The Delaney Woman (10 page)

Kellie had always loved Galway. Her father, a devout Nationalist, had thrilled her with stories of the violent, renegade clans that populated the west of Ireland, a land of bogs and misty mountains and cairn stones with wild, pagan markings where Irish dynastic lines were true Celt, untainted by English or Scots blood. She'd listened, wide-eyed and silent as he called up the fierce O'Flahertys, the O'Malleys and Granuille, their pirate queen, who exacted tribute from Elizabeth herself. Today, Galway's charm lay in narrow, medieval streets, lichen-aged buildings, smoky pubs, cozy teahouses, traditional music that began at ten and continued throughout the night and plays written, directed and played out by Ireland's most talented playwrights. Kellie had never attended its world-renowned film festival or women's writing conference, but she'd heard of them and it was enough to be in a city that fostered such an appreciation of the arts.

Kellie stared in amazement at the bookstore. This was not the Kenny's of her memory. Once a dark, musty world of lost books and twisting stairways, Kenny's Bookstore was now a famous landmark. Large windows let in the light. Books were categorized according to subject. Shelves were widely spaced for browsing and Irish art filled the walls of all three stories. Cups and saucers with the makings for tea sat out on a low table and overstaffed chairs filled the corners of the store.

Tom spoke close to her ear. “Don't let the trappings fool you. Kenny's is still the finest bookstore in all of Ireland. Everything you need will be here.”

And it was so. Normally, Kellie would have lost herself in the neoclassic section where Irish writers wrote of Ireland, evoking images of peat smoke and peat bogs, the smell of rain on the wind and wet wool and growing things, of too thin children with light, clear eyes, no shoes and bowed legs, of rich green soil and lively music, of stories that lasted for days and men who'd lived on the dole for so long they no longer cared to work. Theirs was a language rich in words of emotion tightly repressed, a storied world of women who shook hands and men who drank and swore and replayed wars in which they took no part. The Ireland of Yeats and Synge, Stephenson and Wilde was not the Ireland of Behan and Heany, Flannagan and Kilpatrick. Those who earned degrees from Trinity were not the same as those who were prevented from applying because of their religion and their heritage, men who drank themselves free of worry every night and staggered home to cold-water flats. Those were the writers whose words burned Kellie's soul. What did William Butler Yeats know of physical suffering, he with his housekeeper and valet and butler to ease life's discomforts?

Casually, she wandered among the shelves, back and forth, glancing occasionally at Tom. When she was sure he was absorbed, she moved purposely to the back of the store. The history and politics section was tucked away in an alcove by itself, the books categorized by centuries. Her fingers trailed across the spines, disregarding the rising, the revolution, the early years of the troubles. A title caught her eye. She stopped, pulled the book and flipped through it to the slick photos in the center. Faces of Sinn Fein, the Nationalist party jumped out at her, men and women who'd changed the course of Irish history, Gerry Adams, Martin McGinnis, Siobhan O'Flannery. They were well-known political faces. What of the others, she wondered? Where were they? She reached for another book, turned the pages and placed it back on the shelf. She pulled out another and still another. Completely engrossed, she didn't notice the passing time.

“Are you looking for something in particular?”

Startled, she dropped her book. “No,” she stammered, reaching for it. “I just wanted some information.”

“May I?” Tom held out his hand.

She hesitated, reluctant to have him see her choice. There was no reasonable explanation for refusing him. She handed over the book.

He glanced at it briefly and returned it to her. “What is it that you're looking for?”

An idea rooted in her brain. Why not? she thought. The truth was always easiest. “I've been living in England for a long time. I want to know what's happened since I left, from an Irish perspective. I want to know what the world thinks of Ireland.”

“Why?”

“I'm curious. Everything's changed. People accept one another. Why now and not five years ago? What's the difference?”

“You won't find that in these books.”

“Where will I find it?”

“Most likely in the economics and computer sections.”

“I don't understand.”

He took her hand, pulled her forward and tucked it under his arm. “Let's go for a cup of tea and I'll explain it to you. Then you can come back and choose your reading material.”

He chose a restaurant that served considerably more than tea. It was noon and Kellie was hungry. They ordered rare beef, boiled potatoes and a pale ale that left her warm and slightly dizzy. Over tea, he brought up the subject of politics.

“For the first time Ireland is competitive. The European Union has helped us dramatically. We're exporting computers, offering jobs, educating our population. Men and women are working. Many expatriates are returning. The church has lost its influence. Large families are anachronistic. Everyone has a television. We've been pulled into the modern era. Gunfights and pipe bombs no longer have their appeal when opportunity exists for all.”

“What about in the Six Counties?”

“Our universities are filled with Catholics. Educated people think differently about blowing up neighborhoods, although I don't know if we'll ever really be friendly with one another.”

“What about you, Tom? Have you truly put it all behind you?”

“God, yes. It was a miserable existence, not knowing where it was safe to sleep at night, living from one day to the next. That's no way to live.”

He spoke to her as if telling a story, as if she had no part in those early days. She wondered if he realized it.

His next words shattered the rosy glow of the ale. “Tell me what you're doing here in Banburren. I think I deserve to know.”

The blood drained from her face. She felt weak, vulnerable, unable to move her hands or lips. She knew the words she was supposed to say. She'd practiced them often for just such a moment. But they wouldn't come. She hadn't the energy to formulate another lie. “I can't,” she managed. At least that was the truth.

“That argument is old.”

She shook her head. “I'm sorry.”

“Is this about Claire, my wife?”

“No.”

“What then?”

Again she shook her head.

Her hands were on the table. He took them in his and leaned forward. “It's possible that I can help you. I can't be sure. But unless you trust me, nothing is possible. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Will you think about it?”

“Yes.”

“Is Kellie Delaney your real name?”

“Yes.”

“Has someone sent you?”

“Not exactly.”

“What does that mean?”

“Nothing. It means nothing.” She threw up her hands. “I don't know what I mean. The reason I came no longer exists. I should go home.”

“Is there something pressing waiting for you at home?”

“My job.”

“You said you'd taken a leave.”

“Yes.”

His voice was soft, his words revealing. “Can you stay a bit longer?”

“Why would you want me to do that?”

“I'd like to know you better.”

Her eyes met his briefly. Then she looked away. How ironic life was to bring Tom Whelan to her in such a way. All of her childhood friends were married with children, their days filled with normal decisions like what to eat or which bill to pay or should Liam go to school despite his runny nose. Why wasn't it the same with her? Had she been born with fairy debt, that her life should run along a different track than most? What did one say to a man whose life one entered with a lie?
By the way, I came to implicate you in the murders of my brother and nephew. Do you mind?
Such a confession merited a response, and most likely it would be a vindictive one and rightly so. She sighed. “That isn't a good idea.”

His eyes were level and very blue as they flicked across her face. “No,” he said. “I suppose not.”

T
hey cut the day short. Their drive home was silent, tension filled, all thoughts of Kenny's or any other Galway novelty forgotten. She would tell him nothing more. Tom knew despair when he saw it. He knew she lived it along with frustration and anger, nearly every conscious moment. Kellie Delaney was a strong woman, intelligent and composed. She'd taken risks coming here, giving up her job, searching through his computer files. Yet she was compassionate and warm, as well. Quite simply, he was taken with her. At first it was because of her resemblance to Claire. Now, it was for herself. He wanted to know her, all of her. He wanted to know if it was even possible. Her reticence was making it very difficult.

They argued for nearly an hour with no results. She was afraid. He tried another approach. “Am I in danger?”

Her nostrils flared sharply. “No.” She hesitated. “I don't think so. Perhaps.”

“Would you tell me if I was?”

“Yes.”

“Why should I believe you?”

“Because you have no alternative,” she snapped. “Please,” she leaned her head against the window. “Don't badger me. I can't take any more.”

He said nothing farther until they left the M6, twenty kilometers from Banburren.

“Tell me about your schooling.”

She looked skeptical.

“Surely that's a harmless question?”

“I suppose so,” she said slowly. “Why do you want to know?”

He shrugged. “Curiosity and to make conversation.”

“My degree is in Irish literature. I graduated from Queen's. You already know that. There's nothing more.”

“And now I've got you scrubbing toilets.”

She laughed and he felt some of her darkness lift.

He was thinking out loud. “You don't seem to be a woman who acts on impulse. In fact, I've never known a woman to think as much as you do.”

“That's a very sexist comment.”

“This is Ireland, Kellie. We've come a long way but we're not there yet. Actually my comment was intended as a compliment.”

“Thank you.”

“What will you do when this is over?”

She looked at him. “What do you mean? Are you throwing me out?”

“That's a ridiculous question.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because you should know by now that I would never hurt you. Besides—”

“What?”

He grinned. “You're a marvelous cook.”

She looked incredulous. “You're an odd man, Tom Whelan, to find amusement in a situation like this one.”

“Humor can make all the difference when things seem too difficult.”

She stared out the window.

He changed the subject. “Your resemblance to my wife is remarkable.”

“Is she still your wife?”

“In name only.”

“I'd like to see a photo.”

“There are more differences between you than similarities.”

“Such as?”

“Small things. The way you carry yourself. The texture of your hair is thicker, wavier. Your voice is different. Claire has a fair singing voice although she thinks it's better than it is. She's mastered the high notes, but her range is poor. You, on the other hand, can't sing at all and you're clearly right-handed. Claire has no preference. She's ambidextrous. Although she nearly always uses her right hand, she can write and work as well with her left. I don't think I've seen anyone as right dominant as you are. You're hopeless with your left hand.”

She stared at him. “Good lord,” she whispered. “Do you notice everything?”

He laughed. “Not everything. I'm just particularly observant when it comes to you.”

Her throat went dry. She had to ask even though she both dreaded and craved his answer. “Why is that?”

“I think the answer is obvious.”

“I'd like to hear it anyway.”

If that wasn't an invitation, he was an idiot.
A spatter of rain blurred the windshield. Visibility was nonexistent. Tom pulled over to the side of the road. He turned to look at her, blue eyes intense. “I'm attracted to you, Kellie. I haven't felt this way since I fell in love with Claire. I want to know you better and I'm wearing myself out trying to find a way to interest you.” He laughed. “Christ. I haven't even kissed you and I'm declaring myself.”

“That can be remedied,” she said softly.

Not taking his eyes from her face, he drew her toward him. Gently he touched the bones of her face, her chin, her cheeks, her lips and then he bent his head and found her mouth.

“My God,” he said when he could breathe again.

“Yes.”

He leaned toward her again.

She stopped him, her finger against his lips. “May I ask you a question?”

“Go on.”

“Do you have enemies?”

He thought a minute. “Other than my wife, no.”

“Tell me about her.”

“We didn't part on the best of terms and we haven't been in touch for more than seven years. I know she's still in prison, or at least she was. That's all I know.”

“Do you still love her?”

“No,” he said woodenly, all his previous warmth wiped away with the monosyllable.

“I'm sorry,” she whispered. “I had to know.”

“We're nearly home,” he said ignoring her apology and turning back to the wheel. “My mother will have Heather. Don't worry about a meal. I'll fend for myself.”

The next morning Tom walked into the bakery at the corner of High Street and Carlisle. The yeast smell was strong and irresistible and the temptation of hot bread on a cold morning too great to pass up. His sister-in-law stood near the counter paying for her purchase.

“Hello, Kate.”

She turned, a smile lighting her face. “Tom. What brings you out so early on a Saturday morning?”

“Sun and appetite. And you?”

“The same. I always intend to sleep in on the weekends but I never do.” She motioned toward an empty table. “Will you share a pot of tea with me?”

He hesitated, saw the hurt spring into her eyes and changed his mind. “Of course. Sit down. I'll order the tea.”

“How is Kellie?” she asked when they were seated opposite one another.

“Well, thank you. She enjoys working at the library. Thank you for that.”

“They're lucky to have her.”

“I'm lucky to have her. She's worth far more than free meals and lodging.”

“What about you, Tom? It's been quite some time since I've seen you. How have you been?”

He sipped his tea. Kate was his sister-in-law, James's widow. She was incredibly attractive, warm and companionable. He was fond of her and even though she'd married his brother and settled in Banburren permanently, she was from the Republic, a world apart, and he had the Northerners' natural reticence toward those he hadn't grown up with. He'd flirted with her on occasion, when she invited it, and meant nothing by it. But she had taken it to heart and he'd been sorry for it later. It left him with an uncomfortable feeling in her presence and, ever since, he had discouraged confidences between them. “I'm doing well,” he said evasively, and turned the subject. “How are you faring, Kate?”

She smiled brightly. “School never changes. I'm looking forward to my holiday. I'm thinking of traveling a bit this time, maybe to France or Italy.”

“Now, there's a plan.”

She sugared her tea. He noticed her hands. The skin was smooth, the nails tapered, well cared for.

“Do you have any desire to leave Banburren, Tom?”

“It has crossed my mind.”

“Why did you never leave? Surely, anywhere would have been better than this town after Claire—” She left the rest of the sentence unsaid.

“Heather needed her family and I needed a place to live. Ex-prisoners aren't always well received.” He was uncomfortable with the intimate nature of the conversation. Damn it, why did the woman always come back to this? “Are you feeling trapped, Kate? Are you thinking of leaving Banburren?”

Her laugh was brittle. She looked over his shoulder and then down at her cup, everywhere but at him. “There really is nothing for me here. At times I think I'm wasting my life.”

“That depends on your expectations. Your profession is an important one.”

“I'd like to marry again,” she confessed. “I want children of my own.”

“I understand.”

“What about you, Tom? Will you divorce? I thought—” She stopped.

He looked at her, steadily, forcing her to meet his gaze. “It took a great many words for you to say that, Kate.”

“Yes, it did. Forgive me, but there was a time when I thought that maybe you and I—”

“You were mistaken. If I've given you any reason to believe otherwise, I apologize.”

Her eyes were very bright. “Don't be ridiculous. You've nothing to apologize for.” She stood, leaving her tea. “Say hello to Kellie for me.”

He nodded. “I will.”

Tom paid the bill and left the shop. He was late. Kellie and Heather would be having breakfast. He wondered if they had waited for him. Probably not. Heather was always ravenous in the morning and Kellie had no expectations, nor did she make any demands where he was concerned. He could be gone a week and she wouldn't ask him where he'd been. Tom didn't know whether to be grateful or annoyed. There was a time when independence had meant everything to him. With maturity had come wisdom. Freedom often meant a man had nothing to lose. There was comfort in a home and a woman's concern. He wondered if he would ever be worthy enough to warrant such a gift.

She was in the sitting room reading the paper, her stockinged feet close to the fire. She looked up when he came in and smiled, yesterday forgotten, a woman who didn't carry grudges. He liked that. He liked everything about her.

“Heather is still asleep,” she said softly. “I thought I'd wait for her before making breakfast.”

He relaxed. Breakfast with his family was not to be denied him after all. He sat down across from her and reached for a section of the paper. He wanted to share his morning and yet he felt vestiges of guilt. He had, in a small way, led Kate on. Even though his marriage was a sham it disturbed him, not because of Claire, oddly enough, but because of what he had now, a skeleton of a life with his child and with Kellie. He didn't want to upset it “I saw Kate at the bakery,” he volunteered. “She said to say hello.”

“How is she?”

“Well enough. She's making noises about leaving Banburren again.”

Kellie set aside the paper. “In the beginning I thought we might be friends. But it didn't work out.”

Tom felt the warmth rise in his face. “Why not?”

“I'm not sure. My fault, most likely.”

He felt a surge of anger. “Why do you say that?”

She looked surprised. “What?” “Why do you always take the blame for everything? Perhaps it's she who is at fault.”

She stared at him without apology, eyes huge and clear and guileless. How could a woman with eyes like that harbor a secret?

“I didn't think to place blame anywhere, Tom. There's none attached when people don't suit one another. I've never been one for female friendships, except once.”

“Tell me about her.” Tom was intrigued at this voluntary admission of another life.

Kellie shrugged. “She was bright and lovely and fantastically loyal. She took me in when I needed a friend.”

“An Englishwoman?' '

“Yes.”

“Where is she now?”

“In England.”

“I'm sorry. I was prying again.”

“Don't be. I wouldn't have told you at all except that you're thinking poor Kate is snubbing me.”

He laughed. “I stand corrected.”

She took a deep steadying breath. “I came here because the two people I loved most in the world were killed in an auto accident.”

He nodded, afraid to speak for fear of dispelling her mood.

“They were murdered.”

Again the brief, inadequate words. “I'm sorry.”

She nodded and looked at her hands.

“Was the killer found?”

“No.”

Her admission, bald, understated, smote him.
Who was this woman?
“Would you rather have not loved them?”

She looked up, arrested. “What an odd question. No one has ever asked me that before. They say it was God's will, but no one ever says would it have been easier if I'd loved them less.” She thought a minute. “Do you think it would have been?”

She'd lost him. “Easier, do you mean?”

She nodded.

“Perhaps, but losing someone isn't all that the grief is about. It's about patterns as well, rising together in the morning, tea and biscuits after dinner, the safe comfort of another person who cares if you come through the door at night. That's part of the loss, as well. So, despite what they say, loving someone more or less may have very little to do with how easy it is.”

“I'm not sure I understand you.”

He stood and reached for the poker, stirring the embers of the fire. They burst into flame, a surge of warmth in the morning chill. “I'll give you an example. A woman, a mother of forty years, loves her son. She lives in Dublin, he in Ardara with his family. For some reason, his life is cruelly cut short. She mourns him dreadfully but her routine doesn't change. She lunches with the ladies once a week, gardens in the morning, Mass at nine. Her life, except for holidays, is the same. Now, take the mother of a child Heather's age. She wakes her seven-year-old every morning, walks him to school, reads to him at night, looks across the table and sees his face at every meal. Without him her life is irrevocably changed. Both mothers love their children, but who suffers more?”

Kellie's cheeks whitened. “You're very good at painting pictures.”

“Too good, from the look of you. I'm sorry if I disturbed you.”