Night Of The Blackbird

His groan interrupted her. “You want to change the schedule.”

“I—”

“Make it a sports bar, and buy me a beer.”

“Where?”

He named his favorite little hole-in-the-wall, just a few blocks from their offices in the Village. He had an interview with a potential new cameraman, she was supposed to have coffee with a potential guest, but they decided to meet right after their appointments.

As it happened, their potential guest missed her connection and called in to find out if Moira would be available in the afternoon. Relieved, Moira cheerfully agreed.

She went out walking. And walked and walked until it was nearly time to meet Josh.

Moira reached Sam’s Sports Spectacular—a true hole-in-the-wall but a great neighborhood place—before her partner. She seldom drank anything at all during the day and was cautious even at night, but this afternoon, she ordered a draft. She was nursing it at the farthest table from the bar when Josh came in. He was a handsome, appealing guy in a tall, lanky, artistic way. He looked like a director or, she mused with a flash of humor, a refugee from some grunge band. His eyes were dark and beautiful, his hair reddish brown and very curly, and despite his wife’s objection, he wore a full beard and mustache.

“Where’s my beer?” he asked, sliding into a chair by the table.

“I wasn’t sure what you wanted.”

He stared at her as if she had lost her mind. “How many years have you known me?”

“Almost ten. Since we were eighteen. But—”

“What do I always drink?”

“Miller Lite. But—”

“There you have it.”

“I’m a bit off today.”

“You are a bit off.” He raised his hand, and their waiter saw him. He gave his order, and the young man nodded in acknowledgment and started for the bar.

“Why are you off today?” Josh asked, leaning forward.

“My mother called.”

He grimaced. “My mother calls almost every day. That’s no excuse.”

“You don’t know my mother.”

“I do.” He grinned and feigned a slight accent. “She’s a lovely lady, she is.”

“Um. My dad’s ill.”

“Oh.” Josh was quickly serious. “I’m sorry.”

“I—” She hesitated. That wasn’t really it. “I think he’s going to be okay, although it appears he may need another surgery.”

“So you want to go home for Saint Patrick’s day.”

“I know we were supposed to be shooting at the theme parks in central Florida, and I know how hard you worked to straighten out all the paperwork and rights and—”

“Things have been postponed before.”

“I truly appreciate your attitude,” she told him softly, swallowing her draft, her eyes lowered.

“I never believed we’d be going to Florida in March.”

She looked at him and flushed. “You think I have no spine?”

“I think your mother could take on the Terminator.”

She flashed him a grateful smile. “I do have another idea. We can do a real ethnic Irish show and arrange with the Leisure Channel to do a live feed. It really might be a great idea. I think the viewers would love it.”

Josh mused over the idea. He lifted his hands. “You could be right. ‘Fun, food, and fantasy—live from the home of the hostess herself.”’

“How do you feel about Boston in March?”

“Wretched, but then, it’s not much worse than New York.” He smiled at her suddenly. “Actually, I thought something like this might come up. I’ve had Michael checking into the permit situation in Boston as well as Orlando.”

“You’re kidding! He didn’t say a word.”

“He knows how to keep a confidence. I didn’t want you to suspect I was second-guessing you.”

“Great.”

“Hey, kid, it’s a show we should have done before this.”

She grinned, suddenly feeling a tremendous sense of relief. “But you and Gina were looking forward to doing the whole Disney thing.”

“We’ll still do it. We’ll just reschedule. And the kids won’t mind—they didn’t really understand what was going on anyway.”

She smiled. He had a point. At eight months, the twins undoubtedly didn’t care one way or the other whether they got to see Mickey Mouse or not.

“Do you want something to eat?” he asked her. “Or are you just going to drink your lunch?” He indicated her beer glass. It was empty, and she didn’t even remember drinking the whole thing.

“I am Irish,” she muttered.

He laughed, leaning forward again. “Hey! No ill will intended. I just wondered if you wanted food or not.”

“Yes, yes, I guess I should eat.”

“They make a nice salad here.”

“Great. I think I’ll have a hamburger.”

“Ah, we’re being a wild renegade today, eh?” He teased, motioning to their waiter.