The Last Bride in Ballymuir Page 8

  The heart that he was sure had hardened until it was impervious to pain clenched tight within his chest. Releasing her hand, he cupped her face between his palms. I want to be your hero. If he could say those words, it would be the greatest truth he’d ever spoken. It would also be the greatest impossibility.

  But he could kiss away the hurt and sorrow. He brushed his mouth once, twice, gently against her full lips, closing his eyes with the intoxication of touching her, feeling his heart ease with her indrawn breath of surprise and pleasure. He’d lied to himself, he thought, as he moved to linger against her. This kiss was for him.

  At the shrill ringing of a telephone he pulled back with a guilty start. Kylie moved away, nervously smoothing the folds of her robe. She answered the phone, a bright blush staining her face as she spoke to the caller.

  “For you,” she said, holding the phone out to him.

  He could think of only one soul who’d know to look for him here. And only one soul who cared enough to call, too.

  “Hello, Vi,” he said with wry resignation.

  “You might have thought of ringing me up and telling me you were safe, after the way you left the pub.”

  “So much for giving me some room.”

  “I’ve been worried, that’s all. You’re safe now, and I’ll let you be.”

  Michael relaxed; it appeared he was to be spared prods at his conscience.

  “She’s a pretty thing, though, isn’t she?” Vi added in a bright tone. “Innocent as a child, I’m thinking.”

  His laugh was deep and wholly involuntary. “Very subtle, Sis. Very subtle.”

  She laughed in return. “Subtlety is of no use where you’re concerned. But a mallet to the head is.”

  “No blows to the head are needed. You can consider the message received,” he said, glancing over at Kylie, who sat on the couch desperately trying to look as though she couldn’t hear his end of the conversation.

  “Good. Now stop by the studio in the morning. Word about what happened in O’Connor’s tonight is traveling fast,” she said in a troubled voice. “We need to talk, to decide what to do.”

  Michael knew what he intended to do: nothing at all. After all, the tongues couldn’t be unwagged once they’d started. He said a quick good night to his sister and then rejoined Kylie.

  Even when he sat next to her, she kept her eyes downcast. He hated the distance that had grown between them. The weight of the night was too heavy to be ignored, their private time gone. He wanted it back, that quiet intimacy, the feeling that they could push away the rest of the world. They couldn’t, though.

  “Well then,” Kylie said, “you know you’ve never exactly mentioned your line of work. If you settle in Ballymuir, will you be able to pick it up again?”

  What she asked was harmless, the sort of chat one might use to fill an empty moment. Except in his case, any details would only beg questions he didn’t want to answer.

  “It should be no problem” he said, offering nothing more.

  “I see.”

  Searching for some part of himself that he could safely give her, he settled on family. “Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

  “None,” she replied.

  “Then let me tell you about Vi.” Michael knew of no topic better to remove the uneasiness that hung over them like a somber gray pall.

  “When I was young, Vi was my very best friend,” he began, then launched into stories of the marvelous days they’d had at their nan’s and the mischief they’d made at home.

  After a time Kylie relaxed, laughing when he told how their one attempt at shearing a sheep had resulted in Vi’s being clipped instead. In time, she eased into sleep, and her head rested against the plane of his shoulder. He held her, and wondered that such a simple intimacy between a man and woman could mean so much.

  He’d have spent the night there, holding her, feeling the softness of her hair against his cheek, except that he worried for her comfort. She was a light thing, he thought, after he’d stood and scooped her into his arms.

  Though he felt like an intruder, he used his elbow to push open her bedroom door the rest of the way and carry her inside. A small lamp glowed on a nightstand beside what had to be the most incredible bed he’d ever seen. He shook his head in amazement as he took it in, all fanciful carved mahogany and lush draped curtains. This was a fairy princess’s bed, and worth more than the rest of her tattered belongings put together.

  “When you’re awake you might not believe in heroes,” he murmured to the slip of a woman asleep in his arms, “but I’m thinking you still dream of them.”

  Chapter Seven

  May our enemy not hear.

  — Irish Proverb

  Morning had begun with a call from Mam. In Vi’s book that was a portent only slightly less dismal than finding a grackle perched outside her front door. And unlike the bird, she couldn’t just shoo Mam away.

  Nothing said in a straightforward way, that was Mam, Vi thought as she finished the last of her morning tea and considered—then rejected—the idea of washing up the dishes. Mam and her cowardly talk of “not being able to mend the mistakes of the past” and “understanding what’s important now.”

  It infuriated Vi, seeing Michael cast aside. Infuriated her, and made her doubly determined to help him regain family and friends. It seemed family would take care of themselves. The twins were already chomping at the bit to come visit, and Mam was having a holy seizure at the idea. Two Bus Eireann tickets in the post just might be enough to send her over the edge, Vi thought with a fiendish chuckle.

  That left friends. She considered young Kylie O’Shea, smiling that she’d immediately appended young to her name, when the woman was not so far from her own age. Bending to fill Roger’s dish with more kibble for him to bolt, Vi wondered how far the friendship between her brother and the schoolteacher had progressed. And she hoped to God that Kylie O’Shea had the strength to hold fast in the teeth of the storm to come.

  It had been a dark night at O’Connor’s Pub, and Vi could see no prospect for clearing. At least not until the talk and rumors about Michael’s past had expired under their own weight. And that could take years. The old folks in town still talked of the 1916 Easter Uprising as if it had happened yesterday, and a reference to the Queen could as easily mean Elizabeth the First as the Second.

  And as for the younger people, most of them would prefer that the Troubles and the poor souls like Michael ensnared in them, simply be wiped away. Or chased away, if necessary. Northern political matters, after all, were bad for tourism. And tourism put dinner on the table each night. Oh, things looked bleak, indeed, for her brother.

  The impatient jangle of the telephone cut short Vi’s thoughts.

  “Bloody thing,” she said as she walked to it and steeled herself to lift the receiver, “you’ve already dragged Mam into my day. What have you in store for me now?”

  “Hello?” she said, but no one spoke in return. She drew in a breath and tried again, this time in her most imperial fashion. “Kilbride’s Asylum for the Artistically Impaired. Which inmate do you seek?”

  She caught the low murmur of a man’s voice. The sound was muffled, as though his hand was over the receiver and he wasn’t speaking to her at all. Even that indistinct noise sent a message. A shiver chased down Vi’s spine, and the fine hairs on her arms rose. The line disconnected from the other end. Shaking, she slammed down the phone and turned away.

  Moments like this, when she brushed against evil, made her wish she could give back the Kilbride gift of sight. But she couldn’t, any more than she could lose her height or her love of color. Vi rubbed her arms to restore some warmth and told herself that the call meant nothing.

  “Courage,” she admonished.

  After giving Roger a few moments to snuffle the last crumbs of his meal, she snapped on his leash and announced, “Off to the studio with us, a ghra. We’ve work to finish before the distractions begin. They’re going to be plenty today.”
>
  An idea that Roger relished, judging by the spring in his step. Vi felt mightily less pleased with the thought. Whether it be Mam or grackle, bad tidings were afoot.

  It was a morning for more subtle intimacies, waking and readying for the day in Kylie’s tiny home. Michael had lived elbow-to-elbow before, but there had been no closeness to it, only a maddening lack of privacy. This was different; he liked it—too much, in fact. It made him think of waking with Kylie in that dreamer’s bed, and of staying there until the day had slipped into night. Dangerous emotions, those were, and becoming harder to ignore.

  After a breakfast filled with talk and laughter, he helped her pile an armful of bundles into the boot of her car. When he asked her about them, she fluttered off some embarrassed answer about things she no longer needed and help for a family in town.

  But they’d just made it back to the main road when she pulled up in front of a cottage. Curious, Michael watched as she hurriedly dropped a bag on the stoop.

  “And that was?” he asked when she’d settled back into the car.

  “Reading materials.” Her cheeks blazed crimson.

  He grinned. “What kind of reading materials might they be?”

  “Romance novels,” she said in a way that just dared him to laugh. “Breege won’t buy them for herself—she’s too old, she says—but she’s not against reading them a dozen times through if they just happen to show up on her doorstep.”

  Books for a friend named Breege, bundles for people in town. And she lived like a pauper. “I don’t think you need look further than your own mirror to find a hero, Kylie O’Shea.”

  She gave him a startled glance. “I’ve done nothing out of the ordinary. No more than anyone who wants to be a part of this town would.”

  He weighed that bit of unintended advice. To his experience, books and bundles didn’t open arms that wanted to stay closed. But taking in her shuttered expression, he decided to let the matter rest.

  Hungry as always, he asked Kylie to let him off in front of Spillane’s Market. With Mr. Spillane peering out the front window, he didn’t kiss Kylie, though he sorely wanted to. She looked so smooth and pretty, a schoolboy’s—and this grown man’s— fantasy. Instead he took a clumsy step toward getting that kiss another time. “If I rang you up sometime, would you ... that is ... ah, hell...”

  The corners of her full mouth began to curve upward. “Are you trying to ask me out?”

  He nodded. “I think I might be.”

  “Well then, when you figure it out for sure, let me know.” Her wink was sheer flirtatious promise, making him laugh at his own rusty skills. As he got out of the car she said, “And Michael, I’m sorry for what happened at the pub. I’ll be a better friend to you. I promise.”

  He stood on the curb and watched her pull away. In fact, he watched even after the little car was gone from sight. Moonstruck. He was past thirty and embarrassingly moonstruck.

  He turned back to Spillane’s, where the grocer still stood in the front of the store. Michael waved a greeting and came to the door, mentally savoring all the food he meant to buy. But Spillane didn’t move or acknowledge him with anything more than a flat stare.

  “Closed,” he mouthed through the thick glass, then turned away.

  Michael could feel the darkness gather around him, the anger at knowing this was how things were to be. After last night he’d still hoped he could make some headway before his past rose to claim him. Another dangerous emotion, hope.

  He stood at the front door to Spillane’s intent on making life no more comfortable for the man on the inside than it was for him, out there. Finally, ten minutes after opening time, Spillane unlocked the front door and hovered nervously by the cash register.

  His hunger dull and dead, Michael grabbed the first bit of breakfast food he found and made his way to the grocer. When he reached into his pocket, he saw Spillane flinch. Spitting an obscenity, Michael slapped a few bills on the low counter.

  “I’ve not yet killed a man over a box of cereal,” he said, then left without waiting for his change.

  Halfway down the block he realized that he had no idea where he was heading. Not that it really mattered. Glancing at the box of sugary cereal clenched in one hand, he turned toward Vi’s house. Milk to top his cereal wasn’t much of a reason to keep putting one foot in front of the other, but it was all he had.

  Half an hour later, showered, dressed, and hungry again, Michael poured himself his third bowl of cereal and dug in his spoon. The problem, he decided, was in his expectations. Somewhere deep inside, he was still waiting for an apology from everyone at that bloody farce of a trial. He was waiting for that bastard Brian Rourke to tell the truth. For that he’d die waiting, too. They’d set him free, and that was as good as he was going to get. Maybe as good as he deserved.

  Michael gave a disgusted scoff, then crunched another shovelful of sweet cereal. Before he had abandoned his faith—or it him—the part he’d rebelled against was the guilt. And it seemed that was all that stayed with him.

  And what did he really have for this start on a life? A sister who loved him fiercely, enough money to last a time, and...

  He chomped through the last of his breakfast, drowning out thoughts of Kylie O’Shea. There was no having her now, not without harming her forever. And wittingly or unwittingly, he’d done harm enough in his years.

  After he scrubbed the teetering mountain of dishes in the kitchen sink, Michael made his way back to town. Recalling his sister’s words about help being wanted at the hardware, he stopped there first.

  The store owner—tall, skinny as a walking stick— looked familiar, probably one of the men Vi had introduced him to after church the other day. His expression looked familiar, too. It was the same blank stare he’d gotten from Spillane.

  A sick feeling curdled in Michael’s gut. He turned down one of the narrow, cluttered aisles. Take the worst chin up, his nan had always said. And that was what he intended to do. As an excuse to be there, he grabbed the clamps, wood glue, and sandpaper he’d need to start on Vi’s apothecary’s chest.

  After paying, Michael said, “I saw the sign in the window, and was wondering—”

  “Not hiring.”

  “But the sign says—”

  The man walked to the window, pulled out the sign, and tucked it under the counter. “Not hiring.”

  Michael nodded his head toward the sign’s hiding spot. “And when I walk out?”

  “After that, I might be hiring.”

  Nan had her favorite curse, too: Go hifreann leat—the hell with you. In her honor Michael used it, and got a harsher one in return. There was no mistaking the direction of the wind that blew through town. Pure northerly and icy cold.

  “Just what are they saying about me?”

  Michael’s sister looked up from her work. “I didn’t stay long enough last night to hear all the particulars,” Vi answered slowly. “And I’m sure even those have been well embellished by now. Where have you been?”

  He slapped his bag onto the edge of her worktable, making a framed bit of painted silk rattle and dance. From beneath, Roger growled in warning. Michael gave a narrow-eyed snarl of his own. “I’ve been trying to find food and work. Spillane all but slammed the door in my face, and at the hardware—”

  She raised a hand. “I don’t need to hear about the hardware. Clancy, the owner, was at the pub last night, his mouth flying faster than any but Flynn’s after you, ah, left. Incredible tales that Flynn was weaving, based on the few spoken loud enough for me to overhear.” Riffling through the contents of the sack she commented, “I’m surprised Clancy took your money.”

  “It’ll be the last time I offer it to him.”

  “Then consider yourself blessed that there’s another hardware one town over,” she said, flashing a quick grin before her face grew serious again. “But why don’t you just tell people the truth of your past?”

  He dragged a hand through his hair. “What am I to do, call everyo
ne for a meeting in the village hall? Or post flyers on every corner? What good will it do? They won’t believe me, not a one of them!”

  “Not even Kylie O’Shea?”

  Would she? And could he bear to see her face when she learned what kind of man he was?

  “Kylie’s not a part of this, and none of your concern.”

  Vi pushed back from her stool and came around the table to face him. “Whether you want to hear from me or not, anything that has to do with you is my concern! I love you and want to stand by you. You’re not making it easy, though. What are you going to do now, pack up your things and move on?”

  “No.” He drew a deep breath, then repeated a weary, “No. It really doesn’t matter where I move. I’m smart enough to know that I can’t outrun this. Even here, all this distance from the North ...” He gave an ineloquent shrug, nowhere near enough to express his anger and frustration.

  She brushed a tender touch against his arm. Her love and empathy humbled him. “Give it time.”

  Time was one thing he knew about. Wasted time.

  “And until things settle, I’m hoping you’re smart enough to defend yourself, too. Or at least not to plant yourself in the thick of it.”

  “I know my place. I’ll stay on the outside, where I belong.” And where he wanted to be, too. Screw the lot of them, he thought.

  “Outside,” Vi murmured, tapping one blunt-cut fingernail to the side of her jaw. “Hmmm...” Michael didn’t like the speculative gleam in her eyes, not one bit. She gestured to a newspaper article taped to the wall not far from the antique cash register. “Have you seen this?”

  He gave an amused grunt that she’d ask whether he’d noticed one yellowed clipping in this broad stroke of color. “Missed it.”

  “Take a careful look. You’ll be going there this afternoon. Remember Jenna Fahey from out front of the church?”

  He did, but knew better than to step enthusiastically into one of his sister’s schemes. “Maybe.”