her and started humming “Danny Boy.”

2

It had been a damned long day. Michael McLean took his work to heart, and he accomplished what he set out to do, whether it took diplomacy and tact or a dead-set determination and a few strong-arm techniques.

When the phone rang, Michael jumped. He’d been lying there, half asleep, and though his work meant that he got calls at all hours, he hadn’t been expecting the abrasive ring. He’d been traveling large expanses of the country—they had to be prepared for every contingency—and he was tired. For a moment the ringing was simply jarring, and he let it go on. Then he forced himself up, dragging his legs over the side of the bed, running his fingers through his hair. He started for his bedside phone, then realized that it was his cellular ringing. He rose, running his fingers through his hair, found his pants and dug out the phone.

He glanced at the caller ID. Moira.

“Hey, babe, what’s up? You’re all right, aren’t you? It’s late.”

“I know, I’m sorry. I should have called earlier.”

“You can call me any time, day or night. You know that.”

“Thanks,” she said, her voice soft.

There were lots of women in the world. He’d known his share. But the tenor of her voice slipped into him. There were others, yes. But none quite like her. He pictured her. Moira was a beauty, with her true deep red hair and blue-green eyes. Tall, elegant, with a natural sophistication and the ability to dirty her hands and nails, laugh at any obstacle and get involved with the most absurd situations. When he’d answered the ad for an associate producer and locations manager for KW Productions, he’d known her from seeing her on the air, having studied what tapes he could find before applying for the job. She was good on tape. She was even better in person. He hadn’t been ready for the excitement she could create or the emotion she could invoke. He wished she were there right now. Amazing what the sound of her voice could do to a man.

“I should have called you—could have called you—hours ago,” she went on, then halted suddenly. “You haven’t heard from Josh already, have you?”

“No.”

He heard her sigh. “Yeah, he would make me do this one myself. And it’s so late because I’ve been trying to get up the nerve to call you.”

He was about to assure her that she never needed nerve to call him when she rushed on.

“I know how much work you’ve already done—”

“You are the boss, you know.”

“Not really. Josh and I have always made decisions together, and since you’ve been with us, well, you’ve just been the perfect addition to the show…. Oh, Lord, Michael, I’m so sorry to be doing this, but…we’re making a sudden switch in plans.”

He’d been expecting this; still, he felt every muscle in his body tense. He knew what she was about to say.

“I know that you and Josh have made an incredible effort on the Orlando angle, that acquiring permits to tape has been a bitch…but we’re switching locations for Saint Patrick’s Day. I’m so sorry. I know—”

“Family pressure, eh?” he asked quietly.

“My father has to go in for tests next week. Nothing serious, Mum assures me, but I’m willing to bet he’s still working the pub himself until all hours of the night. Anyway, she made it sound as if I were punching the Easter Bunny or something, and I…I caved in.”

“Don’t worry,” he told her. “I’ve already looked into the Boston situation.”

“What?”

“Josh and I both kind of expected this,” he said.

She was silent.

“Moira, it’s all right. Hey, I’m going to love meeting your family. I’ll get to feel important, right? The man in your life, someone who means everything in the world to you, right?”

“You’re incredible, you know that?”

“Well, of course, you’d have nothing less, right?” he said.

“You know what?”

“What?”

“You sound so good.”

Her voice was almost like silk.

“I was just thinking the same about you.”

“They’re crazy, you know.”

“Who?”

“My folks.”

“Moira, you’ve hit the right guy here. My family is Irish, too. Okay, we don’t own a pub and no one runs around whistling ‘Danny Boy’ all day, but I can deal with the leprechaun and banshee stories. Don’t be so worried.”

She was still silent. Then she said, “Mine do.”

“What?”

“They run around whistling ‘Danny Boy’ all the time.”

He laughed. “I’ve got nothing against the song. Hey, Josh and I had a wager going, you know.”

“Who bet that I wouldn’t cave in to family pressure?”

“Neither of us. The wager was on the date you’d finally do it.”

“I can’t wait to see you,” she said. Once again, he pictured her. Not the woman on television. The one who should be here with him now. Softly scented, sleek and smooth, hair down and wild, naked as the day she was born. Maybe that was part of her allure. She could be so elegant and almost aloof in public, and so incredibly sensual and volatile in private.

“I don’t think there are any planes at this time of night,” he said regretfully. “Can’t even hop a train. I could rent a car…if you’re really needy.”

“You’re good. Very good.”

“No, what I am is—”

“Never mind,” she said, laughing again. “You know you can’t rent a car in Florida and be here that quickly. And I have to—have to—tie up a few things here tomorrow and then head up right after. That will give us a week before the actual big day. Time so I can see my folks and so we can give the Leisure Channel a really good show.”

“I can be there, if you want.” He wondered if he should tell her that he wasn’t in Florida. Maybe he’d better leave that one for Josh.

He was silent for a moment. Yes, there were other women in the world, he knew that well. The fingers of his free hand tensed and eased, tensed and eased. But none like her.

“Aye, me love, at ye olde pub!” he said, giving her his best Irish accent. “If you insist that we wait that long.”

“You’d really drive all night…?”

“I would.”

“I’d rather have you alive in the future than dead in such an effort,” Moira said firmly. “Boston, night after next, Kelly’s Pub, you’ll meet the folks. I’ll see you there?”

“All right,” he told her. Then, though he had expected it, he found himself dreading the fact that they would all be in Boston together. He, Moira, her family, her past—and the future. “I love you,” he added, and he was surprised by the almost desperate ardor in his voice.

“I love you, too,” she said, and he believed her.

A few moments later, they rang off.

Though it was late and he was still exhausted, Michael found himself rising and getting dressed. He glanced at the clock. Not that late; just after midnight.

He dressed and left the hotel room.

His destination was within easy walking distance. Boston was a good city in that respect. Narrow, winding streets in the old section and even in the newer areas. There was little distance here between the colonial and the modern. He liked Boston. Great seafood. A sense of history.

He walked quickly and came to the street he had checked out earlier that day. There, in the middle of the block, beneath a soft yellow streetlight, was the sign.

Kelly’s Pub.

He stood there, staring at it.

And damning the days to come.

The doors were still open, though it looked quiet within. Weeknight. He thought about sauntering in, quietly ordering a draft, sitting in a corner, taking a look.

No.

At twelve-thirty, he turned and walked away.

Twelve forty-five.

From the shadows cast by the long buildings, another man watched Michael McLean leave the premises. He hadn’t really seen his face, had never known the man previously, but even so, he was fully aware of who he was.

Dan O’Hara watched the man thoughtfully until he had disappeared. He had avoided the streetlight on the opposite side of the block and therefore had hardly been even a dark silhouette in the night.

He leaned against the old building. With the street clear, he lit a cigarette, slowly allowing the smoke to filter out of his lungs. Bad habit. He needed to quit, he thought idly. So that was Michael. He didn’t have enough basis for any rational judgments, but by virtue of instinct, he disliked the guy. But then, Moira could be seeing a Nobel Peace Prizewinning certified saint and he would still dislike the guy.

He had to force himself to hold back any conclusions on Michael McLean. He couldn’t even blame the guy for wanting a good look at the pub.

Kelly’s. Dan loved the place himself.

How long had he been gone this time? Too long. Of course, last time he had come back, things had been different. No Moira.

How many times had he pushed her away? Doing the right thing, of course. At first she’d been too young. Then, even when they’d become lovers, he’d just known that he was wrong for her. Yet he hadn’t realized that he still lived with the belief that she was his, that she would still be there. He truly wanted her to be happy, but he wasn’t a man without an ego. Somewhere inside, he had believed that happiness for her would mean waiting for him.

Okay, so he was an ass.

An ass…yet he had done the right thing. She was a strong character, with a sense of the world, of right and wrong and everything that being an American meant. He hadn’t been able to help it; he was Irish. An Irishman who loved America, but who felt…

Obligated.

Was he always going to feel obligated?

Hell, was he going to survive?

He thought angrily of how much he didn’t like what was going on, and there seemed to be no help in the knowledge that it wasn’t his fault. He’d never put any of this into motion, but there wasn’t a damn thing he could do.

Moira was coming home. He’d talked to Katy Kelly on the phone today, and she’d been in heaven, knowing that she would have her whole family home and in one place for the special holiday. She was also a little nervous. “She’s been seeing a man, one her da and I have yet to meet,” Katy had informed him, trying to keep her disapproval out of her voice.

“He’s probably a great guy,” Dan had told her. “She’s grown up a smart woman, Katy, you know that. You should be proud.”

“He’s in television, too. Working for her and Josh.” Katy had sighed. “Now Josh…there’s a good man.”

“A fine man.” Danny could say so easily. He liked Moira’s partner. And the fellow was married, was truly a friend and had never had an intimate relationship with Moira.

“Well, this new fellow is Irish.”

“Oh? And what’s his name.”

“Michael. Michael McLean.”

“Well, there you go. What more can you ask for?”

Katy sighed again. “Well, I suppose…for you two to have married, Danny.”

“Ah, Katy. We were going different ways. Besides, I wasn’t meant for marriage.”

“I think you were.”

She had gone on to insist that it wouldn’t matter that Moira and her crew would be there—the back room of the pub was his, as it always was when he came to Boston. And yes, Moira knew that he was coming.

A strange sense of nostalgia stole over him. This place really was home to him, certainly as much as any other. His early years seemed a very long time ago. Living with his uncle, he had traveled a great deal. Brendan O’Toole, his mother’s brother, who had married a cousin of Katy Kelly, had been a scholar and broker for antique manuscripts. He had given Dan his first love of literature. Of the written word and the power within it. He’d been a storyteller, another talent he had passed on to Dan. His house in Dublin had been home, but they’d been on the go constantly. Dan had seen many foreign countries, and he had spent a great deal of time in America. He did love the States.

And after any length of time away, he missed this old place.

It was time for him to be there. He could go on in. But he had said he was arriving in the morning. He would wait. No reason to tell the folks that he had been in Boston a bit before checking in with them.

Aye, he would wait.

As he stood there against the building, he saw another man striding down the street. He wore a huge overcoat and a low-brimmed hat. Nothing odd in that. Boston could be frigid this time of year.

But this man approached the pub oddly; then, as Dan had done himself, he paused, staring at the windows.

He stood there for a long time. Dan dropped his cigarette to the ground and remained still, watching the watcher.

The man was peering through the windows, trying to see who was in the pub.

Apparently he didn’t see the person—or people—he was seeking, because after a long moment, he turned away and started down the street again, back in the direction from which he had come.

Nothing odd in that. A guy out to find friends at a pub, taking a look for them, realizing they weren’t there, deciding to leave.

Nothing odd in that.

Except that the man in the huge coat and low-brimmed hat was Patrick Kelly, son of the owners of Kelly’s Pub.

Dan lit another cigarette, feeling a new tension, as if rocks were forming in his gut.

He waited awhile longer, then hiked up the collar of his coat and started off down the street, as well.

Moira seldom paused to window-shop; she was usually running somewhere, and besides, she had been in New York a long time. She still loved the beautiful displays that were put out for holidays, and she appreciated the fact that she could buy almost anything in the world in the city where she lived and worked. She loved clothes, but she also loved a day when she could take the time to try on outfits, go through a zillion pair of shoes, driving salesmen crazy.

But that morning, walking toward the new French restaurant in the Village where she was to meet the lady from Maine to discuss their taping schedule, she found herself stopping to stare at an incredible Saint Patrick’s showcase. The stores usually had out all their Easter wares along with their Saint Patrick’s Day items. This particular window had been done with real love. There were shamrocks everywhere, arranged artfully. A field of lovely porcelain fairies had been hung to fly above a rainbow with the traditional pot of gold at the end. Finely carved leprechauns with charming faces were set around the rainbow, as if they were busy at daily tasks. The leprechaun in the middle sat on a pedestal, facing a fairy on another pedestal. The fairy was exquisite, poised on one toe, with wings painted the colors of the rainbow. Pausing without realizing it, she stared at the fairy, charmed. She realized that it was a music box.

She glanced quickly at her watch and decided she had time to take a closer look. She went into the store, not surprised to discover that the shop owner was the cashier, that she still carried a bit of an Irish accent and that she was delighted with Moira’s interest in the item.

“My mother would absolutely love that piece,” Moira told her, and asked the price.

It was high, but the woman quickly explained. “The piece is one of a kind. The fairies and leprechauns, you see. The porcelain fairies are limited, but the carved pieces are handcrafted by two brothers in Dublin. Each is individual, and signed. I believe they’ll be very popular in the future, but it’s not the fact that they may be highly collectible one day that makes them so dear. It’s the time taken for the work that goes into each one.”

“I hate to ask you to take it out of the window.”

“Oh, no, dear, I love the darling little things. Please, it’s my pleasure, even if you don’t buy. You seem to truly appreciate the art of it.”

Moira assured her that she did, indeed. And when the woman took the piece from the window and put it before her, she found that it was even more beautiful than she had thought. The carving of the face was exquisite. The fairy created a feeling that was totally ethereal. She was simply magical. All that is good and enchanting about the Irish people, Moira thought.

“I’ll take her,” Moira said.

“Don’t you wish to hear her play?” the woman asked, twisting the key at the bottom of the small pedestal.

“Sure, thank you. What song does she play?”

The woman laughed softly. She allowed her accent to deepen as she jokingly said, “Why, besure and begorrah, dear. She plays ‘Danny Boy.’ You know, ‘Londonderry Air.”’

The little fairy began to spin, to fly on her pedestal. The music tinkled out, charming, beautiful, sweet, the haunting melody familiar and yet light, different.

“Danny Boy.” Of course. What else? There were so many beautiful old Irish tunes, but naturally this box would play “Danny Boy.”

“Is something wrong?” the woman asked.

“No, she’s lovely, thank you so much. I’ll definitely buy her for my mum.”

“I’ll wrap her very carefully for you.”

“Thanks so much.”

As Moira waited, she realized that she would be spending the next week listening to “Danny Boy.” Might as well get used to it now.

“Are you sure there’s nothing wrong, dear?”

“Not at all. In fact, I’d like both of those little stuffed leprechauns, please. They’ll make cute little gifts for my nieces. Then I need something for a boy.”

“I have a small, hand-held video game just in. Banshees against fairies, with the leprechauns being the chance factor, some of them good, some of them bad.”

“Sounds perfect,” Moira said. “Thank you so much.”

Tomorrow she was going home. And suddenly, here in this shop, anticipation mingled with her dread.

Kelly’s Pub was already in full nightly swing when Dan O’Hara emerged from the back room of the tavern, the guest quarters, where he had been staying. The pub band, Blackbird, was already playing a mixture of old and new Irish music with a bit of American pop thrown in here and there. He knew all the members from way back.

It was the first time he had come into the pub during opening hours, and he was ready for the greeting he knew he would receive.

“And there he is!” Eamon Kelly called from behind the bar. “The best and brightest of you lot of reprobates, Mr. Daniel O’Hara.”

“Hey, Danny, how are you?” asked old Seamus.

“Danny boy, you’re back in town!” Liam McConnahy said.

The lineup at the bar was made up of Eamon’s longtime friends, some old country, some born and bred in the USA. He recognized Sal Costanza, an old school chum who had grown up in the Italian sector along the North Shore. Eamon Kelly had created his own little Gaelic empire here, but he was a good-hearted, friendly fellow, with a keen interest in everyone around him and—usually—a nose for a decent character in any man. But now Dan didn’t like what was happening here. He would have done anything in his power to keep Kelly’s Pub and the Kellys themselves out of what was happening. But things had been set in motion; he had no choice. Whatever was going down had been given the code name Blackbird, and that could only refer to Kelly’s Pub.

Hell, a Kelly could be involved.

“Back in town,” Dan said easily, embracing both old Seamus and Liam, then shaking hands with the others as each man spoke a quick greeting.

“So,” Seamus said, his thick, snow-white brows rising over cloudy blue eyes, “have you been hanging around back in the old country or gallivantin’ around the States?”

“A bit of both,” Dan said.

“You’ve been in Ireland recently?” Liam asked. He had the same cap of white hair as Seamus, except that his was thinning now.

“That I have,” Dan said.

“The Republic—or the North?” Seamus asked, a slight frown denoting his worry.

“A bit of both,” Dan said. “Eamon, how about a round for my old friends at the bar? It’s good to see them again. Sal, how’s it going in the pasta business in Little Italy? I’ve been hankering for a taste of your mom’s lasagna. No one makes it as good as she does.”

Sal answered, and Dan kept smiling, nodding in reply to the thanks he received for the round of drinks. But as he engaged in the banter at the bar, he looked around the room. Though the band was in action at one end, the scene remained fairly quiet. An attractive young couple, with either his or her parents, were having dinner at a center table. A group just off from work—probably from the IBM offices or the bank around the corner—huddled around a couple of tables near the band, winding down from their nine-to-five workday. Patrick Kelly was in. Eamon’s son, tall, with a head full of dark hair touched by a reddish sheen. He was a good-looking fellow, on stage now with the band, playing along with the violinist. He saw Daniel and gave him a wave and a grin, beckoning to him. Daniel nodded and smiled in return, motioning that he would join them all soon. Patrick nudged Jeff Dolan, lead guitarist and group leader, and Jeff, too, nodded Dan’s way.

Still scanning the room, Dan saw a lone man in a business suit seated at a far corner table, a darkened table. A stranger. Dan had the feeling the man was surveying the occupants of the pub, just as he was doing himself.

“What are you drinking yourself?” Eamon asked him.

“What’s he drinking?” Seamus said indignantly. “Give him a whiskey and a Guinness!”

“Now, Seamus, I’m in the grand old USA,” Dan protested. “A Bud Lite on draft, if you will, Eamon. It may prove to be a long night—back with a party of Boston’s black sheep!”

“How’s the place look, Danny?” Liam asked. “You miss it when you’re away?”

“Why, the pub looks just fine, and old friends look even better,” Dan replied. He lifted the stein Eamon had brought him. “Slainte! To old times, old friends.”

“And to the old country!” Eamon declared.

“Aye, to the old country,” Dan said softly.

The sky was overcast when Moira’s shuttle from New York to Boston made its initial descent for landing. Even so, she stared out the window for a bird’s-eye view of the city where she had grown up, and which she still loved so much. Coming home. She was excited; she loved her family dearly. They were all entirely crazy, of course. She was convinced of that. But she loved them and was happy at the prospect of seeing them.

But then…then there was this whole Danny thing.

The plane landed. She was slow to take off her seat belt and slow to deplane. No one was picking her up; she had made the last-minute decision to take an earlier shuttle than the rest of the cast and crew, who would be taking the last flight. When the people in the seats behind her had filed out, she grabbed her overnight bag and walked out, thanking the flight attendant and the pilots, who were waiting for her exit to leave themselves.

Outside Logan, she hailed a taxi. Once seated, she realized that the driver, a young man of twenty-something with a lean face and amber eyes, was staring at her by way of the rearview mirror.

“You’re Moira Kelly!” he said, flushing as she caught his eye.

“Yes.”

“In my cab! Fancy that. You just travel on a regular plane and get in a regular taxi?”

“Seems to be the best way to get around,” she told him, smiling.

“You mean you don’t have a private jet and a limo waiting?” the man demanded.

She laughed. “I don’t have a private jet at all, though sometimes we do hire private cars.”

“And no one recognizes you—and hounds you?”

“I’m afraid that all of America doesn’t tune in to the Leisure Channel. And even those who do don’t necessarily watch our show.”

“Well, they should.”

“Thank you. Very much.”

“What are you doing in Boston?”

“I’m from here.”

“Wow. Right. And you’re Irish, right? Are you home to see family, or are you going to film stuff here?”

“Both.”

“Wow. Well, great. Hey, it’s a privilege. If you need more transportation while you’re here, call me. I’ve got the cleanest cab in the city. I grew up here, too. I know the place backward and forward. No charge, even. Honest.”

“I’d never take advantage that way of anyone making a living,” Moira said. “But give me your card, and I promise when we need transportation we’ll call you.” In fact, he did seem to be a good driver. Boston’s traffic was as crazy as ever. There was always construction; the freeway was as often as not a stop-and-go place. Once they were out of the tunnel and off the highway, the streets were narrow and one-way. And then there were the traffic circles…. The old character and ultra-thin roadways were part of the charm of the city—and the bane of it, as well.

The young man kept his right hand solidly on the steering wheel and slipped her a card with his left hand.

“Hey, I’m Irish, too.”

“Your name is Tom Gambetti.”

He grinned at her in the rearview mirror. “My mom is Irish, Dad is Italian. Hey, this is Boston. There are lots of us living on pasta and potatoes! Both your folks are Irish?”

“Oh, Lord, yes!” Moira laughed.

“Right off the old potato boat, eh?”

“Something like that,” she said, then leaned forward, pointing. “There it is—Kelly’s Pub.”

The street was narrow. Though both corners held large new office buildings, the rest of the block still had a lot of old character. The building that housed the pub was two stories, with a basement and an attic. It dated from Colonial days, as did many of its nudged-in neighbors. An old iron tethering pole remained in front, from the days when the country’s forefathers had come to knock back a pint or two. Kelly’s Pub was lettered on an attractive board above the door, and there were soft friendly lights issuing from lamps on either side. When the weather was warm, tables spilled onto the narrow enclosed patio in front. There were two windows in the front, as well; they were closed now, in deference to the winter, but within the pub, the lace-edged curtains were drawn back so that passersby could see the welcoming coziness to be found inside.

“Want your suitcase right in the pub?” Tom asked.

“No, thanks, just on the sidewalk. I’m going upstairs first.”

“I’ll be happy to take it up for you,” he suggested.

She shook her head. “No, thanks. I appreciate it, but—”

“But a homecoming is best alone,” he said.

She paid him as he set her bag down. “Thanks. And I will call you if we need transportation.”

“You may not have to call me. It looks like a great pub.”

“It is,” she murmured, listening to the laughter and music coming from within. “It’s everything a pub is supposed to be. Céad mile fáilte.”

“What does that mean?”

She looked at him, smiling wryly. “A hundred thousand welcomes.”

“Nice. Well, good luck. I’ll be seeing you.”

“Thanks.”

He got in his car and drove away, it seemed regretfully. Nice kid, she thought. Then she hefted her suitcase and started up the outside stairs that led to the family living quarters above the thriving business.

Her mother was a model of domesticity. The porch beside the front door of the home area was set with white wicker café tables, and the canvas overhang was clean as a whistle, even in the dying days of winter. Moira set her case down by the door and knocked, her fingers colder than she had realized inside her gloves. Knocking was easier than trying to find her key.

The door opened. Her mother was there, taking one look at her face and giving her the kind of smile that would have made a trek halfway around the world worthwhile. “Moira Kathleen!” And then, though Katy Kelly was thin as a reed and two inches shorter than Moira’s five feet eight, she enveloped her daughter in a fierce hug with the strength of a grizzly.

“Moira Kathleen, you’re home!” Katy said, stepping back at last, hands on her hips as she surveyed her daughter.

“Mum, of course I’m home. You knew I was coming.”

“Seems so long, Moira,” Katy said, shaking her head. “And you look like a million.”

Moira laughed. “Thanks, Mum. Good genes,” she said affectionately. Her mother was a beautiful woman. Katy didn’t dye the tendrils of silver threading through her auburn hair. God was granting her age, in her words. A head full of silver wasn’t going to matter. Katy was trim from moving a thousand miles an hour every day of her life. Her eyes were the green of her old County Cork, and her face had a classical beauty.

“Ah, sweetie, I miss you so!” Katy said, kissing her. “It’s been so long.”

“Mum, we’re just heading into Saint Patrick’s day. I spent Christmas here. And we all did First Night in the city together, remember?”

“Aye, and maybe it’s not so long, but your brother, Patrick, you know, manages to get back at least once a month, he does.”

“Ah, yes, my brother. Saint Patrick,” Moira murmured.

“Now would you be mocking the likes of your brother?” The question came from behind Katy. Moira looked past her mother to see her grandmother standing there, Granny Jon. On a good day, Granny Jon might be considered an even five feet. At ninety something—no one, including Granny Jon, was quite sure what year she’d been born—she was still as straight as a ramrod and spry as a young girl. Her keen sense of humor sparkled in hazel eyes as she playfully accosted Moira.

“And there—the heart of Eire herself!” Moira laughed, stepping forward to hug her grandmother. As she hugged Granny Jon, she felt the old woman shake a little. Spry and straight she might be, but her grandmother was still a tiny mass of delicate bones, and Moira adored her. She’d given Moira leprechauns and legends, wonderful tales about the banshees being tricked or bribed to go away, and then, when she’d been older, true tales of the fight for freedom for the Irish through long years of mayhem throughout history. She was keen and wise and had seen the battlefield of her city torn to shreds, yet had somehow maintained a love for all the humanity around her, a glorious sense of humor, and a sound judgment regarding both politics and people.

“Why, Moira, you haven’t aged a day,” Granny Jon teased. “Katy, have a heart now. The girl is out there doing us proud. And she is living in New York, while Patrick has stayed in the state of Massachusetts.”

“Um. As if western Mass weren’t nearly as far away as New York City,” Katy said.

“But it hasn’t the traffic,” Granny Jon said.

“Then there’s my evil younger sister,” Moira teased, rolling her eyes.

Katy inclined her head with a wry smile for the two of them. “Well, then, Colleen has gone as far as the west of the entire country now, hasn’t she? And she’d never even consider not being here for Saint Patrick’s Day.”

Moira sighed. “Mum, I’m here, and I’m even bringing in the non-Irish for you to convert,” Moira told her.

“Ah, now, ’tis enough,” Katy said. “We’ll give you a quick cup of tea. Granny Jon was just brewing—”

“And it will be strong enough to pick itself up and walk itself right across the table, eh?” Moira said, teasing her grandmother and putting on her accent.

“We’ll have none of that,” Granny Jon said. “And I do make a good pot of tea, a real pot of tea, nothing wishy-washy about it. And what have we here?”

The main entry to the living quarters was a foyer, with the kitchen—a very large room with added warmth in winter from the oven—and a hallway leading to the bedrooms, library and office straight ahead. Moira hadn’t heard a thing, but when she looked beyond Granny Jon, she saw three little heads bobbing into sight.

Patrick and his wife, Siobhan, had nearly repeated her parents’ pattern of procreation; their son Brian was nine and daughters Molly and Shannon were six and four respectively.

“Hey, guys!” Moira called delightedly, hunching down on the balls of her feet and putting her arms out for the kids. They came running to her with whoops and hollers, kissing her, hugging her.

“Auntie Mo,” Brian said. As a baby, he’d never quite gotten her name right. She’d been Auntie Mo to the kids ever since. “Is it true we’re going to be on the telly?”

“On the telly? Oh, dear, you’ve been hanging around the Irish too long, me lad!” she teased. “Yes, of course, if you wish, you’ll be on the telly.”

“Cool!” Molly told her.

“Cool!” Shannon repeated, wide-eyed.

“Oh, yes, all the kids at the preschool will be talking!” Moira said, ruffling her nieces’ hair. Brian was almost a Mini-Me of her brother, with his hazel eyes and deep auburn hair. The girls had acquired their mother’s soft true-blond hair and huge blue eyes. Leave it to Patrick. They were wonderful children, well-behaved without being timid, full of personality and love. Chalk that all up to Siobhan, Moira thought. Her sister-in-law was a doll. Patrick…well, as Granny Jon had once said, he could fall into a mire of cow dung and come up smelling like roses. She adored her brother, of course. She just wished he didn’t manage to go his own way all the time and still wind up appearing to be the perfect child on every occasion. He should have been a politician. Maybe he would be one day. He’d gotten his law degree and now practiced in a tiny town in western Massachusetts, where he also owned land, kept horses and a few farm animals and still maintained a home that always seemed as beautifully kept as something out of Architectural Digest. Business frequently brought him to Boston, where, naturally, he always stopped in to see his parents.

Her brother had married well, she decided. She knew Siobhan, née O’Malley, had taken a chance with Patrick after his wild days in high school, but apparently the chance had paid off. They both seemed happy and still, after ten years of marriage, deeply in love.

“Cool, cool, cool, Auntie Mo!” Shannon repeated.

“Cool. I like that. Good American slang term,” Moira said seriously.

Her mother let out a tsking sound. “Now, Moira, if you can’t hold on to a few traditions…”

“Mum! I adore tradition,” she said.

“And you, you little leprechauns!” Katy chastised the children. “It’s nearly nine. You’re supposed to be asleep now. You’ve gotten to see Auntie Mo, now back in bed.”

“Ah, Nana K!” Brian protested.

“I’ll not have your mother telling me I can’t handle her poppets in my old age,” Katy said. “’Tis back in bed with you. Off now.”

“Wait! I’ll take full responsibility! One more hug each,” Moira said. The girls giggled; Brian was more serious. She kissed their cheeks, hugged them tightly one more time.

“Auntie Mo has to go down and see your father—and Granda,” Katy said. “Besides, she’ll be here for the week, like the lot o’ you. And she’s promised to get you on the telly, so you’ll be needing your sleep.”

Brian nodded seriously.

“We don’t want bags under your eyes,” Moira teased, then winked. Brian’s lips twitched in a smile, and he gave his grandmother a rueful glance. “And,” she added, “I have presents for all three of you. So if you go back to bed right now, you’ll get them first thing when I see you in the morning,” she promised.

“Presents?” Molly said happily.

“One apiece!” Moira said, laughing. “Now, like Granny Katy has told you, back off to bed! And sound asleep. Or the Auntie Mo fairy—just like Santa and the tooth fairy—will know that you’ve been awake, and no present beside the teacup in the morning!”

Her mother gazed at her and rolled her eyes. Moira grimaced, then laughed.

“Night, Auntie Mo,” Brian said. “Come on, girls.” He led them toward the bedrooms.

Molly tugged on his hand and stopped him. “Granny Jon,” she said seriously. “There aren’t really any banshees around tonight, are there?”

“Not a one,” Granny Jon said.

“No monsters at all!” Brian said firmly.

“Not in this house! I’ll see to it. I’m as mean as any old banshee,” Granny Jon said, her eyes alight.

The kids called good-night again and went traipsing off down the hall. Moira rose and stared at her grandmother sternly. “Now, have you been telling tales again?”

“Not on your life! They spent the day watching ‘Darby O’Gill and the Little People.’ I’m entirely innocent,” her grandmother protested with a laugh. “And you, young lady, you’d best get downstairs to the pub. Your father will be heartbroken if he hears you’ve been here all this time and haven’t been to give him a hug.”

“Patrick, Siobhan and Colleen are down there?” Moira asked.

“Siobhan’s off to see her folks, but your brother and sister are both downstairs,” Katy said. “Get along with you.”

“Wait, wait, let her have a sip of her tea before they ply her with alcohol,” Granny Jon protested, bringing a cup to Moira. Moira thanked her with a quick smile. No one made tea like Granny Jon. Not cold, not scalding. A touch of sugar. Never like syrup, and never bitter.

“It’s delicious, Granny Jon,” Moira said.

“Then swallow it down and be gone with you,” her mother said.

She gulped the tea—grateful that it wasn’t scalding.

“I’ll put your bag in your room—give me your coat, Moira Kathleen,” Katy said. “Take the inside stairs down. You know your father will be behind the bar.”

“I’ll be rescuing the teacup,” Granny Jon said dryly.

Moira slid obediently out of her coat and handed it to her mother. “I’ll take my bag, Mum. It’s heavy.”

“Away with you, I can handle a mite of luggage.”

“All right, all right, I’m going. ‘So happy you’re here, now get out,”’ she teased her mother.

“’Tis just your father, girl,” Katy protested.

“How is he?” she asked anxiously.

Her mother’s smile was the best answer she could have received. “His tests came out well, but he was told that he must come in without fail for a checkup every six months.”

“He’s working too hard,” Moira murmured.

“Well, now, that was my thought, but the doctors say that work is good for a man, and sitting around and getting no exercise is not. So he got all the permission he needed to keep right on running his pub, though the Lord knows, he has able help.”

“I’m going down right now to see him.”

Her mother nodded, pleased.

Moira gave both her mother and grandmother another kiss, then started through the foyer to the left; there was a little sitting room there, and a spiral staircase that led down to a door at the foot of the stairs that opened to the office and storage space behind the polished oak expanse of the bar, where she would find the rest of her family—and all the mixed emotions that coming home entailed.

3

As soon as she opened the door, Moira could hear the chatter in the bar and the sounds of the band. She groaned inwardly. Blackbird was doing a speeded up number from the Brendan Behan play The Hostage.

“Great,” she muttered aloud. “They’re all toasting the Republic already.”

She slipped in, walked through the office and the swinging doors, and saw her father’s back. Eamon Kelly was a tall, broad-shouldered man with graying hair that had once been close to a true, luxurious black. Though he was pouring a draft, she sneaked up behind him, winding her arms around his waist. “Hey, Dad,” she said softly.

“Moira Kathleen!” he cried, spilling a bit of draft as he set the glass down, spun around and picked her up by the waist. He lifted her high, and she kissed his cheek, quickly protesting his hold, worried about his heart.

“Dad, put me down!” She laughed.

He shook his head, beautiful blue eyes on her. “Now when the day comes that I cannot lift my girl, that will be a sad day indeed!”

“Put me down,” she said again, still laughing, “because I feel as if everyone in the pub is looking at me!”

“And why not? Me daughter has come home!”

“You’ve got another daughter in her—”

“And I’ve already made quite a spectacle of Colleen, I have. Now it’s your turn!”

She managed to regain her footing, then hugged him fiercely again.

“You know the boys at the bar, eh, daughter? Seamus and Liam, Sal Corderi, the Italian here, Sandy O’Connor down there, his wife, Sue—”

“Hello!” Moira called to them all.

“Well, now, I’d be taking a hug and a kiss,” Seamus told her.

“And you’d not leave me out!” Liam protested.

“One more for Dad, then I’ll come around the bar,” she said, holding her father closely to her once again. “Are you supposed to be working this hard?” she asked him softly.

“Ah, now, pouring a draft isn’t hard work,” he told her. Then he pulled back and frowned. “And you, did you fly in alone?”

She smiled. “Dad, I live and work in New York City. I travel all over the country.”

“But there’s usually someone with you.”

Puzzled, Moira shook her head. “I took a cab to the airport, got on a plane, then took a cab here.”

“Boston’s not the safest city in the world these days,” Liam said. Moira noted that he and Seamus had a newspaper spread out between them at the bar.

“I don’t think it’s ever been crime free,” Moira said lightly. “No major metropolis goes without crime. That’s why you raised intelligent, streetwise children, Dad.”

“He’s thinking about the girl,” Liam told her.

Moira frowned. “What girl?”

“A prostitute found in the river,” Seamus said.

“Dead,” Liam added sadly.

“Strangled,” Seamus finished with sorrowful drama.

She looked at her father, finding the situation sad, as well, but wondering why this news should suddenly make him worried about her. “Dad, I promise you, I haven’t taken up the world’s oldest profession as a sideline.”

He shrugged. “Now, Moira—”

“He’s afraid there might be a serial killer in the city,” Liam said, shaking his head. “Apparently the woman plied her trade around the hotel and attracted men of means. Therefore, you see, any lovely lass might be a target. But we’re not here to get you down, Moira, girl. There are fine things happening as well. Let’s look to the good news! We’re getting one of the most important politicians in Northern Ireland for our very own Saint Patrick’s Day parade. Mr. Jacob Brolin is coming here, right to Boston, can you imagine?”

“Oh?” Moira murmured, afraid to say more. Josh, who hailed from the deep South, had told her about a round table he had attended where men still sat together, engaging in deep and sometimes passionate discussions regarding the American Civil War. Josh was an American history buff. At Kelly’s, too, often they relived battles—and the fighting that had eventually led to the Irish Free State and the Republic of Ireland. They drank to the Easter Rebellion solemnly, bemoaning the fate of the freedom fighters executed after the surrender. They argued the strategies of the leaders, they spoke for and against the hero Michael Collins and ripped apart Eamon De Valera, the American-born first president of the Irish Republic. Of course, it always came back to the same thing: if only, from the very beginning, the island had been recognized as one nation—an Irish nation—they would never have had The Troubles that followed. She personally felt rather sorry for Michael Collins. He’d risked his life time and again, devoted himself wholeheartedly to the cause, managed the first true liberation of any of his people, and, in the end, been killed by a faction of his own people for not managing to take the entire island at once.

“Aye, a fine man, this Jacob Brolin,” her father said, brightening. “Why, the flyers are out at the front entry, daughter. We’re privileged, we are. You ought to know this already.”

She tried to keep quiet, but she couldn’t. She shook her head. “Dad, you’ll all have to excuse me if I think that violence against anyone is horrible and if I don’t know every move made in a foreign country regarding the hoped-for union of an island nation. You all can dream of a united Ireland, but I’m sorry if I think that bombing innocent people is beyond despicable. I have friends who are English who have no desire to hurt anyone Irish—”

“Why, Moira Kathleen Kelly! I have good Englishmen in here all the time,” her father said indignantly. “Englishmen, Scotsmen, Australians, Cornishmen, Welsh and a good helping of our close friends the Canadians, not to mention Mexicans, French, Spanish—”

“And excuse me, but have you forgotten your truly closest friends in Boston? The Italians, naturally. To the Italians! Salute!” Sal said, smiling, meeting Moira’s gaze and winking in his attempt to defuse the argument.

“God, yes, the Italians! Salute!” Moira said.

“To the Italians!”

The men at the bar were always happy to toast to anyone and everyone.

It did nothing, however, to change the gist of the conversation.

“Moira, you would admire this man Jacob Brolin,” Seamus said earnestly. “He’s a pacifist, working for the rights of every last man in Northern Ireland. He’s arranged social events where all attend; he’s worked hard for the downtrodden and poor and he’s loved by Orangemen and Catholics alike. There’s seldom been so fine and fair a man to reach a position of power.”

Moira let out a long breath, feeling a bit foolish. All she’d wanted was to get everyone off the subject. Instead, she’d nearly created a passionate argument herself.

“Well, then, I’m thrilled that this man is coming to our country, to our city—”

“You’ll want him on your program,” Seamus said.

“Aye, and then maybe we’ll all get to meet him,” Liam agreed.

“Well, we’ll see,” Moira murmured. “We planned on asking Mum to make a traditional Irish meal, tell leprechaun stories, things like that.”

“Aye, but you’ll want the parade on your show,” her father insisted.

“Moira?”

She had seldom been so relieved to hear her name called. She spun around, delighted to see her younger sister, Colleen, coming to her, threading her way through the crowd.

They’d fought like cats and dogs as children, but now Colleen was incredibly dear to her. Her sister was beautiful, Moira’s height, with red hair a far softer shade than Moira’s deep auburn. She had Granny Jon’s hazel eyes and a face of sheer light and beauty. She had been living in Los Angeles for the last two years, to their parents’ great dismay. But she had been hired as the lead model for a burgeoning new cosmetics line, and though they were disconsolate that she spent so much time so far away, they were also as proud as it was possible to be. Her face was appearing in magazines across the country.

Colleen hugged her. “When did you get in?”

“Thirty minutes ago. You?”

“Earlier this afternoon. Have you seen Patrick yet?”

“No, but he’s down here, right?”

“With the band. Along with Danny.”

Moira jerked her head around. She’d heard the band playing since she’d come in, but Jeff Dolan had been doing the singing—she’d heard Jeff play and sing at least a third of her life, and she knew the sound of his voice like the back of her hand. Now she saw that her brother was indeed up with the group, playing bass guitar.

And Danny was there, as well, sitting in for the drummer this time. As if he had known the exact moment she would look his way, he suddenly stared across the room, meeting her eyes.

He smiled slowly. Just a slight curl of his lips. He didn’t miss a beat on the drums. Ah, yes, Moira, love, I’m here. Was that part of his appeal? The slow grin that could slip into a soul, amber eyes that seemed always to be a bit mocking, and a bit rueful, as well? She tried to stare at him analytically. He was a tall man, which seemed oddly apparent even as he sat behind the drums. His hair, a sandy shade that still carried a hint of red, was perpetually unruly, an annoyance to him when it fell low on his brow, but somehow rakish and sensual to the female gender.

His shoulders, she assured herself, were not as broad as Michael’s. Michael was quintessentially tall, dark and handsome. And more. He was decent. Kind, entertaining, courteous and concerned with the well-being of those around him. When she’d first met Michael, right after the Christmas holidays, she’d thought he was definitely appealing, sexy. Then she’d thought he was intelligent, bright and witty. Then she’d started becoming emotionally involved with him. But with Danny…

He had just been there. A whirlwind in her life, coming and going, visiting her folks with his uncle when he’d been young, coming on his own once he’d turned eighteen. He was Patrick’s age, three years older than she was, and he’d been someone she’d adored when she’d been ten and he’d been thirteen, the first time he had arrived. He’d come back when she was fourteen, fifteen, sixteen and then eighteen, and it had been that year when she’d realized there was nothing in the world that she wanted as badly as she wanted Dan O’Hara. Maybe he’d resisted at first. He’d just graduated from college with a degree in journalism. He had a passion to write; to change the world, and she was still wet behind the ears, not to mention the fact that she was also the child of his good American friends. So she’d set out to have what she wanted. She was enthralled, in awe, and being with him changed none of that. Neither did it change Danny. He’d told her that he was bad for her, that she was young, that she needed to see the world, know the world. And still, year after year, she had waited, going to school, loving the learning, looking, always looking, hoping for someone who could make her forget Danny was in the world somewhere. Danny, with his passion and, always, a level of energy about him that was electric. She knew that he cared for her; perhaps in his way he loved her. Just not as much as he loved the rest of the world—or at least his precious Ireland. As she’d gotten older, she’d begun to understand him in a way. She was an American, and she loved being an American. And she had her own dreams and aspirations. They weren’t meant to be together, but that had never stopped her from wanting him.

But now she had found someone. Michael. She inhaled deeply, forced a casual smile. So you’re here, Danny. Good for you, nice to see you. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a great life that I’m living….

She meant to turn away, but Danny’s smile deepened as the number ended, and in the midst of the applause, she saw him lean over to whisper to Jeff Dolan and her brother.

“Oh, no,” Colleen breathed. “They’ve seen us together.”

“So what?” Moira whispered.

“I said I wouldn’t sing until you showed up.”

“Colleen!” Moira protested.

“Hey, folks, we’ve got a special performance for you this evening,” Jeff announced over the mike. “The prodigal daughters have returned for Saint Patrick’s Day. We’re going to get them both up here for a special number in honor of all the Irish in America—and remember, on Saint Patrick’s Day, all Americans are a wee bit Irish!”

“Daughters, go on now,” Eamon said proudly.

“Come on up, Kelly girls,” Jeff said, encouraging them determinedly. “Ladies and gentlemen, a real treat. The Kelly girls. No one can do a rendition of ‘Danny Boy’ with quite such melodious Irish beauty.”

“What do we do?” Colleen whispered. “I can’t believe they’re doing this to us. I haven’t even heard the song in ages.”

“Um. Not since the last time we were here,” Moira said dryly. “I guess we go up there. We can’t hurt Dad.”

Danny had instigated this. She knew it. She walked toward Jeff, trying to ignore Danny with casual negligence as she took the mike. “Irish-American melodious beauty,” she said, smiling at Jeff and apologizing to the patrons in the pub. “No guarantees, but we’ll do our best.”

The first strains of the violin brought a sigh from the crowd. Moira reflected briefly that, with this particular audience, she and Colleen could have sung like two crows and sentiment alone would have evoked wild applause. But she did love the song, and she and Colleen had done it together since the Saint Pat’s program at church when they had been in grammar school. Her sister’s voice harmonized perfectly with hers. They might not have produced the most melodious Irish beauty ever, but they did the song proud. She loved the music. There was a magic to it, to being home, to singing with Colleen…and even in knowing that Daniel O’Hara was playing a soft beat on the drums behind her.

Naturally the crowd went wild when they ended the tune. Of course, here, it was singing to a group of proud relatives. Moira smiled along with Colleen, thanking those who called out compliments. She felt an arm around her, and before she could completely stiffen, she realized it was her brother.

“Patrick, hey.” She hugged him.

“What about me?” Jeff protested.

Jeff Dolan looked like a latter day hippie. She gave him a hug and a kiss. Jeff had put himself through the wringer. On drugs, off drugs, politically wild—protesting everything from toxic waste to government spending. He’d survived. Cleaned up. He was still an activist, but one with temperance and vision. At least, she hoped so. She gave him a warm hug, along with the three other regulars, Sean, Peter and the odd man out, Ira, an Israeli.

“Did you notice me back here?” Danny asked her. “Or am I supposed to line up?”

“Danny,” she murmured, trying to sound as if missing him was an oversight. She kissed his cheek perfunctorily. “How could anyone ever forget you?”

He grinned, catching her after the kiss, hugging her tightly and planting a kiss firmly on her lips. She escaped his touch as quickly as possible. It was far too easy to underestimate Danny. The quick strength with which he held her belied the lean appearance his height afforded him. Energy always seemed to radiate from Danny. In a flash of time, she felt as if her flesh burned.

“Good to see you, Danny,” she murmured.

“Something light, fellows,” Jeff instructed the band members.

“‘Rosie O’Grady,”’ Ira suggested.

Stepping from the stage, Moira looked across the room to the bar—and froze. Josh and Michael were in the pub, standing behind the taps near her father.

They had arrived far earlier than she had anticipated.

Josh had a camera running. Michael was still applauding, meeting her eyes, a sparkle in his. She wasn’t sure why, but she felt as if she had been caught off guard. She was irritated with Josh, filming her unaware, and yet warmed by Michael’s presence and his never faltering support. She also wondered if Danny, pounding out a new beat, was aware that Josh had arrived with another man. She was sure that he had noticed; Danny always seemed to be aware of what was happening around him. And certainly, since Danny had apparently been there awhile, he had spoken with her parents and knew there was a man in her life.

She wasn’t given to effusive public demonstrations, but she smiled at Michael and hurried across the room, leaning past a bar stool to give him a welcoming, openmouthed kiss. Very emotional, she thought. And perfectly natural, despite the sound of her father clearing his throat. She hadn’t seen Michael in a while. He’d been traveling, making connections, when she’d made the decision to come here for Saint Patrick’s Day.

“Beautiful, babe,” he said softly.

“Thanks.”

“Very nice,” Josh agreed.

She gritted her teeth, wondering why she was so irritated with Josh for taping the performance and wondering just how much of it he had captured on camera. Why was she angry? This was the centerpiece of their planned coverage: an Irish pub in America. She was a performer; she was on a show almost every day of her life, vulnerable to criticism and ridicule. Part of the game. But this…

This was her personal life. Danny had kissed her on stage.

An old friend, that was all.

And she herself had opened this can of worms.

She lowered her head, counting for a minute.

Her smile was still forced when she looked at Josh. “Josh, you know my dad. And, Dad, I guess Josh has introduced you to Michael…. I didn’t know they’d be arriving so early.”

“I did all the introductions,” Josh said.

“Great. When did you arrive?” she asked him.

He arched a brow, knowing her well, and noting the tone of her voice when no one else did. “In time to tape the whole thing,” Josh told her.

“You know your partner,” Eamon said, making an attempt to speak lightly. She grimaced inwardly, aware that her father was a bit put out that she had greeted a man he had just met with such public affection.

“It was terrific,” Josh said, determined to show her that he was amused by her restrained annoyance. “A real demonstration of the diversity of Americana. You’ll like it—trust me.”

“How did you two manage get here so early?” she queried.

Michael slipped an arm around her, grinning. He had a terrific smile. Dimples. A square face that still offered a fine bone structure and a strong chin. He was tall, well-built, as gorgeous as usual in a handsome business suit. She loved the aftershave he used. Everything about him was perfect—perfect for her. She knew her own mind and who she should be with.

As long as Michael was there. As long as he stood beside her.

“Josh gave me a call at the hotel and said you’d left already, so he managed to get us on an earlier flight, as well,” Michael said. “I met him at the airport, then we came straight here.”

“Wonderful,” she murmured

“I can tell you’re thrilled,” Josh teased.

“I like to know when on I’m on camera,” she said.

“Well, there, then, that’s the beauty of it, eh?” Liam chimed in. Her father’s cronies never seemed to think that there might be a conversation in which they weren’t included. “You’re doing a real live Saint Paddy’s Day show, me darling, and what’s better than a picture of you and your sister singing ‘Danny Boy’ at home? It was lovely, girl, lovely.”

“Thank you, Liam.”

“Your nose isn’t a-shinin’ or anything, Moira Kathleen,” Seamus added.

“Thanks, guys, thanks so much,” she said softly, and her words were genuine. The men were all sincerity, her true supporters. “Dad, I think I’ll take Michael up to meet Mum—”

“Aye, daughter, don’t be a’ leaving me now! The place is getting busy. Come back here and give your old man a hand.”

“Colleen—”

“Now, do you see your sister? She’s escaped somehow.”

“I’ll take Michael up to meet your mother and Granny Jon,” Josh volunteered cheerfully.

She tried to skewer him with her eyes.

Michael looked at her with a rueful smile and a shrug, his countenance assuring her that he totally understood her situation. “I’ll be fine with Josh.”

“Be prepared for strong tea,” she warned him, walking around the bar to join her father.

He caught her hands and whispered softly, “Save those kisses for later. Maybe at the hotel—after pub hours? Totally discreetly, of course,” he teased, his eyes rolling. “I don’t want your father hating me before he gets to know me.”

“Just make sure he knows your family is Irish. He’ll love you,” she whispered.

“Come on, Michael,” Josh said. “I’ll show you the back way.”

As Josh brushed by Moira, she caught his arm and hissed at him. “Just you wait! See if I ever baby-sit again.”

“Turning coward on me now, are you, Moira Kathleen?” he teased. “Sorry, kid, face this den of lions yourself. Or is it only one lion that frightens you?”

With that, he was gone, leading Michael behind the office and storeroom to show him the stairs.

“Bastard,” she muttered.

“You don’t mean me, do you, Moira Kathleen?”

She spun around. She should have known that Dan O’Hara had joined her behind the bar. He wore his distinctive brand of aftershave. She should have felt him there, next to her, helping himself to a beer from the tap.

“Does it fit?” she inquired sweetly.

He didn’t respond, just drank deeply and looked her up and down. “Maybe it does,” he said at last, with a casual shrug. “You’re looking quite the sophisticated lady. Lovely, as usual.”

“Thank you so much.”

“Work is good?”

“Wonderful. And you? Stirring up strife and rebellion, as usual?”

“Ah, now, my weapon, if I have one, is the pen, you know. Or the computer, these days.”

“Whatever.”

“You never understood me, love.”

“I think I understood enough.”

He leaned against the bar next to her. Too close. “You need to spend time with me, Moira.”

“Can’t, this trip. Sorry, I’m in love.”

“Ah, yes, with perfect Michael.”

“He’s quite wonderful, really.”

“As good as me?”

She was surprised to find herself moving closer to him, eyes slightly narrowed. “Better. So damned good, in fact, that it was only my father’s presence that kept me from full-fledged sex on the bar.”

To her annoyance, he started to laugh.

“I’m so glad I always amuse you.”

He shook his head, sobering. “Sorry. It’s just that…well, if he were that good, you wouldn’t have felt the need to tell me.”

She straightened, staring at him with all the cool dignity with which she could cloak herself. “No, no, it’s different this time. Sure there were those years when I just hopped from man to man, affair to affair, my heart bleeding for you, but things change. Now I’m in love.”

“Sure you are. And like hell you hopped from man to man. You want a dossier on a man before you go to dinner with him.”

She turned, clearing away empty glasses. “Things change, your ego doesn’t. Did you really think you were the only man who ever made me happy and fulfilled?”

She was surprised at the seriousness with which he spoke. “I didn’t think I could ever make you happy, and that’s why I never stayed,” he said. His tone changed instantly, so that she thought she might have imagined the strange passion in his first comment. “Now, as to the fulfilled part…come see me. I understand the love of your life travels all the time, as well. On your business, of course, but still…I’ll be just down here, right in ye olde guest quarters, for the next few days. Come see me when you admit to yourself that it’s exactly what you want to do.”

He tipped an imaginary hat to her and started around the bar.

“That will be a freezing day in hell, Danny boy,” she called softly after him.

She couldn’t see his face as he left her, but she thought she saw his shoulders shaking slightly.

He was laughing.

He stopped, suddenly and came back to her, leaning against the bar. “A freezing day in hell before you admit it—or before you do it?” he asked.

She didn’t respond fast enough.

“I feel a chill coming on,” he said softly, and once again turned to thread his way through the crowd and head for the stage.

This time, he didn’t turn back.

She was tempted to throw a glass.

Is it only one lion that frightens you?

Josh’s words came back to haunt her. She wasn’t frightened, she was furious. And she was furious because…

Because she was afraid of lions. Or at least…

One lion.

Yet, turning to look at that lion, she realized he wasn’t looking at her. Danny was playing the drums again, apparently enjoying his time with the band. His interest seemed to be totally on the task at hand.

Yet when he looked up, she got the sense that he was watching the room. Not casually. It was as if he was looking for something, or someone, in particular.

Moira looked around. The room had gotten busy. Couples, nine-to-fivers easing down after work, the old crowd at the bar, a few loners at tables. One man alone, in a casual suit, sitting at a table in the far corner. Business traveler, probably.

Everyone seemed as ordinary as ever.

So just who was Danny looking for?

Josh’s word flitted through her mind again.

Lions.

That was it. Danny was watching the room like a lion. Lying in the sun. Tail twitching. Calculating. Watching…

As if he could spring into action at any moment. She couldn’t help but wonder, just what prey was Danny watching?

Strangely, she felt a sense of fear. As if something near and dear to her was somehow being threatened.

She turned to a man at the bar who had asked her for something, determined then to shake her feelings. It was Danny doing this to her, damn him.

Just Danny.

4

Surprisingly, it turned into a very nice night.

Michael and Josh returned to the bar after having tea with her mother and grandmother. Josh was happy; he had spoken to his wife, who was coming up with the babies the next day. Michael had looked in on her nieces and nephews as they slept and insisted on telling her just how adorable they were, as if she didn’t know that already. That always sat well with her. Love me, love my dog, she realized. She didn’t have a dog, but the same thought applied. She might be a bit wary of her family, but she did take tremendous pride in them, and she couldn’t help but be pleased that Michael seemed to be fitting in so well.

He really was wonderful. He got behind the bar for a while. He chatted with her dad’s friends as if he had known them all his life. He had a conversation with Patrick regarding a group of Americans that was forming to support Irish orphans and provide scholarships for those, Protestant and Catholic, who were of college age and had lost their parents through natural causes or violent events.

He was amazing.

She smiled at him across the bar at one point, hoping that he could sense what she was thinking.

At last it came time for Kelly’s Pub to close. The band stopped, and the last of the customers, the old-timers, departed. She was wiping down the bar when she felt Danny behind her. This time she knew he was there before he spoke. “You’ve not introduced me to the new love of your life, Moira,” he murmured.

“Oh, really? Imagine that—and when I’ve seen so much of you, too.”

“I’ve been playing hard, all for the good of the cause,” he said softly.

“Don’t even use the word ‘cause’ near me, Daniel O’Hara,” she said, voice lowered.

“Moira, it’s just an innocent word,” he said, amused.

Michael was walking toward her, a bulwark against this thorn in her side.

“Here he comes. So you get to meet him,” she said softly. “There you are, Michael,” she said in a normal tone, dropping her bar rag and walking toward Michael to slip an arm around him. He hugged her back. She gave him an adoring gaze, then pretended to realize that, oh, yes, Danny, an old friend, was standing there. “Dan O’Hara, Michael McLean. Michael’s working with us as an associate producer and locations manager,” Moira said.

Michael, smiling, stretched out his right hand to shake Danny’s. His left arm remained around Moira’s shoulder. “I hope I’m a lot more than that,” he said ruefully. “Dan O’Hara, it’s nice to meet you. I understand you’re an old family friend.”

“Oh, much more than that,” Danny said lightly. “A pleasure to meet you, too, Michael McLean. If I can be of any assistance while you’re in the city, please don’t hesitate.”

“An Irishman who knows Boston so well?” Michael said.

“My home away from home,” Danny said.

“He’s a citizen of the world,” Moira’s father announced, joining them and throwing an arm around Danny. “We’re about to close up the place, Moira Kathleen. And if you’ve such a busy workload tomorrow, perhaps your friends should get on to their hotel rooms.”

“Moira, are you coming back with us for a while? Check out what we’ve done with the scheduling?” Michael asked. His voice was all innocence; after all, her father was standing there.

Moira was determined, under Danny’s watchful eye, to say yes and to say it with enthusiasm. But before she could open her mouth, her father was speaking.

“Ah, daughter, not tonight. Please, don’t be going out on the streets tonight.”

“Dad, I’m not going far. Just over to the Copley.”

“It’s late.”

“Dad…”

“They’ve just found that poor girl’s body.”

“Dad, I’m as disturbed as you are about the murder, but I’m not going out soliciting—”

“Moira Kathleen! It’s the hour. And what makes you think the innocent are less likely than the sinners to be harmed?”

“She may not have been a sinner. She might have just been trying to get by,” Moira told her father, then wondered why she was arguing the point.

“Moira, perhaps your dad is right. It’s very late, and it’s your first night home,” Michael said. His eyes spoke his regret, but it made her happy that once again he was trying to make everything work with her family. That kind of attitude meant that they were in it for the long haul.

“All right, it is late,” Moira said. “I’ll see you in the morning,” she told Michael. She stood on tiptoe to give him a kiss good-night. He smelled good, she thought. The texture of his jacket was nice against her hands. I really do care about this man, she thought. He’s handsome, sexy and so much more. Solid, decent, confident, exciting.

“Girl, he’s leaving for the night, not the millennium,” her father said with a soft sigh.

She laughed, letting go of Michael. She gave Josh a kiss on the cheek. “You two be careful going back to the hotel.”

“We’ll be fine,” Josh assured her.

They both bade her father and Danny good-night, and she walked them to the door of the pub, catching Michael’s scarf to stop him after the men had donned their coats and kissing him one last time.

“Well, it’s about all done,” her father said when the door had closed. “You go to bed, Moira Kathleen, and Dan and I will finish up here.”

“No, Dad, I’m home tonight. You go up to bed and get some rest. I think you’re supposed to be resting far more than you are.”

“If a man stops working, he stops moving, and it’s all over after that,” Eamon said, shaking his head.

“Dad, I’m here, safe and sound in the house, and it won’t hurt you to go to bed this one night,” she insisted. She made a mental note to have a long talk with her mother. Kelly’s was open every day of the week. Eamon employed good people, but he had a tendency to make his business a very personal affair, and she was sure he let his work put too much strain on him.

“Well, then, fine. Tonight you and Danny can pick up the slack for the old man,” he told her, winking.

He pulled her to him, giving her a strong, fierce hug once again and kissing the top of her head. “Love you, girl, that I do,” he said, a husky timbre to his voice.

“You, too, Dad. Now get up to bed. You’ve got a full house tonight.”

“Aye, but I’ve a sainted mother, who puts up with everything and manages a house like the best of construction foremen. Aye, she’s a rough taskmaster, that one,” he said. “Good night, Moira, and, Danny, see that she gets up to bed soon herself.”

“That I will, Eamon,” Danny assured him.

As her father headed for the inner stairway, Moira walked to the bar. There were only a few glasses still sitting out and the beautiful old bar to be wiped down. The place had been a tavern in colonial days, and the bar was several hundred years old. She had always loved it and loved the sense of history she felt when wiping it down.

Danny checked the door to the street, making sure it was locked, then walked to where she was cleaning. He leaned against the bar, his eyes sparkling as he looked at her.

“I believe you’re supposed to be working with me,” she told him, not looking up from her task.

He shrugged. “You shouldn’t be dating him, you know.”

Moira didn’t stop wiping the polished wood of the bar. She forced Danny to move an elbow.

“You’re listening to me, love, and we both know it,” he said, leaning against the wood once again. “You shouldn’t be dating him.”

“Oh?” she said, staring at him, surprised to find that the amusement had left his eyes. “And why not? Because you’ve decided to grace us with a visit?”

“No, not because of me at all.”

“Why, then?”

“He has beady eyes.”

“Beady eyes?”

“Dangerous eyes.”

“Dangerous eyes? Well, how lovely. How wonderfully exciting—and sexy. I hadn’t realized just how much Michael has to offer.”

“You should have married Josh. Now there’s a good fellow, and safe.”

Moira took up scrubbing the perfectly clean bar once again. “Now that will be great for Josh’s ego—you calling him safe.”

“What? A man doesn’t want to be dependable and safe?”

Moira sighed deeply. “I don’t know, Danny, you’d have to answer that one. Have you ever been dependable—or safe?”

“As dependable as a rock.”

“A rock that skips all over the place.”

He shrugged. “I love the United States. I was born in Ireland. That creates a divided heart, you know.”

“I read somewhere the other day that there are far more Irish in America than there are in Ireland.”

“Are you asking me to move here permanently?” he queried.

“I’m merely informing you that since you seemed beguiled into coming to the States time and time again, you might want to consider immigration.”

“If I did, would you put a cease and desist on the fellow with the beady eyes?”

“No. And please, get going, grab those glasses and get them washed. I want to go up to bed.”

“Ah, now, was that an invitation? In your father’s house? Moira Kelly!”

“That was definitely not an invitation. What are you doing here now, anyway? Shouldn’t you be at home celebrating Saint Patrick’s Day?”

“I’m visiting old friends,” he said.

“Don’t you have any friends in Ireland who need to be visited?”

“All over the island. I wanted to be here.”

“Why? Will you be preaching to the Americans again? Do you have a new book out? All about the imperialism of the English and how the entire world should just stop whatever else it’s doing and force the unification of Ireland?”

He arched a brow. “That’s a rather biased way of seeing the situation—and me.”

“Oh, I agree, but isn’t it your way of seeing it?”

“No, not at all. I think you’ve mixed up a bit of personal resentment with logical judgment. I was never a fire starter. I never claimed to have all the answers, and I don’t begin to claim to have them now. You’re American, right? You do insist that everyone knows that all the time.”

“I am an American. I was born here.”

“Okay, so you’re first generation. The ‘English’ in Northern Ireland have been there a much longer time. Centuries, for some families. The difficulties are easy to see. For so many centuries, the Irish people were reduced to second-class citizens in their own country. The English, the Protestants, had the power and the money, and vicious hatreds have been inbred into the people. But what to do now…well, that’s a very difficult question. In my mind, there has to be a reconciliation between the people there themselves, and only then can you ever have a united Ireland.”

She stopped and stared at him. “You think that one morning all the people in Northern Ireland are going to wake up and say, ‘Hey, this whole thing has been ridiculous, let’s just get on with each other’?”

“Things have been much better in the last ten years or so,” he told her.

“Danny, I watched you speak once, after your first book was published, and your talk was about ancient history and all the wars the Irish have fought.”

“I was young then, but you never heard me suggest that there was an easy solution, or that anyone should take up arms against anyone else. Yes, I was a student of Irish history, from the Tuath de Danaan to the Easter Rebellion and beyond, and in the middle of trying to decipher how such a mess between people came about, I discovered I loved both writing and speaking. I hope I’m not quite the total ham I was as a very young man, but I still love to lecture. Especially to Irish Americans. But never about taking up arms. You should know that about me.”

“Danny, you know what? I don’t know you, or anything about you, any more. I probably never knew you. But I am an American. And I deplore violence no matter what.”

“You haven’t been listening to me. What do you think I’m about? Carrying an Uzi in the street?”

“I just told you, I don’t know. And I don’t care. I’m American to the bone, and we have enough of our own problems in this country. I’m going to bed. Good night. Finish up the glasses, since you told my father you were going to help.”

She headed for the winding stairs to the house.

“Moira.”

“What?” She stopped. At first she didn’t turn around, but held still, her shoulders stiff. At last she turned to face him. “What?” she repeated.

“You do know me. Deep inside, you do know me.”

“Great. Good night.”

“I’m still your friend. Whether you know it or not. And here’s a friendly warning. Watch out for men with beady eyes.”

“Michael has beautiful eyes.”

“Beautiful? If you say so. Rather hard for me to tell. So okay, beautiful, if you insist, but still beady.”

She sighed with impatience. “Good night, Danny.”

“Good night, Moira.”

As she started up the stairs, she could hear the clink of glasses. She hurried to her home above the pub and quickly locked the door at the top of the stairs.

The house was very quiet. Down the hallway, all the bedroom doors were closed. Her parents had taken Patrick’s old room and given him and Siobhan the master bedroom, with the little nursery off it for the kids, Brian happily taking possession of the air mattress. She had offered to sleep with Colleen, so the children could have her room and her parents could stay in theirs, or to take a room at the Copley with the rest of her crew, but her parents had wanted no part of that. They were too happy just to have their family together. Their children, their grandchildren and Siobhan, whom they loved like a daughter.

She hadn’t seen her sister-in-law yet, she thought. Unusual. Siobhan had gone to visit her folks, but it was odd that she hadn’t taken the children or come into the pub when she returned.

Moira passed the master bedroom as she headed for her room. She had nearly reached her door when she was startled to hear the sound of voices. Muffled, low, angry voices. One masculine, one feminine. Obviously her brother and sister-in-law.

“Oh, Christ, Siobhan, get off it!”

Then Siobhan’s voice, so low that Moira couldn’t catch the words.

“I’m not involved in anything.”

Siobhan again, still too soft to hear.

“No, it’s not going to lead to anything else. It’s a cause for children, for God’s sake!”

Siobhan must have spoken, though Moira didn’t even hear her voice.

“Baby, baby, please, believe me, believe in me….”

His voice trailed off. A few seconds later, she heard her parents’ old bed squeak.

Standing alone in the hallway, she flushed so hotly that she felt her face flame. Great. First she’d been standing there eavesdropping on her brother and sister-in-law, and now she was listening to them have sex.

“At least someone is getting some.”

She jumped and almost screamed at the sound of her sister’s soft whisper.

“Colleen,” she managed to say.

Colleen covered a giggle, dragging her down the hall.

“I didn’t even hear your door open,” Moira said.

“I wasn’t in my room. I was on the phone.”

“The phone?”

“It’s only eleven in California.”

“Business at eleven?” Moira asked.

Colleen waved a hand in the air.

“A guy. A new guy, nothing deep or heavy or anything like that. I mean, I wouldn’t crawl all over him in Dad’s own pub in front of Dad the way you did with your Michael tonight.”

“Do you crawl all over him when Dad isn’t around?”

Colleen laughed. “What have you become suddenly? The moral conscience of the family?” she said teasingly.

“I didn’t mean to be eavesdropping. I just…I heard voices on the way to my room.”

“Voices, yeah, right.”

“Seriously, Colleen, they were arguing. And I really didn’t mean to listen.”

“But since you did, you’re about to ask me if I know if anything is wrong between them.”

“Well?”

“Not that I know about. But I just came in today, too. Speaking of which, should we make tea? No, no, way too late, and you’re here working, right? We’ll have to talk tomorrow. I’m dying to hear. He’s good-looking—your Michael, that is. Tall, broad-shouldered. Big feet. And you know what they say about men with big feet.”

“That’s an old wives’ tale.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Damn it, Colleen, what about asking me how the show is going, what’s coming up next—”

“I watch television, and the show is doing just fine. And if I had anything good to tell you, I’d give you all the juicy details.”

“More so than I’d need to know,” Moira agreed.

“I was wondering, with Danny here and all…”

“Danny has nothing to do with anything.”

“Oh, you liar.”

“He’s an old friend.”

“Come on, big sister, your nose will grow,” Colleen warned her. “The heat waves used to bounce off you two. And tonight…it was like one of those static electricity things. Wow, come to think of it, I don’t envy you. Tall, dark and handsome on the one side, wild wicked past with the bad boy of Eire on the other.”

“Colleen, be quiet, will you? Mum and Dad never knew—”

“They’re Catholic, Moira, not stupid. And not even a deaf, dumb and blind female would be immune to Mr. Daniel O’Hara. I think he’s as tall, or maybe taller, than your new love. Hmm. Taut muscles, great buns. Wow, choices, choices, kid.”

“Danny is ancient history, Colleen.”

“Sure he is,” Colleen said skeptically.

“You just said that Michael—”

“Yeah, he’s pretty damn perfect. Great voice. But then again, Danny’s got that wee touch of an accent….”

Moira groaned. “This coming home thing isn’t easy. I expect to be tortured by my parents, but you’re worse than they are.”

“I’m your sister, the only one you’ve got, and you’re supposed to thank Mum and Dad daily for giving you a sister,” Colleen informed her.

“I get that speech, too. But enough about me. What about this guy in California? What’s his name? Is he tall? Big feet? You can check out that anatomy equation for yourself.”

“His name is Chad Storm, and yes, he’s tall.”

“Chad Storm?” Moira rolled her eyes. “Is he an actor? Couldn’t he have made up a better name?”

“He’s a graphic arts designer, and he didn’t make up the name, it’s the one he was born with,” Colleen said indignantly.

“Shush! We’re going to wake up the house.”

“All right, all right, we don’t want our cherubic little rug rats waking up. Patrick and Siobhan will kill us. I mean…well, they’d really kill us! I’m going to bed, and I’ll let you get your beauty rest. But tomorrow I want details. Down and dirty, graphic and—”

“Go to bed, Colleen.”

“You’re going to confess all, you know.”

“Good night, Colleen.”

“Yeah, yeah, good night.” They exchanged a warm, brief hug and started down the long corridor to their doors, opposite one another at the end of the hallway.

As they passed the master bedroom, they could still hear the bed creaking. They looked at one another, burst into laughter and quickly slipped into their own rooms.

Daniel thoughtfully dried the last of the glasses and glanced at the nineteenth-century clock at the rear of the bar.

Nearly two. He’d taken his time picking up the place, feeling distracted and wounded. Tense night. Naturally. Here he was, closing in on Saint Patrick’s Day.

He’d scoured a number of the pubs in the city, learning what he could, watching, always watching.

Just as he was probably being watched himself.

He would keep watching, too. He’d seen the man who had sat by himself at the rear table before. The man wasn’t all that good at what he did. A man came into a pub and interacted if he wanted to go unnoticed. Still, Daniel was convinced that the man he was looking for was going to be someone he had never seen before. Someone who shouldn’t know him, either.

Unless, of course, it turned out to be Patrick.

“You’re slowing down, boy,” he told himself, setting the last glass on the wooden ledge behind the bar. Maybe he hadn’t taken so long. The pub had stayed open late that night.

Kelly’s didn’t always keep the doors open until one, though sometimes, on a Saturday night, the pub was known to be open until two. It all depended on the clientele. On what was happening. The kitchen closed at ten, but if a hungry soul wandered in after that hour, someone could usually be found to scrounge up some food. Kelly’s never changed. From the time Daniel had been little more than a kid, he’d been coming here. Eamon was a good man. A hard worker and a lover of mankind. No harm should ever come to Eamon or anyone in his family.

The phone began to ring. Danny picked it up. “Kelly’s,” he said automatically. Then his fingers tensed around the receiver.

“Kelly’s,” he repeated. He hesitated, then added, “Where Blackbird plays.”

“Blackbird?” a deep-throated, husky voice inquired. Male or female?

“Yes, Blackbird,” he said firmly.

“I—” the caller began, then, “wrong number,” the voice uttered harshly. And that was it.

The line went dead. Not the wrong number, he wanted to shout.

Then he heard a slight clicking sound.

The phone had been answered by someone upstairs, as well. Had the caller paused because two people had answered? He hit star sixty-nine on the phone. The number came up as unavailable.

With a sudden fury, he hurled the rag he’d been using across the bar. He shook his head and, gritting his teeth, opted for a shot of whiskey before bed. He swallowed it in a gulp. Damn, but it burned.

He walked through the office and storeroom to the stairs leading to the home above. At the top, he checked the door. Locked.

In the bar, he suddenly bolted out the front and ran to the side, taking the stairs two at the time. The outside door to the residence was also firmly locked, although anyone with a real intent to get in and a talent for breaking and entering could jimmy the bolts.

He went down the stairs, into the pub, to his allotted room.

He took a hot shower, then slid beneath the sheets and comforter. He flicked on the telly. CNN. The world was in bad shape. Violence flaring in the Middle East. In Eastern Europe, a terrible train wreck, the fault of an antiquated switching system. The weather taking a gruesome toll in South America.

Then the news reporter, who had just given a grim tale regarding flooding in Venezuela, put a smile on her face and began talking about Saint Patrick’s Day. She showed a cheery scene in Dublin, crowds in New York, then a brief interview with the Belfast politician, hailed worldwide, who was en route to Boston to help celebrate with the Boston Irish.

The news continued. Dan stared at the picture on the screen but didn’t hear much more.

It was a very long time before he slept.

5

The house seemed quiet when Moira left her bedroom the following morning. She saw that Colleen was just ahead of her, walking down the hall to the kitchen.

She followed her sister. “Good morning,” she murmured, as they entered the kitchen together. Her mother had evidently been up already; coffee had been brewed in the automatic coffeemaker, and a pot of tea sat on the big kitchen table, as well. Her brother was up, sitting at the table, sipping coffee, reading the newspaper.

“Top o’ the morning to you,” Colleen returned, eyes rolling as she turned them on Patrick. “And you, brother, dear. You’re looking well-rested for a man who spent half the night playing—”

“With the band.” Moira interrupted in horror, amazed that Colleen would make any reference to the fact that they’d been outside his door the previous night. She slid into her old chair at the table and cast Colleen a warning glare.

“Playing with the band,” Colleen repeated. “That’s exactly what I was saying,” she continued, glaring at Moira, eyes wide with innocence and mock indignation.

Moira felt like hell. She hadn’t fallen asleep until three or four. And then, perhaps out of force of habit, she’d found herself wide awake and unable to pound her pillow into any semblance of comfort when she’d realized she didn’t have to be awake so early this morning. She did have things to do, of course. Michael and Josh had done their work well. Permits to tape the parade and the goings-on in various areas of the city had been procured. But she needed a plan of action, and she needed to pretend that she had been on it from the moment she had hung up after talking to her mother and making the decision to come to Boston.

Patrick looked at them both, slightly puzzled. “I feel just fine, thanks. Colleen, you look all right, but Moira…hmm. Trust me, you don’t look as bad as you sound. Wouldn’t do, would it? Can’t have bags beneath your eyes that stretch to your chin when you’re on camera, now, can you?”

“Great. How come Colleen looks all right but I merely look better than you think I feel?” Moira asked him.

Patrick grinned. “You’ve had this shell-shocked look since you arrived,” he told Moira.

“Has she?” Pouring coffee, Colleen turned to study Moira.

“If you’re going to turn that cup-filling ritual into a day long event, perhaps you could let me go first,” Moira said.

“Give her the coffee—she needs it,” Patrick said.

Moira glared at her brother. “How come you’re saying that?”

“I heard you tossing around all night.”

“Me!” Moira protested. She stared at Colleen, and suddenly she couldn’t help it; she burst into laughter, and Colleen followed suit.

“What’s the inside joke?” Patrick asked, eyes narrowing as he looked from one of them to the other.

“Well, we were trying to be discreet…” Colleen began.

“But honest to God, surely, that old bed frame hasn’t created such a noise since…well, probably since Colleen was conceived,” Moira said.

Patrick’s heritage was instantly visible as his cheeks flamed a brilliant shade of red.

“You two are full of it,” Patrick managed to sputter. “How rude. I mean, this is our parents’ house….”

“Hey, we’re not chastising you,” Colleen said, retrieving the coffeepot from Moira.

“No, we’re simply happy—”

“For you both, of course,” Colleen interrupted.

“That after all your years of marriage,” Moira continued.

“And at your ripe old age,” Colleen added.

“You can still get it up, that’s all,” Moira finished.

Patrick set his cup down, shaking his head, eyes lowered. Then he stared at them both across the table. “Well, all that from the woman who nearly attacked a stranger in the bar last night.”

“Michael’s not a stranger,” Moira protested.

“Hey, we’ve never met him before.”

“I know him very well.”

“Apparently so. What, you met him after the Christmas holidays? That doesn’t exactly make you eligible for a diamond anniversary band.”

“Cute,” she told Patrick.

“Well, she probably only did it because of Danny,” Colleen said, yawning.

Moira glared at her sister. “Hey, whose side are you on here?”

Colleen instantly looked sheepish. “Sorry.”

“You’re not supposed to be taking sides against me to begin with,” Patrick protested.

“Ah, now, are the girls beating up on you again, Patrick?” their mother asked, sweeping into the kitchen from the hallway. “Shame on you, the both of you. Now, don’t I spend half my life reminding you that—”

“That we’re all the greatest gifts you ever gave to any one of us,” the three of them said in unison, creating an outbreak of laughter around the table.

Katy shook her head. “One day you’ll know the truth of it. When the world is against you, when friends have failed you, you always have your family.”

“Oh, Mum,” Moira said, rising and walking to her brother to give his shoulders a hug—and his arm a pinch. “I adore my big brother. Honestly.”

“And me, too, of course,” Colleen said.

“And you, Patrick?” Katy demanded of him firmly.

“And me?” Patrick asked, grinning at Moira. “Why, my sisters are the light of my life. Though there is that other person. My wife. Oh, and my kids, bless the little demons. My life is just one big radiant ray of light.”

“Enough of that,” Katy said with a grin. “Moira, move back a bit. Patrick, scooch in your chair. The children are awake—they’ll be out for breakfast any minute now. Let me get the eggs going. Girls, would you give me a hand?”

“Girls?” Colleen asked.

“Aye?” Katy asked, puzzled.

Moira slipped an arm around her mother. “Mum, what she’s saying is that you’re being sexist. Patrick can help out just as well.”

“After all, you’re cooking for his children.”

“Well, now, Patrick can’t help out,” Katy said.

“And why is that?” Colleen asked.

“Because he’s the most useless human being in a kitchen I’ve ever seen. Granny Jon says that he’s the only person she’s ever met who’s incapable of boiling a pot of water.”

“He only pretends he can’t cook,” Moira said.

“To get out of the work,” Colleen explained.

“Now, the lot of you!” Katy said indignantly.

“Just kidding, Mum,” Moira said. “I’ll get the bacon.”

“The bottom batch, please. The lean stuff at the top from McDonnell’s is for the bacon and cabbage we’re having tonight.”

“Bacon and cabbage,” Moira murmured.

“And colcannon,” Katy said. “And some broccoli and spinach, because they’re good for your father’s heart. Moira Kathleen, I need the oatmeal, as well. Your dad has taken to getting it down plain every morning, for his cholesterol.”

Moira brought out the requested items from the refrigerator, then got the oatmeal from the cabinet. She looked at her mother. “That’s it. We’ll cook. For the show, we’ll let you take over, and we’ll videotape your preparation of the Saint Patrick’s Day meal.”

“We’re not having bacon and cabbage for Saint Patrick’s Day, we’ll be having a roast,” Katy said.

“Mum,” Moira groaned. “I don’t care what we’re really having on Saint Patrick’s Day. Bacon and cabbage is a traditional Irish meal. It will be a terrific segment for the show.”

“Oh, now, daughter, I’m not good on a camera,” Katy protested.

“Can we put Patrick in an apron?” Colleen asked hopefully.

“Not on your life,” Patrick protested.

“Oh, yeah, great. Let him be traditionally Irish by drinking beer and playing with the band,” Colleen teased.

“You know, it’s just one of those things,” Patrick said. “I can wear a suit well, which is good for an attorney. I look pretty good in hats. Aprons…I just don’t seem to have the right build.”

“We won’t film you in an apron,” Moira said. “Since you can’t cook, you can do the dishes when we’re done.”

“I’ve got an appointment this morning,” Patrick protested.

“I bet he just thought it up,” Colleen said.

“Do you really have an appointment?” Katy asked him.

Before he could answer, there was a tap on the inner door. Moira felt an inexplicable wave of tension instantly tighten her muscles.

Her mother and sister had turned toward the sound. Only Patrick was looking at her.

“So, it is Danny,” he said softly.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she murmured. “Should I get it?” she asked her mother.

“No, it’s just Danny, at this hour,” Katy said. “Come in, Dan!” she called.

“I locked it last night when I came up,” Moira said.

“Danny has a key, of course,” her mother replied impatiently.

She heard the key twisting in the lock even as her mother spoke.

She wondered why it bothered her so much that he had a key. To her home. No, not her home, her parents’ home.

And he had always been welcome here.

He walked in, freshly showered and scrubbed, as evidenced by the dampness that remained in his combed hair and gleamed on newly shaven cheeks. He was wearing jeans and a gold knit sweater beneath a casual leather jacket. She had to admit that he looked good. A bit of age had given his natural ease a slightly weathered and dignified look. He wasn’t as handsome a man as Michael, she thought, almost analytically, and only partially defensively. Michael had classic good looks. Pitch dark hair, striking blue eyes and a clean-cut face. Daniel was craggier. His chin a bit squarer, cheeks leaner, features more jagged. He had good eyes, though. A strange shade of hazel that made them amber at times, almost gold at others. He saw her studying him but only smiled, addressing her mother.

“I could smell Katy Kelly’s coffee way down in my room,” he told her, slipping his arms around her waist affectionately and kissing her cheek.

“There’s a coffeepot behind the bar,” Moira said rather sharply. Patrick looked at her. She widened her eyes. “How else would we make Irish coffee?”

“I think we’re all aware that there’s a coffeepot behind the bar,” her brother said.

“I was merely suggesting—” She began.

“Ah, but my coffee would never be as good as Katy’s,” Danny interrupted.

“And you’d not be wanting to have it alone,” Katy said firmly. “You’ve been up here every morning, and now the girls are here, as well. Naturally you want to spend time together.” Katy said the last casually, but sincerely.

“Of course we want to spend time with him. He’s like another older brother. A nice one,” Colleen teased.

Patrick groaned audibly.

“Just like a brother,” Moira said sweetly.

Danny had poured coffee and taken a seat next to Patrick. “Sibling torture this morning, eh?”

“Tell me, would you wear an apron so that your sister could humiliate you on national television?” Patrick asked.

“It’s just a cable show,” Moira murmured.

“A highly rated cable show,” Patrick said. “Well?”

For a moment, as Danny stared at her, Moira thought that his face had hardened strangely with anger. “I don’t have a sister,” he said.

“But you’re just like a nicer older brother,” Patrick reminded him.

“Oh, right. Well, what does the apron look like?” Danny asked, and the casual conviviality was back in his voice.

“I’m sure Mum has one with a leprechaun on it somewhere,” Colleen said.

“No one has to wear an apron!” Moira protested.

“Right. We’ll cook neatly,” Danny said.

“I didn’t say anyone but Mum needed to be in the show,” Moira reminded them.

“That’s right. The long-suffering siblings get to wash dishes offstage,” Patrick said.

“Hey,” Colleen protested, “I’ve got the kind of face they say can launch a thousand ships.”

“Naturally you’re invited to cook with us on camera,” Moira told her sister.

“Thanks. I’ll have to check with my agent.”

“Colleen Mary!” Katy said indignantly.

“Just kidding, Mum.”

“That is a face that could launch a thousand ships—sis,” Danny told Colleen. “Congratulations. I’m seeing it more and more every day now.”

“Really, Danny?” Colleen asked, her voice a little anxious. For a moment Moira reflected that her sister was really just a nice kid. She was doing exceptionally well, yet she was still amazed that people really thought her looks worthy of attention. She had managed to develop enough confidence to go forward and retain enough humility to remain grounded.

“Really. And I’ve heard from Patrick and your folks that there’s a budding romance in the west?”

“Just budding,” Katy said firmly. “So my daughter tells me.”

“Absolutely just budding,” Colleen said, laughing. “Mum, I’d never get serious without bringing the poor guy home first and making sure he had the stamina for a real relationship.”

Patrick looked at his sister without the twitch of a smile. “Um, stamina?”

“He’s a nice guy?” Danny asked. “Nothing else would do for my, uh, baby sister.”

“The nicest. Hey, you come to California now and then. Maybe you’ll be out there soon. I’d love for you to meet him.”

“Dan can size him up for you just like that,” Patrick told her.

“Colleen has a good head on her shoulders. I’m sure he’s a fine fellow,” Danny said. “Now, as to Moira…”

“Moira and her Michael,” Katy said.

“He’s great, Mum, and you know it,” Moira said.

“He does seem decent,” Patrick acknowledged.

“He’s a hunk,” Colleen said decisively.

“Beady eyes,” Danny said, shaking his head.

“Oh, God, that again,” Moira said irritably.

“Well, I think his eyes are fine,” Katy said thoughtfully, taking the comment entirely literally.

“Look again—they’re beady,” Danny said, staring at Moira.

“Fine, I’ll take another really good look at the man, Danny,” Katy said, setting strips of bacon into a huge frying pan with incredible precision, getting more bacon into the pan than Moira would have thought possible. “But really, he’s courteous, and very handsome. And he does adore Moira.”

“Yes, I guess he does,” Danny said grudgingly.

“A vote of approval at last?” Moira inquired.

“I’m withholding final judgment.”

“And he’s been so effusive with his comments regarding you,” Moira said.

“Really?” Danny asked.

“Actually, no. He hasn’t mentioned you at all.”

“Well, I’m just an old family friend. Not a real member of the family who he needs to impress.”

“But you’ll definitely be on top of the guest list for the wedding,” Moira said over the rim of her coffee cup.

Her mother gasped. “Moira Kathleen!”

“No, no, no, Mum,” she said quickly, with a sigh. She had to watch this sparring with Danny in front of her parents. “We’re not planning anything—yet.”

“I truly wish you every happiness,” Danny said. His eyes were steady on hers; his voice was sincere.

For some reason, that made her more irritated.

Maybe she didn’t want him to be happy for her. Yup, that was it. Completely. She wanted him to be sorry he’d blown everything himself.

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