Night Of The Blackbird (2 page)

New York City, New York
The Present

“W
hat 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.