Night Of The Blackbird (15 page)

“He's racking up some points tonight, eh?”

She turned halfway around while still keeping her attention on the drinks she was pouring.

“What are you talking about?”

“Tall, dark and handsome. Old beady eyes. He's worming his way in.”

“He's helping out. And even if he
is
doing it all to make my father like him, I appreciate the effort.”

“Beady eyes, Moira.”

“Danny, I hear someone calling you.”

“Am I too close? Is that it? Is the memory of what's really good shooting through your bloodstream? Is your pulse pounding? Let me answer for you. You're feeling the heat. You're watching my hands on the taps and remembering just how good they felt on your flesh.”

“Oh, yeah, heat, Danny. I'm under a friggin' blowtorch.” She leaned closer to him. “Know what I'm really thinking?”

“That I'm to die for?”

“I'm thinking you're delusional,” she told him.

He grinned. “Maybe, love. Maybe I'm the one with the memories, recalling just how good it feels to have my hands on you. We were good together, eh?”

“That was then, this is now,” she said simply. “Chrissie!” she shouted over the heads of the customers packing the bar. “Was that martini up or on the rocks?”

“Rocks!” Chrissie called.

“I do love you, Moira Kelly,” Danny said softly.

His whisper seemed to touch the back of her neck. Like the stroke of a finger. Suddenly she was filled with memories. She found herself staring at his hands on the taps. A hot flush rushed over her, and she found herself thinking she was a terrible person. But it was true. He
was
good in bed.

So was Michael. She had been in love with Danny once. Maybe half her lifetime. She'd waited for years for something else. Something real. Michael. She wasn't a fool. She was mature enough to have learned that what felt good wasn't always right.

And still…

Danny's eyes. The curl of his lips, his humor. The way he could laugh with her or at himself. The way he could slip an arm around her, hold her, give warmth and a sense of understanding at just the right moment. And then suddenly turn sensual, purely sexual in a way that left her gasping….

“Seamus needs another draft,” she said, to distract herself from her dangerous thoughts.

“Seamus has had too many.”

“Patrick is back. I see him over there. He'll walk old Seamus home—he's just a few blocks away. Give him another draft. He's having fun with Dad.”

“I think
you
should have a beer.”

“Maybe I will.”

“Maybe I can get you to have enough of them.”

“Enough of them for what? For you to get me back in bed? Are you bored to tears or something this trip, Danny? Have I become a challenge because Michael is here? Because I really care for someone else after all these years?”

“Because I really love you.”

“Danny, you don't know the meaning of the word.”

“I've always known it, Moira.”

“Moira, do we have Fosters?” Colleen called.

“Only on tap.”

“That's fine. I need one Fosters, two Buds and a Coors in the bottle with lemon instead of lime.”

“Danny, get me the Coors,” she said. He was too close. She had always liked his aftershave. The scent was subtle, and…

And it filled her with memories.

Maybe she
would
have that beer. No, maybe she would have a straight shot of whiskey and slap herself in the face.

As she made the drinks for Chrissie, Moira heard the phone ringing. “I'll get it,” she told Danny as he set the Coors on the serving tray.

“I've got it,” he told her.

She heard him answer the phone with the single word Kelly's.

“Moira, I need two more Buds!” Colleen called. “In the bottle.”

As Moira walked to the cooler, she heard Danny talking. His voice had dropped very low.

She tried to make out the words but couldn't hear him.

Then she realized that she
was
hearing him; she simply wasn't understanding him. He was speaking in Gaelic.

His voice was very low, but tense.

He caught her watching him and grinned, shrugging. But it wasn't Danny's usual grin. A moment later, he hung up.

“Who was that?” she asked.

“Oh, just some old-timer. Wanted to know if it was a real Irish pub. I thought I'd convince him that it was.”

She didn't speak Gaelic. Oh, she knew a few words here and there, but she had never really learned the language. She had taken both French and Spanish in school. Far more useful in the United States.

She decided to lie. “You know, I've been taking some Gaelic, Danny,” she told him.

She wondered why he hadn't decided to be an actor. She was certain that he tensed, but he wasn't going to allow her to see whatever it was that really bothered him. Or else he was calling her bluff.

“It's about time, Moira Kelly,” he said. “It's calming down in here. I'm going to leave the bar to you,” he told her, walking toward the exit.

But he paused and came back and took her suddenly by the shoulders, no hint of amusement in his eyes as they met hers.

“If that's the truth, Moira, don't go letting anyone know, do you hear me?”

“Danny—”

“Listen to me for once in your life, Moira. Don't let anyone know that you understand a single word.”

“Danny, what—”

“I mean it, Moira.”

His fingers were hurting her, they bit into her shoulders so deeply. There was something so serious about his face that she felt a strange whisper of fear seep into her.

“Danny—”

“Please, Moira, for the love of God.”

She suddenly realized she had really never known this man.

She found herself nodding. “All right. Damn it, Danny, stop it, you're hurting me.”

“Sorry.” His hold eased. “Moira, you've got to be careful.”

“Of what?”

“People who are too passionate.”

“And what the hell does that mean? You, Michael, old Seamus there?”

“Anyone and everyone. Do you understand me?”

“No, I don't.”

“Moira, leave it alone. Just leave it alone.”

She suddenly realized that Michael was watching her from the floor. She wanted to get Danny away from her.

“Leave ‘it' alone? What ‘it'? Leave
me
alone.” She tried to back away.

“Moira—”

“I don't really speak or understand Gaelic, Danny. I know nothing more than good morning, good night, please, thank you and Erin go bragh.”

“Then don't pretend you do.”

He turned and left the bar area. She stared at him as he went out on the floor. Chrissie asked her for something, and she responded mechanically.

Michael came up to the service area. “Are you all right?” he asked.

“Of course.”

“That looked like a very intense moment.”

“Disagreement over drink recipes,” she lied.

“You look…frazzled.”

“It's a really busy night.”

“I know. I'm worn out, too.”

“I'll make this all up to you.”

“I'll hold you to that.”

“What's your room number?”

He smiled and gave it to her, then added, “Oh, I need three draft beers.”

“What kind?”

“Buds. And I need another one of those bird things.”

“A blackbird?”

“Yeah, that's it.”

She laughed and made the drinks. She watched him as he delivered the beers, then took the blackbird to the man at the corner table who had been sitting alone for several hours, listening to the band, nursing his drink.

Michael wasn't as bad at this as he seemed to think he was. He had talked with the threesome who'd ordered the beers, and he paused long enough to exchange words with the fellow in the navy sweater. Someone called her name at the bar, and she gave her attention to the taps.

When she looked up, she saw Danny walking across the room. She realized that he was approaching the man in the corner. The man in the navy sweater, the one who had ordered the blackbird.

A few moments later, Danny got his coat from the hook by the bar and left the pub.

Not five minutes went by before the man in the navy sweater did the same.

She wondered if the man was known to anyone in the pub. She decided to ask her brother if he knew the fellow.

But looking around, she realized that she didn't see Patrick anywhere.

Nor, for that matter, did Michael seem to be anywhere on the floor, either. In fact, in a few minutes' time, it seemed that the bar had half emptied; people who had been there throughout the evening had all seemed to vanish into thin air.

“Damn them all,” she murmured to herself. She couldn't even see her father anywhere.

A feeling of deep unease settled over her. It was Danny again, damn it. His ridiculous temper after she had lied to him about the Gaelic.

Tomorrow, she decided, she would have it out with him.

“Moira, one more Guinness for me old bones,” Seamus said to her. He was sitting alone. She finally saw her father, who had gone to speak with Jeff by the bandstand.

She poured the drink and brought it to Seamus, then set it down with a disapproving frown. “That's the last, now, Seamus.”

He nodded. “As you wish, Moira.” She started to walk away. “Moira Kelly,” he called, stopping her. She turned back.

“Moira, be a good girl, eh? See how quiet it's become? Ominous,” Seamus muttered. “Watch the streets of Boston these days.”

“Seamus, what are you on about?”

“That girl was found dead.”

She sighed, then walked to him, leaned across the bar and kissed the top of his head. “I promise not to go out soliciting, Seamus. I especially promise not to solicit using the Gaelic language. How's that?”

“Stay close to home,” he told her seriously.

“Seamus…”

“There are always troubles,” he said softly.

They'd all gone daft, she thought.

She poured herself the shot of whiskey she'd been debating about ever since her conversation with Danny and downed it in one neat swallow.

It was so hot—it indeed burned like a blowtorch.

Coming home was never easy, she decided.

“Watch out for strangers,” Seamus said. “Don't go talking to any.”

“Seamus, this is a public establishment. We serve strangers all the time.”

“And friends, even,” Seamus said sorrowfully. “Sometimes friends…can be stranger than…strangers.”

“Seamus, you are definitely cut off.”

“I am not drunk, Moira Kelly,” he said defensively.

“Then you're talking like a madman.”

Seamus leaned forward, very close. “There are whispers, Moira.”

“About what, Seamus?”

He sat back, shaking his head and looking around uneasily. As if he had said too much. “You take care, girl,” he said again. The he stood up, leaving his drink half finished. “Night, lass.”

“Seamus, wait, I'll get someone to walk you home.”

“Walk me home? Moira, I'm sober, I swear it, and I've been walking meself home from this pub more years than you've been alive.”

“Seamus, you're not drunk, but you
have
had a few. I wouldn't let you drive tonight, and I'm not so sure you should be walking.”

He lifted a hand in farewell.

“Seamus!”

But Seamus was already across the room on his way toward the door. She couldn't help but be worried about him. “Chrissie!” she called. “Can you take the bar, please?”

She didn't wait for an answer but slipped out and hurried after old Seamus. He had made it to the door already. Moira didn't have a coat handy, but she followed him anyway.

Once outside, she was amazed to see that he had already disappeared. The streets were deserted and cold. Very cold. The chill bit into her.

The night was dark, clouds covering the moon. Beyond the spill of lights from the pub, the street was cast in shadows.

“Seamus?” she called anxiously.

She started down the street, knowing the path Seamus would take to reach his home. Down the block, she turned to the left, stepping into the shadows.