Night Of The Blackbird (8 page)

Just Danny.

S
urprisingly, 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.”