Winters & Somers (23 page)

The blonde
strode right up to Winters, picked up his nearly half full glass and emptied
the contents into his lap. Without a word, she strode away, leaving him red
with embarrassment and trying to mop up the beer from his pants.        

            “Tut, tut, you know, if
you must hang with the likes of that,” Cíara said, strolling over and handing
him a wad of paper tissues.

            He took them
gratefully, but something in her voice made him look sharply at her face. “You
wouldn't have had anything to do with that now, would you?”

            “Me?” If there was one
thing growing up in the backstreets had done it was teach a girl how to say
“Me?” in several degrees of outraged innocence. “Believe me, you fell into that
little mess all by yourself.” She started to stalk away, but he grabbed her
hand. “Let go of me – you're making a spectacle,” she hissed.

            The ring of avidly
watching faces enjoying the scene - everyone but him – convinced him to drop
Cíara's hand. But he still harbored suspicions about her role in all this. He'd
happened on the pub by accident – it was near the office – and had never
dreamed she would come in here. He'd just been wondering how to extricate
himself from the blonde's clutches when everything had landed in his lap. And
he just knew Cíara was behind it.
But he'd have revenge, just wait and see…

            “You know, you should
go home and change, but first I want you to meet a friend of mine.” She led the
way over to where Mary Margaret was sitting avidly watching the proceedings.

“Delighted to
meet you.” The Madonna like smile hovered around her lips. “And what a dreadful
thing to happen! Shameful behavior! Good job Cíara was there to help you out.”
And then the Madonna like smile was gone and she was roaring with laughter.
“I'm sorry – it was just so.. so..”

            Scowling, Winters
handed her one of the paper tissues to wipe her eyes. “Yeah, I know, it was
just so funny.” And the look he gave Cíara would have blistered paint. “I guess
it’s kind of soured the evening. Can I give you ladies a lift anywhere?”

            Cíara longed to say no,
but Mary Margaret was ahead of her. “What do you drive?” she demanded. Cíara
groaned.

            “I drive what the
rental company calls a sports utility vehicle. Why – is there more than two of
you? Do I need a Dublin bus?” At which Mary Margaret collapsed in giggles.

            “I think she's had a
little too much to drink, take no notice of her,” Cíara said, grabbing her
friend's arm. “And she's pregnant too. Pregnant women can't take the drink, you
know. Makes them have funny fantasies.”

Fortunately for
her, Mary Margaret fell asleep in the back seat of the SUV while still admiring
the vehicle. “Very, very nice,” she was cooing as sleep took her. “So much
better than that Bobby Mallory…”

            They dropped her off at
the small house she was sharing with Joe who, to give him credit, came out and
gently helped Mary Margaret inside. “We're having a baby, did you know?” he
announced proudly.

 Cíara made a
note to maybe revise her opinion of him slightly upwards. He was certainly
treating Mary Margaret like spun glass, and definitely happy to be about to
become a Da.

            But the evening wasn't
done with Cíara yet. Back at the apartment, she found that Smokey and Short
Eddie were once more in residence.

            “I thought you were
supposed to get yourself another gaff?” she demanded through the reek of
prohibited substances, “I said one night and I meant it, Smokey.”

            “Aw, Cíara, one more
night. We were supposed to stay at Alice's but she had company..”

            “Okay, okay. I can
imagine. One more night.”

            Smokey turned to a
disgruntled Winters, still standing by the door looking as if he wasn't sure
whether he wanted to be there at all. “Hey, man, is that lovely piece of
machinery yours?”

            Winters looked puzzled
for a moment, realized Smokey was talking about his car, and grinned
acknowledgement.

            “Beautiful motor, that.
So much better than what Cíara usually gets lifts in. Right, babe? Do you
remember the grad dance...”

            She grabbed him by the
shirtfront. “No, I don’t remember the grad dance and you'd better not, either,
if you know what’s good for you.”

            To Winters she added:
“Hadn't you better go and change your pants? The stink of beer's enormous in
here.”

            He raised his eyebrows.
“You can smell spilt beer over the weed in here?” he asked, adding: “Besides, I
think this just got interesting. I'm tired of people asking me what I drive.
Tell us about the grad dance, Smokey.”

            “Don't you dare,” Cíara
hissed.

            Smokey looked anxiously
from one to another. “Er, do you still have that gun?”

            Winters gave a
victorious grin and pulled up his pants leg just enough to let the leather
holster show. Smokey swallowed audibly.

            “Sorry, honey, but... well,
the gun gets it. You see, Cíara was all high and mighty about our grad dance at
the end of secondary school, 'cos she had a boyfriend who's Da had a car. The
rest of us were going on the bus, but Miss Prissy here was swanning around in a
car. Bobby Mallory's dad had a regular job, you see, and they had money.”

            Winters heard Cíara
make a choking sound. He was definitely enjoying this.

            “Well, at the end of
the dance we all piled outside to wait around for the bus. The better off kids
had pooled their money for a taxi, but some of us would have to walk or get the
Dublin Corporation bus. The next thing is Bobby's dad arrives – in a garbage
truck. That's his job; he works for the corporation as a bin man. Seems his car
had been stolen from right outside the pub where he'd been passing the time
before picking Bobby up and, being a good dad, he wanted to keep his promise to
his little boy that he'd pick him up from the dance. He'd also had a couple of
pints too many. So he borrowed one of the corporation bin trucks….”

            There was a moment of
silence. “What did you do?” Winters asked.

            “I climbed up into the
bloody truck and went home,” Cíara said, “And got stains all over my best party
dress. I went home from the grad in a garbage truck. You happy now?” She turned
and fled to her bedroom, slamming the door hard behind her.

            Winters wanted to
laugh. It was funny, really. But the image of a proud teenaged Cíara all
dressed in her finery ending her special evening in a garbage truck somehow
touched his heart.

            “Gee, now, how'm I ever
going to sleep? What if she comes out after me in the night?” Smokey muttered.

            “Just yell and I'll
come out and rescue you,” Winters told him, and went to bed himself.

            But he couldn't sleep.
Finally, he padded out of bed and gently tapped on Cíara's door.

            “Ummph'way,” came the
grunt from inside. So he went in. She lay in bed with the moonlight washing
over her like a silver aura, her red hair bronzed and her skin a soft ivory.
Winters sucked in a deep breath and sat on the edge of the bed.

            “If you've come to
gloat or make bin truck jokes, you can get lost. I've heard them all.”

            “No, I haven't. In
fact, well, I didn't think it was all that funny.”

            “You didn't?” she sat
up in bed, blinking at him.

            “I actually thought it
must have been quite hurtful to you. Not exactly a young girl's dream ending,
was it? “

            Cíara narrowed her eyes
suspiciously, but there was nothing on his face to suggest that he was putting
her on.

            “I went home that
night, dumped the dress in the trash, and cried my eyes out. And I've never
told anyone that – and if you tell anyone, I'll…”

            “I won't tell. Let's
consider the whole thing closed.”

             She was silent for a
moment, and Winters thought he saw a tear in her eye. But she covered it well.
“You know, Winters, you're not totally the insensitive, self-centered jerk you
pretend to be, are you?”

            “Don't be too sure.” He
grinned, then leaned down and gave her a gentle kiss on the cheek, inhaling her
sleepy woman fragrance. It took him all his willpower to turn and leave her
there in her warm bed.

            But back in his own
room he fell asleep in a moment, with Cíara's face, her softness and her sweet
smell dancing on his senses.

            To be woken very early
in the morning by a panicked call from Liam Henley.

            Winters knocked on
Cíara 's door and went right in.

            “Whatever you want, I'm
not interested,” came a sleepy voice from beneath the covers. She was lying
about the wanting part. She'd been dreaming about him, actually. When he'd
first come into her room and talked the New Man talk about how hurt she must
have been on grad night, she'd thought he was trying to soften her up. And
wasn't sure that she wouldn't have let him. But he simply kissed her cheek and
walked away, and thoughts of him had driven her crazy all night.

            Now she opened one eye
and glared at him.

            “Cíara, we've got to
go. Your grandmother's in hospital – there was a break-in at her house last
night.”

            “Granny Somers? Who did
she kill?” She struggled awake.

            “No, not Lillian. Mrs.
Henley. Seems she arrived home very late at night and disturbed a burglar. Liam
Henley called, asked me to get you to the hospital as soon as possible.”

             Cíara was wide awake
now, and pulling on her robe. The idea of Margaret Henley in hospital shouldn't
bother her – but it did. “How was she hurt? How bad is she?”

“I don't know.
Liam was too upset to give me any details. Seems he arrived some hours after it
all happened and found her unconscious. She's in the emergency room right now.”

            Less than ten minutes
later they were in the four-wheel drive, careening through Dublin's awakening
streets. Cíara couldn't hide the fact that she was frantic with worry and
furiously angry into the bargain. What if something should happen to Margaret
Henley, just as she was beginning to see a whole new side of her grandmother?

* * *

            Liam Henley met them at
the door to his wife's private room. He hugged Cíara with the stiffness of
someone desperate for contact but unused to such spontaneous gestures. She
hugged him back, the walls around her heart crumbling in the simple act of
giving and receiving reassurance.

            “Thank God you're here.
She's resting. They've done so many tests; I didn't know they could do so many.
The doctor's supposed to come and talk to us.”

            Margaret Henley lay
propped up against the pillows, her face so pale it as hard to tell where the
bandages started and her cheek and forehead ended. Obviously in some pain and
disorientated, she still made a valiant effort at a welcoming smile when they
went into the room.

            “How are you feeling?”

            “Oh, I'm just grand. It
was just a little bump to the head, but everyone is fussing so...”

            “A little bump to the
head doesn't knock you out for several hours. You need to be fussed over a
bit,” Cíara said, reaching for the older woman's hand. Margaret Henley gripped
her granddaughter's fingers in her own frail ones and smiled.

“Do you remember
what happened?”

            “Of course I remember
what happened, or most of it. I got home from Lillian's – your other
grandmother's – about 3 am. Had to take a taxi because I didn't want to drive.
Was a little worse for wear, to tell the truth,” Margaret said, and Cíara was
intrigued to see a faint flush of color creep into the woman's cheeks.

            “You'd downed a few
drinks when we saw you yesterday evening,” she said.

            “Oh, yes, and a few
more before we all said goodnight. Gracie was planning to stay at Lillian's
overnight. And your grandmother asked me to stay over, too.” The flush was
replaced by a look of wonderment. “Imagine that – me and Lillian under the same
roof without being at each other's throats…”

            Cíara thought it was
pretty amazing herself, but she was more interested in the events that led to
her grandmother being in hospital. “At least we know Granny Somers didn't thump
you one.” She grinned.

            “No, no. I think a lot
of things have changed. But I got home late and didn't bother putting on the
lights. I know that old house like the back of my hand. Waggers didn't make a
sound when I went in, but you know, he's old and he was fastened in the kitchen
– Mary Malcolm had been by and fed him and let him out for his evening
constitutional.

            “So I went straight up
to my room…and there was someone there.” Her fingers tightened on Cíara's. “I
was so frightened. I knew it had to be that burglar everyone is talking about,
and I wondered what he would do when he realized I was there. He swung around
and….and he pushed me. I fell over and hit my head on the big chest of drawers
by the door. And I don't remember anything else until William was there,
tapping my cheeks and calling my name. He was crying...” And Margaret Henley
had tears in her eyes, too.

            “Did you get a look at
the burglar?” Winters asked, ignoring the sharp look Cíara threw at him.

            “Just this figure, all
dressed in black. And a black woolen hat – what do they call them? A balaclava,
pulled right down over his face. But he wasn't very big – probably only an inch
or so taller than me, slenderly built. Could even have been a woman, but he
shouted something at me – something that sounded, I don't know, foreign. But it
was certainly a deep voice, a man's voice.”