IRISH FIRE (28 page)

Settling back in his chair he looked at his mail first. An envelope with Weatherbys return address caught his attention. He tore it open, read it, and whistled softly. Son of a bitch, he said under his breath.

Irish Gold
s registration had been denied. Would Brian call at his earliest convenience? Turning to his computer screen, he moved the mouse to his mail icon and clicked. Six messages, one from John Chase at Weatherbys. Again Brian read the telling words.
Something of a serious nature has
been discovered that makes the timely registering of
Irish Gold
an
impossibility. His blood does not match the blood type of
Narraganset,
the sire listed on his application. This oversight
must be corrected immediately.
Chase would wait before contacting the owner on the outside chance that the error was the stud farms mistake.

Brian leaned back in his chair. It was all there, just as hed expected. The shrill double ring of the phone jarred him. He reached for it. Hennessey, he said automatically.

Hello, Brian. Its Caitlin.

Caitlin. As if she need bother to identify herself. Hello, he said softly, when did you get back?

An hour ago.

Only an hour and shed already called him. How did it go?

As I expected. I have until June to change my circumstances. Were appealing the decision. She didnt sound disappointed.

Are you all right with it?

Not exactly, but I have an idea, or rather it was Mums idea. Id like to tell you about it. When are you free?

Now.

She laughed and his heart lifted.

Ill be there in ten minutes.

Was it just his own biased opinion or did everyone see her as he did? She was beautiful, dressed in something dark blue and above the knee with white around the collar and cuffs. Later, when he thought about it, he could never describe what she wore but somehow it always suited her as if designed especially with her proportions and coloring in mind.

She stood in his doorway, dark hair pulled up in a twist at the back of her head, those tiny curls she could never control wisping around her face, a single pearl in both ears and at her throat. Her legsBrian allowed himself a good long look at her legs beautifully displayed in neutral-colored nylons beneath her dark skirt. He swallowed, lost his head, pulled her inside, closed the door, and kissed her. Without protest, she followed his lead as naturally and completely as if shed practiced the move a thousand times before.

A week can be a long time, she said shakily when he lifted his head.

He tightened his arms around her. I hoped youd think of it that way.

Do you want to hear my news?

She looked happier than hed ever seen her. Shed called him an hour after her return and shed kissed him without reservation. He had nothing to worry about. Brushing her lips once more, he kept hold of her hand and led her to the couch. Aye. Then Ill tell you mine.

Her eyes sparkled. Im going to start a training yard. She clutched his hand. I need to be able to support myself. One of the conditions for staying in Ireland is that Im employed here.

Brian was puzzled. He wasnt sure if his lack of understanding was due to her knee intimately pressed against his thigh or if his wits were truly scattered. Im not sure

Dont you see, Brian? I can make it here if you help me. Ive been helping Davy train at the Curragh for months now.

He did see. This wasnt the time to tell her he was leaving the Curragh. I may have a few horses for you, an overflow from the Stud.

I was hoping you would say that. She sat back on his couch and laughed out loud, as pleased as if
Graybeards
Lady
had won the Grand National.

He wanted to prolong this moment, her giddy delight, the flush in her cheeks, the warmth in her eyes and this feeling between them as if the very air itself crackled with a current that needed only the slightest charge to connect them.

Brian thought hed been the one to move first but maybe she had. He couldnt be sure because it was her words hed been listening to, the unbelievable words hed been prepared to wait months, even years for. She said them first, before he declared himself, before he told her about the house and the kitchen and how long hed waited, and how much he loved and wanted her forever.

Caitlin lifted her lips to the hard edge of his cheek and said them again in her lovely American voice with its flavoring of Irish. I dont know exactly how or when it happened, but I know that I love you. I hope thats all right.

Somehow, without his quite knowing how, she was in his arms again, the boneless weight of her melting against him, filling up his empty spaces, curve against hollow, cheek against jaw, hip against thigh, her breath warming the pulse point in his throat.

Her absence had made him weak. That could be the only explanation for what was happening to him. Pulling out the clasp that held her hair back, he threaded his fingers in the tangle of her curls and looked down at her face, a face without the classic beauty of Hillary Benedicts but far more lovely because it was uniquely, purely Caitlins. His gaze settled on her upper lip, bow-shaped, well-defined, slightly chapped, the lip she had given Annie.

She said something. He heard the words but they meant nothing. His hands cupped the back of her head, his thumbs tracing the bones of her cheeks. Her eyes closed, eyelashes dark half-moons against ivory skin. Gently, tentatively, he bent his head and again kissed her mouth.

The flare of her response encouraged him. The pressure of his lips changed, became harder, demanding. She was warm, warm from her laughter, warm from her love, warm from the touch of his lips. A wisp of hair had fallen across her forehead. He brushed it away and kissed her again. Her mouth opened and she kissed him back, thoroughly.

I cant get you out of my mind, he said, when he came up for air. I think about you every wakin hour. You haunt my dreams.

He felt her smile against his throat. Her fingers tickled his ribs, and her words, soft and low, were music to his ears. Tell me that you want me, Brian. You have no idea how much I need to hear you say the words.

Ive never wanted anythin more than I want you.

She laughed and his heart nearly burst with the pleasure of it. Pressing her back so that she lay on the couch cushions, he bent over her and kissed her mouth, her neck, the swell of her breasts below the vee of her collar.

He felt her fingers on the buttons of his shirt. Bracing himself with his hands on either side of her, he waited while she slipped the buttons out of their holes and pulled the fabric up out of his pants. Her hands were warm on his chest. The smell of her hair, the texture of her skin, the beat of her heart, the way her blood leaped under his palms and her breath caught in a long, shuddering sigh when his mouth found and settled on a sensitive spot brought him to the edge of a joy hed looked for his entire life.

This time he would see it through. He would tell her all of it. But first there was this. It took no time at all to remove her dress and hose. The sight of her, all ivory-colored skin and white lace, would have been enough to send him over the edge if she hadnt promised him with velvet fingertips and whispered words that there was more, so much more than hed hoped for.

Glowing embers from the fire threw off a golden light that lit her skin, washing it in gilt and bronze. Later, he would take off that bit of lace that bound her breasts and kiss every uncovered inch of her but now it was enough to feel her beneath him, to slide deeply inside of her, burying himself in heat and softness, Irish soap and French perfume. She tasted of mint and sweet cream and something herbal he didnt recognize.

Moving against her, he caught her rhythm and matched it. With words found only in the courage darkness brings, with urgent lips and seeking hands he carried her with him, harder and higher, until he felt the slight, nearly imperceptible shifting of her hip. Her breathing changed, quickened, shattering his control. Pressing his mouth against hers, he kissed her until his breath was gone and there was nothing left in him. He kept kissing her until her nails left marks in his flesh, stopping only when she moaned his name into the back of his throat.

His mouth touched the corners of her eyes and tasted wetness and salt. I love you, Caitlin, he muttered against her hair. Dont cry, my heart. Everythin will work out. Ill always love you. Ill wait forever if I have to. Please, dont cry.

I know, she whispered. Ive always known. But I was worried that you wouldnt tell me.

B
rigid looked at the clock and tapped her foot. Where was Kirsty? It was past time for her shift. The least the girl could do was have the courtesy to call when she was late. Grumbling to herself, Brigid dried the last of the glasses and set them on the shelf. At this rate Annie and Ben would be home before she had a chance to speak with Caitlin.

The door opened and Kirsty breezed into the room bringing with her the scents of pine and smoke and cinnamon, Christmas smells.

Brigid folded her arms. You took your time gettin here.

Kirsty looked guiltily at the clock. Its only ten minutes past the hour, Mrs. Keneally. I was helpin with the children at home. Sorry to keep you waitin.

Well, never mind then. Its Christmas after all. I just wanted to be home before Caitlin came back.

Youre a wee bit late for that, said Kirsty, tying her apron. Shes already home. We walked down the road together. Shes waitin at your house for the children to come from school.

All at once Brigid found it difficult to breathe. Her hand moved to her throat and she swallowed.

Kirsty glanced up and frowned. Are you all right, Mrs. Keneally?

Aye. The taste of fear was strong in her mouth. Ill be goin home a bit early today. Call me if you cant manage alone.

Make yourself a cuppa and lie down for a bit, advised the girl. Youll be right as rain tomorrow.

Brigid nodded and walked down the hall and up the small stairs to the living quarters of her house. This was a moment to be dreaded, perhaps not the most difficult moment she would face in the days to come, but certainly one of them.

The house was quiet. Had Caitlin gone out again? The kitchen and living room were empty. She drew a deep breath. Caitlin, are you here?

In here, Mum, her daughters voice called out from the small sitting room in the back of the house.

Bracing herself, Brigid passed what had once been Annies room and then Bens. She hesitated briefly, mustering her courage and walked through the door to the room that served as her study.

Caitlin sat in a deep chair with several opened envelopes on the floor beside her and a weeks worth of mail in her lap. She was frowning. Mum, Father Durans solicitor wants to see me. She looked up, a question in her eyes. Isnt that odd?

Brigid cleared her throat. It is a bit odd.

Caitlin looked at her watch. Its nearly three. I wont be able to see him today.

A weight lifted from Brigids heart. The children will be home soon. Theyve missed you.

Id rather you didnt say anything about the possibility of our moving back to Kentucky.

Not a word, Brigid promised.

* * *

Brigid drove to her daughters house the next morning. She was unusually gentle with Annie and Ben, lingering over breakfast and offering to drive them to school. Caitlin looked at her mother curiously. They can walk, Mum. Its a lovely morning for December. She pulled the curtains aside. The suns out. Come and see.

We want to ride with Gran, Ben informed his mother. I dont care if the suns out. Its still cold.

Its cold in Kentucky, too.

We rode the bus in Kentucky, Annie reminded her.

Caitlin threw up her hands. Oh, all right. Do as you please. I thought you might like a few minutes to yourself for a change.

Brigid pulled on her coat. Hurry up, you two. Remember, Annie. Its Bens turn to ride in front.

The children raced to the door, stumbled over each other, laughed breathlessly, and raced back to kiss Caitlin before running out to the car.

Caitlin sat down at the table, poured herself a second cup of tea and began to read the
Irish Times
.

Brigid walked to the door and hesitated.

Caitlin looked up from her paper and smiled. What is it?

I was just thinkin She stopped unable to find the right words. Why was it so difficult to say what she meant to this particular child? Determined to finish, she rushed her sentence, jumbling the words together. You could come with us if you like. We could take a drive to the Curragh and watch them bring the horses in.

Caitlin stared at her strangely. Id like to, Mum, but I have an appointment with Father Durans solicitor.

Brigid looked down at her hands. Slowly she unclenched them. Of course. Id forgotten. Will you be needin a ride?

Ill take the bus. What time is Kirsty coming in?

Not until two. Why?

We might be able to meet for lunch.

By lunch time, this new understanding between them would be completely destroyed. Why dont we try for tomorrow? Brigid said gently. Ill ask Kirsty t work the mornin shift.

All right.

Brigid nodded and walked quickly out the door to the car.

Two hours later she had driven the M1 all the way to the Dublin city center exit and back again. Now she was parked in Caitlins driveway trying to muster the courage to leave the car, walk into the house, and face her daughter. It was inevitable, really, this final penance, the weightiest of all by far.

Never once, in those dark years when she and Michael had swallowed each other whole and choked on the unpalatable mass of their guilt had she considered what God might ask of her in return for what shed taken from Him. Discovery she could have handled. Divorce, even scandal would have been manageable, but not losing her daughter. She closed her eyes against the burning tears beneath her eyelids.

Stepping out of the car, Brigid walked through the back door of the house. Curled up on the couch with her legs beneath her, Caitlin waited in the semi-darkness of the living room.

Hello, Brigid said warily.

Caitlin turned her head. Her face was expressionless, her eyes dark, unreadable, her mouth a slash of red against the clear, poreless skin. A sheaf of official looking papers lay in disarray on the floor. On the table, framed in dark walnut, was an oil painting of a young girl on a horse. Do you have something to tell me, Mother? Caitlin asked softly.

Mother
. Shed called her mother, not the familiar affectionate mum shed reverted to months ago. Suddenly Brigids legs felt wobbly. She sat down in the chair across from Caitlin. Perhaps its you who should ask the questions, she began cautiously.

That would suit you wouldnt it? Caitlin said bitterly. Because I dont know where to begin or even what to ask, again you would be spared from telling me the whole truth.

Brigid closed her eyes and leaned back in the chair. Age made its presence known at the strangest times. All right, she said wearily, Ill ask the questions. What happened at the solicitors office?

Surely, you know.

The contempt in her daughters voice nearly undid her. No, she said, her mouth working, how would I?

Caitlin could barely get the words out. Because of what you were, what the two of you were. Her voice cracked.

For the first time Brigid noticed tear tracks on her daughters cheeks. Im sorry, Caitlin, she said. Its a poor sort of apology Im offerin you, but there isnt anythin I can do t take back what Ive done.

Caitlin shook her head over and over as if she couldnt bear the pictures in her mind. How could you? How could you?

Brigid stared somewhere beyond her daughters shoulder. I dont know, she said at last. I cant imagine what came over me. It was a dreadful thing t do. Even now it would be dreadful, but then She lifted her hands and let them drop in her lap. I have no excuse except that I was married to a stranger. My life was movin into its second half and I was afraid I would never again know joy. We were just people, Caitlin. None of us can look back on all weve done and explain why.

You had five children.

Aye. Brigid smiled. And lovely girls they were, too, but I wouldnt have had the loveliest of them all were it not for Michael Duran. There. Shed said it out loud, finally, and despite her superstitions the roof had held, windows remained intact, and Caitlin stayed in her chair, her fist pressed against her mouth. Brigid relaxed a bit.

Did you love him?

Did she love him? A simple question, really. But love had many sides and the answer wasnt at all simple. What if that crisp autumn day all those years ago had begun differently? What if the leaves hadnt piled in drifts along country roads, and the sun hadnt thrown off a light that was sharp and pure? What if the air hadnt smelled of burning wood and the promise of a soft Irish rain. Sunlight was rare in Ireland. It did things to the mind. Sunlight, that day, had given Brigid a raw courage that showed its face at unexpected moments.

Brigid Keneally knew what it was to be in love. It had smothered, wrapped around, and nearly drowned her with the suffocating strength of its addiction. Passion had been new to her despite the children Sean had given her. She had been no match for the sheer power of physical sensation, the tenderness, the magic of a mans hands on her bare skin, his mouth seeking out places no man had ever touched before. Shed felt like a girl again, beautiful, firm, appealing, no matter that she was nearly forty years old, another mans wife, and the mother of more daughters than any woman should have. Without remorse, shed left them all to go to him, to be with him, to lay in his arms in the long golden grass, to kiss his mouth and feel his lips in her hair, on her breasts, and down the blade of her hip bone where the skin was still stretched and tight, new and young.

God alone knew what had given her the courage to lie to all who asked about her new sense of freedom, to hike up the public road to the glen, to run boldly into his arms, to take off her clothes without the slightest hint of self-consciousness while he looked on, to shamelessly touch him until he gasped with the strength of his own release.

It had rained that day drenching them completely, washing away layers of artifice, leaving what was hidden in their hearts shockingly exposed for the other to see. She would never again feel rain on her face without remembering the heat of those first stolen moments, a hard body, tight with passion, an insistent mouth urging her lips apart, exploring hands lifting her to levels of pleasure shed never known it was possible for a woman to reach. Even now, just remembering, brought an unaccustomed warmth to her chilled limbs.

Michael Duran had been new to the parish, a man destined for better things than a small country church in an Irish village that survived on the tourist trade, leavings of the more popular Kildare and Naas, one to the east the other to the west.
New,
in Ireland, meant he was still considered a stranger to the villagers despite the five years hed lived among them. He was invited to supper, spoken of with respect, his Masses were well attended, and his suggestions acted upon, but that was all.

The citizens of Kilcullen were slow to change, and a mere five-year apprenticeship was not enough for them to invite the new priest into their hearts. There were no friendly meetings at the Keneally pub, no street-bowling tournaments where he was invited to take part, no stopping by the rectory for a bit of cheer and an evening of friendly
craic
.

Somehow they knew, without anyone actually spelling it out, that Michael Duran was as different from a working class Irish peasant as a registered thoroughbred is different from a Connemara pony. Father Duran was an aristocrat: one of the anglo-Irish who hailed from the Six Counties; a descendant of those who had kept their land, evicted their tenants, made fortunes during the famine years, and sworn allegiance to the English crown.

Not that their resentment showed, mind you. They were too courteous for that. But it was there all the same. It grew as the years crept up on them and the priest stayed on. They were reminded of their own shortcomings when they listened to him speak in the Oxford educated tones of a well-bred Englishman. When he held out the communion wafer they glanced at his long patrician fingers with their manicured nails and nodded knowingly at each other. His sermons appeared humorless and stern, his subtle gentlemans wit escaping all but a few of the congregation. They looked upon his flat belly and his white, flawless teeth with suspicion, and when he took to walking country roads to visit his parishioners, they shook their heads, pursed their lips, and only guessed as to why a man with a perfectly good automobile would choose to use up the only legs God had given him in such a way.

Brigid was fascinated by him. Shed left school early but everyone knew she would have earned a leaving certificate if her family hadnt needed her in the pub. Reading was her passion. Yeats and Synge, Milton, Shakespeare, new Irish writers like Brendan Behan, Nuala OHalloran, and Liam OFlaherty. Writers who used words in ways shed never heard beforestirring words, words that lifted her soul, opened up worlds, exposed her to ideas no one else had ever heard of, much less suggested.