Night Of The Blackbird

She tried to keep quiet, but she couldn’t. She shook her head. “Dad, you’ll all have to excuse me if I think that violence against anyone is horrible and if I don’t know every move made in a foreign country regarding the hoped-for union of an island nation. You all can dream of a united Ireland, but I’m sorry if I think that bombing innocent people is beyond despicable. I have friends who are English who have no desire to hurt anyone Irish—”

“Why, Moira Kathleen Kelly! I have good Englishmen in here all the time,” her father said indignantly. “Englishmen, Scotsmen, Australians, Cornishmen, Welsh and a good helping of our close friends the Canadians, not to mention Mexicans, French, Spanish—”

“And excuse me, but have you forgotten your truly closest friends in Boston? The Italians, naturally. To the Italians! Salute!” Sal said, smiling, meeting Moira’s gaze and winking in his attempt to defuse the argument.

“God, yes, the Italians! Salute!” Moira said.

“To the Italians!”

The men at the bar were always happy to toast to anyone and everyone.

It did nothing, however, to change the gist of the conversation.

“Moira, you would admire this man Jacob Brolin,” Seamus said earnestly. “He’s a pacifist, working for the rights of every last man in Northern Ireland. He’s arranged social events where all attend; he’s worked hard for the downtrodden and poor and he’s loved by Orangemen and Catholics alike. There’s seldom been so fine and fair a man to reach a position of power.”

Moira let out a long breath, feeling a bit foolish. All she’d wanted was to get everyone off the subject. Instead, she’d nearly created a passionate argument herself.

“Well, then, I’m thrilled that this man is coming to our country, to our city—”

“You’ll want him on your program,” Seamus said.

“Aye, and then maybe we’ll all get to meet him,” Liam agreed.

“Well, we’ll see,” Moira murmured. “We planned on asking Mum to make a traditional Irish meal, tell leprechaun stories, things like that.”

“Aye, but you’ll want the parade on your show,” her father insisted.

“Moira?”

She had seldom been so relieved to hear her name called. She spun around, delighted to see her younger sister, Colleen, coming to her, threading her way through the crowd.

They’d fought like cats and dogs as children, but now Colleen was incredibly dear to her. Her sister was beautiful, Moira’s height, with red hair a far softer shade than Moira’s deep auburn. She had Granny Jon’s hazel eyes and a face of sheer light and beauty. She had been living in Los Angeles for the last two years, to their parents’ great dismay. But she had been hired as the lead model for a burgeoning new cosmetics line, and though they were disconsolate that she spent so much time so far away, they were also as proud as it was possible to be. Her face was appearing in magazines across the country.

Colleen hugged her. “When did you get in?”

“Thirty minutes ago. You?”

“Earlier this afternoon. Have you seen Patrick yet?”

“No, but he’s down here, right?”

“With the band. Along with Danny.”

Moira jerked her head around. She’d heard the band playing since she’d come in, but Jeff Dolan had been doing the singing—she’d heard Jeff play and sing at least a third of her life, and she knew the sound of his voice like the back of her hand. Now she saw that her brother was indeed up with the group, playing bass guitar.

And Danny was there, as well, sitting in for the drummer this time. As if he had known the exact moment she would look his way, he suddenly stared across the room, meeting her eyes.

He smiled slowly. Just a slight curl of his lips. He didn’t miss a beat on the drums. Ah, yes, Moira, love, I’m here. Was that part of his appeal? The slow grin that could slip into a soul, amber eyes that seemed always to be a bit mocking, and a bit rueful, as well? She tried to stare at him analytically. He was a tall man, which seemed oddly apparent even as he sat behind the drums. His hair, a sandy shade that still carried a hint of red, was perpetually unruly, an annoyance to him when it fell low on his brow, but somehow rakish and sensual to the female gender.

His shoulders, she assured herself, were not as broad as Michael’s. Michael was quintessentially tall, dark and handsome. And more. He was decent. Kind, entertaining, courteous and concerned with the well-being of those around him. When she’d first met Michael, right after the Christmas holidays, she’d thought he was definitely appealing, sexy. Then she’d thought he was intelligent, bright and witty. Then she’d started becoming emotionally involved with him. But with Danny…

He had just been there. A whirlwind in her life, coming and going, visiting her folks with his uncle when he’d been young, coming on his own once he’d turned eighteen. He was Patrick’s age, three years older than she was, and he’d been someone she’d adored when she’d been ten and he’d been thirteen, the first time he had arrived. He’d come back when she was fourteen, fifteen, sixteen and then eighteen, and it had been that year when she’d realized there was nothing in the world that she wanted as badly as she wanted Dan O’Hara. Maybe he’d resisted at first. He’d just graduated from college with a degree in journalism. He had a passion to write; to change the world, and she was still wet behind the ears, not to mention the fact that she was also the child of his good American friends. So she’d set out to have what she wanted. She was enthralled, in awe, and being with him changed none of that. Neither did it change Danny. He’d told her that he was bad for her, that she was young, that she needed to see the world, know the world. And still, year after year, she had waited, going to school, loving the learning, looking, always looking, hoping for someone who could make her forget Danny was in the world somewhere. Danny, with his passion and, always, a level of energy about him that was electric. She knew that he cared for her; perhaps in his way he loved her. Just not as much as he loved the rest of the world—or at least his precious Ireland. As she’d gotten older, she’d begun to understand him in a way. She was an American, and she loved being an American. And she had her own dreams and aspirations. They weren’t meant to be together, but that had never stopped her from wanting him.

But now she had found someone. Michael. She inhaled deeply, forced a casual smile. So you’re here, Danny. Good for you, nice to see you. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a great life that I’m living….

She meant to turn away, but Danny’s smile deepened as the number ended, and in the midst of the applause, she saw him lean over to whisper to Jeff Dolan and her brother.

“Oh, no,” Colleen breathed. “They’ve seen us together.”

“So what?” Moira whispered.

“I said I wouldn’t sing until you showed up.”

“Colleen!” Moira protested.

“Hey, folks, we’ve got a special performance for you this evening,” Jeff announced over the mike. “The prodigal daughters have returned for Saint Patrick’s Day. We’re going to get them both up here for a special number in honor of all the Irish in America—and remember, on Saint Patrick’s Day, all Americans are a wee bit Irish!”

“Daughters, go on now,” Eamon said proudly.

“Come on up, Kelly girls,” Jeff said, encouraging them determinedly. “Ladies and gentlemen, a real treat. The Kelly girls. No one can do a rendition of ‘Danny Boy’ with quite such melodious Irish beauty.”

“What do we do?” Colleen whispered. “I can’t believe they’re doing this to us. I haven’t even heard the song in ages.”

“Um. Not since the last time we were here,” Moira said dryly. “I guess we go up there. We can’t hurt Dad.”

Danny had instigated this. She knew it. She walked toward Jeff, trying to ignore Danny with casual negligence as she took the mike. “Irish-American melodious beauty,” she said, smiling at Jeff and apologizing to the patrons in the pub. “No guarantees, but we’ll do our best.”

The first strains of the violin brought a sigh from the crowd. Moira reflected briefly that, with this particular audience, she and Colleen could have sung like two crows and sentiment alone would have evoked wild applause. But she did love the song, and she and Colleen had done it together since the Saint Pat’s program at church when they had been in grammar school. Her sister’s voice harmonized perfectly with hers. They might not have produced the most melodious Irish beauty ever, but they did the song proud. She loved the music. There was a magic to it, to being home, to singing with Colleen…and even in knowing that Daniel O’Hara was playing a soft beat on the drums behind her.

Naturally the crowd went wild when they ended the tune. Of course, here, it was singing to a group of proud relatives. Moira smiled along with Colleen, thanking those who called out compliments. She felt an arm around her, and before she could completely stiffen, she realized it was her brother.

“Patrick, hey.” She hugged him.

“What about me?” Jeff protested.

Jeff Dolan looked like a latter day hippie. She gave him a hug and a kiss. Jeff had put himself through the wringer. On drugs, off drugs, politically wild—protesting everything from toxic waste to government spending. He’d survived. Cleaned up. He was still an activist, but one with temperance and vision. At least, she hoped so. She gave him a warm hug, along with the three other regulars, Sean, Peter and the odd man out, Ira, an Israeli.

“Did you notice me back here?” Danny asked her. “Or am I supposed to line up?”

“Danny,” she murmured, trying to sound as if missing him was an oversight. She kissed his cheek perfunctorily. “How could anyone ever forget you?”

He grinned, catching her after the kiss, hugging her tightly and planting a kiss firmly on her lips. She escaped his touch as quickly as possible. It was far too easy to underestimate Danny. The quick strength with which he held her belied the lean appearance his height afforded him. Energy always seemed to radiate from Danny. In a flash of time, she felt as if her flesh burned.

“Good to see you, Danny,” she murmured.

“Something light, fellows,” Jeff instructed the band members.

“‘Rosie O’Grady,”’ Ira suggested.