IRISH FIRE (15 page)

She felt Caitlins eyes on her and knew there would be no respite tonight, not unless she wanted to damage the small inroads theyd made toward closing the misunderstandings in their relationship. More than any of the others, Brigid wanted this daughter to be settled within herself. If talking about Sean Keneally would accomplish that, she would do it.

We met when I was on holiday in Galway, she began, on a clear spring day. I thought Id never seen anythin so beautiful as the blue waters of Galway Bay, the blue sky above it, and the green islands sittin like sleepin whales in the sea. I wanted t see them desperately but I hadnt the money for the ferry so I pawned my watch and bought a one-way ticket. I cant imagine how I could have done such a thing with no regard for gettin home. All I could think about were those lovely green islands and the stories Id heard about silkies and mermaids and people who spoke Irish and lived by the old ways. She held out her hands and stared at the thin skin and high ropy veins. Everything had changed. I know its hard t imagine, Caitlin, but I was something of a romantic in those days.

There was no misunderstanding Caitlins expression. Brigid rather enjoyed bringing that look of wonder to her daughters face. It occurred to her that Caitlin had never known her as a young woman, not the way Anne and Deirdre had. Perhaps this purging that had been forced upon her would bring the girl closer.

Sean was standin on the cliffs below Dun Aengus, spreading out his fishin nets when I first saw him, Brigid remembered. The sun blazed down, colorin him, capturin the blue of his shirt, his hands and face burned dark from the sun, his hair shiny and dark as a birds wing. Her voice went reverent and soft as she called up the beauty of him, that deceptive archangel beauty that had knocked her off balance and swept her away as easily and surely as the reversing tide had sucked the sand out from under her feet.

She laughed self-consciously. He stayed in my mind like a photograph, the spareness of him, the sure capable movements, the liftin of his hand t wave in the ferry, his smile as we sailed by. I was sure hed smiled for me.

Perhaps he had, Mum. You were beautiful. Ive seen the pictures.

Brigid shook her head. There were quite a few of us on the boat. I doubt he could even see me. We met later that afternoon. I couldnt afford to rent a bicycle so I walked the five miles to the old fort and climbed to the top. It came back to her so clearly that the room tilted the same way the sky had that day when shed stood on the precarious edge of the Celtic fort and looked down at the crashing waves. One slight misstep, one brief moment of dizziness on that treacherous point and it would all have ended right there. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply until the sick feeling disappeared and she could speak again.

He called out a warnin when he was still a distance away, worried that he might startle me. I turned and waited for him t close the distance between us. He walked with that loose-limbed, toe-turned-in kind of walk that islanders have. I remember thinkin he was the most beautiful man Id ever seen and that I wasnt nearly good enough to have him. Not that I was hard on the eyes as far as women went, but nothin like him. Her mouth twisted. I suppose that was my undoin. If he hadnt been so handsome I might have looked more closely at other things. As it was, no two people could have been less alike.

Caitlin challenged her. Am I like him?

No, replied Brigid fiercely. Youre nothin like him. He couldnt say no t a pint if he was fallin down drunk, and there are a good many women who still cant look me in the eye because of his shenanigans. No one on earth had less character than Sean Keneally. Be grateful that you have none of him in you.

A troubled frown appeared above Caitlins eyebrows. I dont understand.

Theres nothin t it, said her mother, hastily. Youre a hard worker, Caitlin, and honest, never mind the pranks you played in your youth. There isnt anyone living or dead who would call you dishonorable. Sean was another story. He couldnt settle on anythin. He was always lookin for an easy way t make money. The years went by. We bought the pub with money left t me by my mother. His heart wasnt in it. We grew apart and then he died.

And then I was born, Caitlin finished for her.

Aye, said Brigid, avoiding her daughters gaze. You were born.

It must have been difficult for you, a widow with a new baby.

Brigid didnt miss the catch in her voice. Actually, she lied, it wasnt as difficult as you might expect. People helped. Assumpta and John OShea were wonderful friends. I have no regrets, Caitlin, if thats what you think.

Im sorry, Mum.

Brigid lifted astonished eyes to her daughters face. Whatever for?

For intruding on you like this, for failing at my marriage. She dropped her head into her hands. Maybe I shouldnt have come home. My degree isnt worth anything here. Im not trained except to work with horses and the only experience I have was at Claiborne Farms. She laughed bitterly. Somehow, I dont think Sam will give me a good job reference.

Theres no need t worry about that now. You can always stay here, you know.

We need a home of our own, Mum. Annie isnt used to this. Maybe, when were on our own, when we can keep the horses with us, shell settle in. Of course, theres the possibility that the horses wont bring in any money at all.

Thats unlikely, replied Brigid.

Caitlin lifted her head. Brian thinks the colt has a diseased voice box that will prevent him from racing. Because its inherited he wont let me breed
Kentucky Gold
here at the stud.

Good Lord. Brigid looked properly horrified. Is that why youre goin away together?

Of course. What other reason would there be?

Brigid stared into her daughters troubled eyes. Could a woman reach the age of thirty-one, marry, bear children, and still retain the naivete of a school girl? She reached across the table and patted Caitlins hand. No other reason at all, love. None at all.

T
wenty years from now what would Annie think of her, Caitlin wondered. Would she consider her mother a failure or would she recognize that it took a fair amount of courage to come back to Ireland? The question hit Caitlin full force in the sitting room of Robert Farlows white-washed cottage with its narrow stairs and thatched roof, its red door, its tiny windows that framed the sea, and its open hearth fire showering sparks on the icy flagstone floor.

It was in Spiddal, a town in the heart of the Gaeltacht, that she realized how great was the leap between what shed been taught and what she now believed. Catholic girls from Kilcullen were told that it was up to a woman to shape her husband into a man she could bear to live with for half a century. If a man had no woman to refine him, to polish the edges of his gruff and blundering ways, he would live alone like this man did, this man who was the best equine veterinarian that Ireland had to offer. Or he would find another woman, and another after that, like Sam and her own father had, and the blame would be the womans. Caitlin was more than a Catholic girl from Kilcullen. Shed fallen into the trap but she was free now. She would make sure that Annie never fell at all.

The veterinarian had left abruptly for an emergency call, a call more life-threatening than the diagnosis of a Claiborne coltone among many promising, long-legged, high-stepping, well-muscled colts from a rich mans stables. Only, what Caitlin hadnt had time to explain was that this colt was different. This one belonged to her and if Brian Hennessey had his way, it might be the only one that ever did.

She rubbed her arms against the chill and stared out at the Atlantic. Brian had gone out for food nearly an hour ago. The quiet was unsettling. Perched on a hill overlooking the sea, the cottage windows faced west, framing the ocean and the three Aran islands in the distance. The sun was sinking fast and the light, that unusual soft glow that only the finest artists could capture, was fading so that the land and sky, now leached of color, blended together in a swirl of twilight gray.

Here where the boundaries between heaven and earth were not so clearly defined, she could see why villagers saw faeries and wee people along their paths, and why those who needed repairing of the spirit returned time after time to this fey land far enough to the west and remote enough from reality to seem another world. Here, in the absence of city dust, anything was possible and yet nothing mattered, nothing but the comfort of a warm fire and a full stomach and a brown-gray sea that rose to meet the sky.

The lights flickered and came back, dimmer than before. Fear of a black-out spurred her into action. She searched the kitchen and found two thick candles, a book of matches, and a package of fire starter. Banking several pieces of turf so that it formed a pyramid, Caitlin struck a match, lit the starter, and buried it in the middle of the pyramid. Then she added several more pieces to the top, burying the flame completely. There was more than enough turf in the basket by the hearth to keep the fire going through the night, and the doctors cupboards had a plentiful, if dull, supply of Campbells tomato soup and saltine crackers. If only Brian would come back.

Bored, she began opening cupboards. Perhaps it was a bit presumptive but Robert Fowler was Brians friend and hed insisted they make themselves comfortable in his home. Caitlin pulled out a bag of sugar, a tin of baking powder, salt, and a large bin filled with flour. Inside the refrigerator she found butter, milk, and green apples, everything for apple cobbler. She would make an extra large one and leave the bulk of it for the veterinarian.

She ran her finger down the blades of two knives, chose one, picked up an apple and, working quickly from the top, peeled it until she had a long corkscrew length of apple skin. Six more apples joined the first. Then she cored and sliced them into even segments. Setting a stick of butter in the middle of a square baking pan, she turned on the oven and slipped the pan inside.

Into a glass bowl, she emptied the ingredients, stirring with a wooden spoon until all the lumps had disappeared. Then she pulled the pan of melted butter from the oven, poured in the flour mixture and arranged the apples on top. After placing the pan in the oven, she looked at the clock, set her watch, and washed the bowl and utensils before returning to the sitting room.

The turf had caught fire and the room was comfortably warm. She had settled into the couch with the latest copy of
Irish Field
when the glare of headlights announced the arrival of an automobile. Tossing the magazine aside, she crossed the room to open the door and sighed with relief.

Brian walked toward her carrying two paper bags, one large, one small. Something smelled delicious. He grinned. Hungry?

Starving.

This should do the trick. Ive fish and chips with a bottle of wine to wash it down.

She could have kissed him but settled on removing the larger bag from his grasp. Ill dish out the food. You can pour the wine.

He followed her inside. Any word from Fowler?

Caitlin shook her head. Not yet. Did you check on the colt?

Twisting the corkscrew, Brian pulled the cork from the bottle, reached into the cupboard for two glasses, and poured the wine. Hes fine. Roberts compound is the best there is. Theres a woman on duty. Shell call us when he gets in.

She had a weakness for chips, salty and rich with oil as only the Irish could make them. Dividing the entire lot evenly between the two plates, she gave Brian an extra serving of fish and decided on the small coffee table in the sitting room.

Its warmer in here, she explained when he came out of the kitchen carrying two whiskey tumblers.

He nodded, sat down beside her on the couch and held out a glass. Apparently Robert isnt a wine drinker. This is all I could find. Im sure it wont affect the taste.

Slainte
.
Caitlin touched her tumbler to his and sipped tentatively. The wine was very dry, with a smooth finish and a hint of white chocolate and apples. This is excellent, she said approvingly.

He leaned back, one arm stretched out along the back of the couch. You sound surprised.

When I left Ireland, Irish men knew about whiskey and ale. No one would admit to knowing wine.

Ireland has changed.

The red rose in her cheeks. Yes, it has.

I imagine there are a great many things you wouldnt expect of us.

Chastened, she picked up a chip and bit into it. Flavor exploded against her tastebuds. Ummm, she moaned, these are wonderful. Ignoring everything but the delicious, gritty pleasure of the grease-soaked Irish praties, she made her way through the generous serving. Not until shed wiped the last salty morsel across her plate and popped it into her mouth did she look up.

Brians eyes danced with laughter. Hed left his food untouched.

Arent you hungry?

Aye. But I can wait. Its entertainin to watch you eat.

She flushed. I dont always eat like this.

You said that the last time.

The last time we had carrot soup, she corrected him, and, if I recall, you were the one who had two servings.

So I did. Youre a grand cook.

Caitlin looked at his plate and then eyed her fish. Im not especially hungry any more.

Brian laughed and picked up his knife and fork. Eat the rest of your meal, Caitlin. I went to considerable trouble to find somethin that was open. There is nothin wrong with enjoyin food. Besides, theres a delicious smell comin from the oven and Im sure you grew up with the same rule I did, no dessert until you finish your tea.

She watched him work his way through his own meal before attempting the fish. He was a strange one, sometimes so helpful and friendly, other times probing, serious, and difficult to read. An island man, her mother had called him, one of those who never truly adapted to life on the mainland. And yet, he didnt seem out of place in Kilcullen. He was quieter than most. The silver-tongued muse, an Irishmans birthright, appeared to be missing in this man who thought deeply, angered slowly, and chose his words more carefully than most.

No, Brian Hennessey was hardly a typical specimen, despite the wry wit shed surprised out of him on occasion. Here, on this windswept shelf of land that looked out over the Atlantic, he seemed more relaxed, more comfortable with the silences that settled between them after a long bout of words. Perhaps shed misjudged him. Perhaps he wasnt really all that content in Kildares horse country. She resumed her chewing. Pity. John OShea couldnt have found a better replacement if hed scoured the length of Ireland. Brian had magic in his hands, those thin, capable, brown hands, a combination of sun and genes handed down by a remote ancestor washed ashore from a mythical Spanish galleon centuries earlier.

Do you miss your home? she asked suddenly.

He considered her question. She liked the way he thought before speaking as if giving her a careful answer was of prime importance. I miss the way it was, he said at last. Everythins changed. I wouldnt go back now.

Whats changed?

People for one thing. My parents are dead. My sisters have moved on.

But surely you have relatives and friends.

Inishmore is a small place, Caitlin. Only eight hundred people actually live on the island. Everyone who can moves away to the mainland. Theres no work there.

My father was born there. Id like to see it.

He nodded. There are a number of Keneallys on Inishmore. If youre not in a rush to get home, we could take the ferry over for the afternoon.

Regretfully, she turned down his invitation. Ive got to be home for Annies first day at Saint Patricks. Shes expecting me.

He conceded easily. Next time.

I suppose so. Her disappointment was great.

Do you think whatever you cooked up while I was out is ready? Brian asked hopefully.

Youre not such a light eater yourself, Caitlin observed as she collected the plates and headed into the kitchen.

The cobbler was perfect, buttery and thick with apples. Folding a towel several times, she pulled the dessert from the oven and spooned two servings, one generous, one small, on to saucers, the only small plates she could find. Then she filled the kettle, settled it over a burner and while the water heated, dusted the cobbler with cinnamon and poured a tablespoon of thick cream over the larger serving.

Brian stood in the doorway. Can I help you?

She handed him the plates. Take these in while I fix our tea.

Which ones mine?

The small one, she said with a perfectly straight face.

Well then, Brian countered just as seriously, if you dont mind, Ill have a bit of cream on mine as well.

There isnt any more.

He nodded to the carton on the counter. Whats that?

Its empty.

Im sure theres another drop or two. Be a love, Caitlin, and shake it over my cobbler.

She burst out laughing. All right. I give up. Yours is the large one. I couldnt possibly eat any more after all those chips.

Do you have somethin against cream? he asked.

Just the calories. I have to watch them, she admitted. Im not twenty any more.

His glance was brief but appreciative. Youve done a good job of it, he said softly before turning back to the sitting room.

It was no more than a offhand remark, nothing like the comments shed endured from Sams acquaintances after theyd spent an afternoon swigging down bourbon, but it flustered her as if hed offered the most intimate of propositions and walked away, leaving it hanging between them.

She rinsed the tea pot with boiling water, threw in loose tea leaves and refilled it. Then she assembled the tray and followed Brian into the other room. On his face was a look of wonder. When he spoke, his words disarmed her completely.

If you werent still married, Caitlin Keneally, I would propose to you on the spot. I have never in my life tasted anythin like your apple cobbler.

She laughed, sat down beside him, and set the tray on the table. Be careful what you offer a woman. You may find yourself at the altar when you had no such intentions at all.

His voice changed, became softer, with a silky, breath-stealing edge. Are you tempted, lass?

Her heart skipped a beat. Not yet. She kept her answer light and poured milk into the cups, grateful that her hands remained steady. However, desperation often leads us in strange directions.