The Emerald Isle (27 page)

I caught a lucky break when Mr. O’Neil opened the door and caught me standing on the threshold like a nosy eavesdropper. He drew back, as startled as I was. “Can I help you?”

“I-I was looking for Patrick,” I stammered, backing away. “Thought I’d ask what time he wants to leave in the morning.”

“Ah.” Mr. O’Neil waved his hand in dismissal as he shuffled past me. “’Tis Friday night, so Paddy’s gone to the public house. All the men go there. Maddie and Taylor are likely there, too.”

I digested this news in silence. So, everyone decided to traipse
off and leave me alone? I could understand Taylor and Maddie wanting some time alone, but I knew a pub was a very public place—pun intended. They wouldn’t have surrendered any amount of privacy by inviting me to join them.

“Um, where is the pub?” I slipped my hands into my jeans pockets and tried to look casually interested. “Is it far?”

“Not at all.” Mr. O’Neil turned toward the front of the house and drew an imaginary map in the air. “You go to the end of the drive, turn right, and walk about ten minutes till you reach town. You can’t miss Dugan’s Pub. ’Twill be the only building with lights on and noise blasting out the door. There’s great music on Friday nights.”

I glanced up at the clock. “It’s already nine o’clock. If they’ll be coming back soon—”

“Och, girl, the boys don’t even start to play until half past. Go on down, be wit’ the young folks. Have a good time, and lift a pint in my stead, will you?”

Mr. O’Neil grinned at me then, and for a moment I saw a flicker of the man beneath the pain.

“All right.” I lifted my chin and took a step toward the stairs. “Will I be safe walking in the dark?”

“As safe as a babe in his mother’s arms.” Mr. O’Neil hesitated by the sink, then turned and gave me a smile. “Are you going then? Down to the pub?”

I hesitated, wondering what he meant. “I thought I might.”

He scratched his chin, looked around the kitchen counter as if he had misplaced something, then tilted his head and gave me a sly smile. “Wait for me, will you, lass? Let me get my coat, and I’ll walk you down. I couldn’t let a young woman walk alone at night, no matter how safe ’tis.”

The corner of my mouth twisted in a half-smile. “Mr. O’Neil, you’re not well. And your wife—where is she? She wouldn’t want you going out in the dark, not after the day you’ve had.”

“Herself is sleepin’, God love her, and what she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.” He shuffled to the back door and pulled a blue jacket
from a hook on the wall. When he turned again, his brows lifted in surprise. “Still there? Get your sweater, lass, and let’s get moving. I want to enjoy the music before my wits are too addled to recognize what I’m hearing.”

Uncertain and unsure, but grateful for the company, I raced up the stairs, pulled my sweater from the bed, and hurried down to meet my unlikely escort.

It took us half an hour to walk a distance I could have covered alone in fifteen minutes, but I didn’t regret aiding the escapee when I saw how joyously the crowd at Dugan’s Pub welcomed James O’Neil. The moment we walked through the door, a horde of Irishmen surrounded him. He winked at me and let himself be patted on the back, embraced, and led to the counter, where a bartender poured him a glass of dark murky stuff.

“Sure, and don’t I owe thanks to the lass who sneaked me out,” he shouted, turning to smile at me. He lifted his glass in my honor, then gestured to the man behind the bar. “Tell him what you’ll be havin’, Kathy.”

My smile jelled into an expression of shock as the question hammered at me. I was standing in an Irish pub, which appeared to be a shade more bar than restaurant, and this probably wasn’t the time or place to explain that I didn’t drink—not alcohol, anyway. I took a deep breath and adjusted my smile. “I’ll have a diet soda.”

As the men around the bar exploded in raucous laughter, the bartender’s brows lifted in surprise. “No Guinness?”

“Not for me.” I smiled and shook my head. No sense in going into detail here about my religious convictions, for the Irish certainly wouldn’t understand. As in most European countries, alcohol flowed here like water. Drunkenness was frowned upon, but strong black beer—Guinness, in particular—was considered the elixir of life. Later, if Mr. O’Neil asked, I might explain my teetotaling by telling him about the drunken driver who killed my parents. But at that moment I didn’t feel like offering explanations, especially depressing ones.

The bartender slid a diet soda across the counter to me, so I picked it up, thanked him, and left Mr. O’Neil in the company of his friends. Feeling awkward but desperate not to show it, I saw an empty chair against the wall and slipped into it. A small band had set up a keyboard, drums, and a guitar in the corner of the pub, and the musicians were still tuning their instruments. To my surprise, I saw Maddie and Taylor standing behind the keyboard. She whispered something to one of the musicians, then he smiled and pulled a sheet of paper from a folder. With a smile of satisfaction, she handed the paper to Taylor, who blushed and shook his head.

“Ladies and gents, attention please.” The guitar player thumped on his microphone until the crowd quieted. “Tonight we’re celebrating Maddie O’Neil’s hen party and her coming marriage to this nice young American. So if you’ll give Maddie your attention, she is going to lead us in ‘Paper and Pins.’ “

The music began, and Maddie stepped forward and clapped her hands, encouraging the audience to clap along. After a few seconds of musical introduction, she leaned into the microphone and sang,

The crowd laughed as she pulled Taylor forward, the sheet of paper in his hand. “Your turn,” she said in a stage whisper, and the crowd laughed as Taylor went crimson.

“No, I don’t want your paper and pins,” he sang, stumbling over the words and the rhythm, “and I won’t marry, marry marry marry, I won’t marry you.”

The pub crowd seemed to enjoy the catchy, lighthearted song—at least they enjoyed Maddie’s verses. Taylor and I seemed to be the only two people who thought it a bit embarrassing.

I glanced around the smoky pub, searching for Patrick, and wondered
if he’d be angry with me for bringing his father along. It didn’t take a brain surgeon to realize that this father and son didn’t agree on most things, but surely Patrick wouldn’t mind his dad getting out for a little fun.

I finally found him in a dark corner, talking to two other young men who seemed as sober and serious as Patrick. Like him, they all wore what I now considered the uniform of an Irish farmer—a hand-knit sweater, long trousers, and knee-high Wellingtons. I took another sip of my soda and rested my chin in my hand, wondering what Patrick wore when he worked on computers in Limerick. A short-sleeved shirt with a pocket protector? A sport coat with a Palm Pilot in the pocket? Somehow none of those images fit him as well as the sweater and jeans he wore now.

“So you’re the American staying with the O’Neils.” The older woman at the next table acknowledged my presence with a nod. “Working on a book, are you?”

“Yes.” I crossed my legs and shifted slightly, grateful that someone had spoken to me. “My book is about the O’Connors of Connacht. It’s very interesting work.”

The woman nodded again, her bright eyes beaming beneath a mass of small curls that twisted and crinkled across her forehead. “Ballyshannon’s a lovely place. And James and Fiona are lovely people.”

“Yes.” We shared a smile, and I had to admit that while the conversation wasn’t terribly exciting, it was…lovely.

“Terrible pity about Fiona’s only having the two children, and then having one go bad.” A weight of sadness fell upon my new friend’s face. “But I suppose you’ve heard the story by now.”

I sipped my soda, stalling for time while my thoughts raced. This woman had just led me to the brink of a fascinating topic, but if I said I didn’t know the story, she might clam up. Yet if I pretended to know what she was talking about, she’d continue without a word of explanation, and I needed explanations—or at least I
wanted
them. Curiosity, my mother always said, may have killed the cat, but it continually tortured me.

“I know about Patrick and his father,” I ventured, stepping out onto safe ground. “But I don’t know much about the family’s past.”

My friend’s face lit up with the jaunty superiority of a woman who knows a secret. “Well,” she said, leaning closer to me, “Fiona and James were overjoyed with the births of their lovely son and daughter, but the third baby nearly killed her. She woke up in hospital, with the doctors telling her they had to do a hysterectomy, don’t you see, to save her life. And the third baby, a lovely little fella, died at three days old. James was pure mad about that little one, and Fiona stayed in a desperate bad humor for months about losing the child and not being able to have any others. ’Tis a terrible fate for a woman to suffer, I’ve always said so. And then Patrick and his sister grew up, with Patrick being so odd in his way—”

“Odd?” I uncrossed my legs and leaned closer. “What do you mean?”

She stared at me, complete surprise on her face. “Sure, and you don’t think anybody that smart is odd? I taught him myself when he was but a wee lad, and I’ll never forget the day I marched up to Fiona and told her the boy had a photographic memory. I had set twenty little objects out on a table then took them away, and asked the children to list how many they remembered. Patrick got every one without even straining to recall! Fiona thought my opinions were a load of rubbish, of course, but soon enough she realized the truth. There’s never been a child like Paddy O’Neil in these parts. ’Tis no wonder his family doesn’t know what to do with him.”

On and on she rambled about the O’Neils’ consternation, and I pretended to listen while my heart broke for the little boy Patrick had once been. How sad that his brilliance had been discovered by people who considered him strange. At least he had found his way out of Ballinderry and into a profession that valued and rewarded gifts like his.

“Excuse me, ma’am.” I placed my hand on my talkative friend’s arm and gave her a smile. “But I see Patrick over there, and I need to ask him a question. But it’s been lovely talking to you.”

“Do come again,” she answered, her bright smile practically jumping through her lips. “I’d like to hear all about life in New York. I’ve never been there.”

Gathering my courage, I slipped out of my chair and made my way to the corner where Patrick stood with his friends. He fell silent as I approached, then nodded in my direction. “Lads, this is Kathleen O’Connor, a guest of my mother’s. She’s staying at Ballyshannon until Maddie’s wedding.”

The two fellows nodded and grinned, and I returned their smiles before addressing Patrick. “I hope you don’t mind that I brought your father out,” I began, aware that Patrick’s two companions were drifting away, “but I wanted to find you, and he insisted upon coming along.”

Cold dignity created a stony mask of his face, but still something stirred in his eyes. “I washed my hands of my father’s business long ago.”

“I was wondering—I wanted to ask—”

“What?”

I took a deep breath and plunged ahead. “You said you couldn’t take me to County Roscommon, but at dinner you changed your mind. Why?”

He studied me thoughtfully for a moment, then his gaze lifted and moved into the center of the pub where Maddie and Taylor and James were laughing and singing. “Did you change your mind?” he asked, not looking at me. “Do you not want to go?”

“No, I still want to go”—the words poured out of me like water—“but I like to know what my friends are thinking. If you’re feeling pressured, I don’t want you to be. I know these are trying times with your father’s illness and Maddie’s wedding, and the last thing you need is an American woman telling you to take her here and there—”

“Then it’s settled. We’ll go tomorrow.” After giving me a quick smile, he moved away. I sighed in relief, and it wasn’t until much later that I realized he had never answered my question.

T
he next morning when I woke, I moved to the window and listened, immediately identifying the low, mechanical rumble of the milking machines. Patrick must have risen early to bring in the cows, which could only mean he intended for us to make an early start.