Night Of The Blackbird

He would die, he swore, before he ever failed in that vow.

Darkness fell around his city.

And around his heart.

1

New York City, New York

The Present

“What 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.