Selkie's Song (Fado Trilogy) (3 page)

Ty took a deep breath to keep his focus and read on.

A map is attached of the townland of Ballinacurragh, Co. Clare…

Ballinacurragh?
Ballinacurragh.

His pulse racked up several notches at the mention of the little village nested near the cliffs where he had played as a boy. The scenery sparked a fire in his imagination and heat in his memory.

His memory of the first taste of a girl’s lips.

Muireann O’Malley’s lips to be exact.

Images, sounds, and the fragrance of warm, female skin came rushing up from long-hidden coves of his mind. Turquoise seas, emerald fields, and Muireann’s sable eyes pulled him back to his sixteenth year, full of sexual energy and the foolishness of youth.

They had slipped away from the cottage where the
seanchaí
, Bertie O’Malley, had sat by the turf fire and spun his tales of Ireland’s past. The stories were intriguing, but the girl, with her lithe limbs and teasing smile, far more tempting.

His mother had been furious with him and threatened to never bring him back to hear the storyteller again. Ty would not let that happen. Though he liked the yearly visit and the legends being told, he loved the girl and what she had to offer far more than tales of Celts and Vikings.

Tynan suppressed the need to wonder about her, his first love. It was completely ridiculous to even give a thought to seeing her again. She was likely married with a brood of babies and thick through the middle with her own fine cooking. He shook off the ghost of love past and tried to concentrate on the present.

It looked as though he’d become a landowner through no effort of his own.

He scooped up his pile of junk mail and deposited it in the paper recycling bin behind the bar. His first instinct was to talk to Matt Kincade, Cade’s older brother and president of Back Bay Records. Matt had a killer instinct when it came to business deals. However, Matt was somewhere in the Bahamas on his sailboat with his current squeeze and wouldn’t be back for another couple of weeks.

He could hear laughter from the kitchen and hoped his sister had gotten over her tirade. When he stepped through the swinging door, Flann was sitting on Cade’s knee. He was rubbing her shoulders and nuzzling her neck.

“Aw, now look at ’em. Guess ya haven’t learned yer lesson, Flann. An’ you blamin’ the poor man fer yer current condition,” Ty teased.

“Can’t get any more pregnant than I already am.” Flann grinned and Ty felt a dry lump in his throat at the joy in his sister’s smile.

Tynan pulled a chair out from the table and sat. He closed his eyes and listened to the sound of his heart. It still pounded and visuals of mahogany eyes spurred a dizzying adrenaline rush.

Kerry set a cup of tea in front of him. “Ya look like you just ran a half-marathon.”

His twin sister was perceptive. They no longer finished each other’s sentences, but she always knew when he was troubled. “I…uh…got this letter.” He handed the solicitor’s communication to her. “Guess I’m a land baron,” he said with a wry smile.

Kerry grinned and took the missive from his hand. “You’re my brother and I love you, but a land baron? That’s a stretch.”

The back door burst open and Miguel Di Santos sashayed in. He had worked at O’Fallon’s as host and part-time cook for as long as Tynan could remember. Today he wore a sequined gown and black patent stilettos.

“
Buenos dias
all,” he greeted, pranced over to Flann, and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “
Chica
, you look marvelous.” He did a little pirouette with remarkable agility. “How do you like the dress? It’s for my gig at Jacque’s Cabaret.”

“I think yer more flat-chested than me now,” Flann said with a giggle and looked down at her bosom. “I don’t need a push-up bra anymore.”

Ty looked around the table. His sisters were his life, but all these people were family and he loved each one. Buying O’Fallon’s would insure they all stayed close. The pub could remain a centerpiece for their lives.

Perhaps this little inheritance would tip the scales of finance in his direction. “Do you remember anything about an Uncle Albert…‘Bertie’ O’Malley?”

“Ah, sure. And if you don’t, I’m ashamed of you.” Kerry joined him at the table. “It was a long time ago. Flann was still a baby in Mam’s arms when we first traveled to that village to hear his stories.” She stirred her tea and smiled as though remembering a treasure lost and found. “A few years later you were more interested in the local girls than you were in the storyteller. If you hadn’t been big as a man by then, Mam would have warmed your backside with a willow branch.”

“Girl,” Ty corrected. “Only one.”

“And, as I recall, she was a wild and lovely thing,” Kerry added as she stirred her tea and perused the letter in her hand.

Tynan leafed through his memories, some as faded as pictures in a dusty album. A visual, real but unfocused, tried to surface: a man, sitting by a fire, telling tales of Ireland.

The memory of the beguiling daughter of the household was clear and bright, even after all these years. So were the words he whispered in her ear the last time they met.

You will always be for me.

Of course, life moves in its own directions and she was not his. Still the remembering was sweet.

“May I?” Cade reached for the letter and Kerry handed it over.

Tynan picked up his tea to get a grip on the present. “Sure, you’ve probably seen more of this sort of thing than I ever will,” he said.

“What do they mean by ‘derelict building’?” Cade asked.

Flann set her tea down and took the paper from her husband’s hand. “It means they took the roof off and the building won’t be assessed for taxes.”

“This must be sitting on an oil well then. Look at the tax estimate.” Cade’s brow furrowed. “And this seems to indicate there are some back taxes owed. In the current economy, you’d be hard pressed to give land away in Ireland.”

“I hadn’t noticed that.” Tynan felt the fun punched right out of him. He should have remembered what his da always said.
There was no such thing as a free lunch or a free horse.
That was now expanded to free land. “I should at least try to sell it. It’s got to be worth something.” He mentally stashed the profit in the pub fund and a shiver of enthusiasm tripped through his system.

“Unfortunate the uncle mentions your mother’s family in his will,” Cade said. “I’m not clear on Irish probate law, but it looks like you
are
responsible for the taxes.”

“Is that why they call it the
luck of the Irish
?” Ty quipped, but a seed of a plan took root and started to grow. He could almost feel it reach for light and hum in counterpoint to the beat of his heart. “I’ve been looking for an excuse to get myself across the pond. Haven’t been home in four years. It’s about time.”

He would look up the lads from his university days and put away a few well-deserved pints. He’d catch a music session or two, learn a new twist on an old tune, and sharpen his skills. If fate had a hand in his seeing Muireann again, who was he to question such providence?

“Ya can’t leave now,” Flann objected. “We’re scheduled in the studio. And you’ll miss…this.” She rubbed her belly.

Flannery’s baby was not due for another six weeks. He would be sure to be back in Boston for the big event. No way would he miss the birth of his very first nephew or niece.

“I’ll record my tracks before I go. And”—he reached over and patted her bump—”I wouldn’t miss this for anything.”

“Ty, you best behave yourself over there,” Kerry warned. “And stay away from those Ballinacurragh girls. If memory serves, you pined for a very long time over one. Don’t go thinking you’re going to fall in love now.”

Ty felt a dream forming somewhere in the depths of his chest, near his heart. Ireland in the spring, whitethorns in bloom, the pulse of the sea on the western shore, and the twilight glow of a late northern sun on the horizon. A man could do worse for himself than fall in love in a place like that.

Chapter Two

Who said “you can’t go home again”?

Tynan’s jet lagged brain couldn’t remember, but he knew the man could not have been Irish.

The moisture in the morning air that hung benevolently over Shannon Airport felt slightly different from an imposing wet Boston spring day. As he drove north in his red hire car, singing along with a Christy Moore CD, Ty wondered what had kept him away so long. Though he knew he would soon tire of the small-town life, it was gratifying to get back in touch with Ireland’s roots and his own.

Even sleep deprived, he had a tingle on his skin and joy in his belly. Stretches of brilliant green, broken only by carefully laid stone walls, quilted the land on both sides of the narrow road. The old vied with the new—an ancient ring fort ruled the land while a newly built holiday home sported fresh pebble dashing and a For Sale By Owner sign.

The village huddled like a bright-colored bird whose nest looked out on a sea that gave in sustenance what it took in toil. He pulled over under a sign proclaiming Ballinacurragh to be winner of the Tidy Town Award of 2001.

Ty checked the directions his hostess had texted to his phone.

Turn left at the four-way stop and go half a kilometer to the town center. Follow the sign posted
next to the church
to An
Currach B&B. I will be waiting, unless gone to the shops.

Ty glanced at his watch. Early. Hopefully he would not have to wait to check in. He needed time to shower and take a stroll, get a feel for the landscape, and suss out a good place to eat.

Turning at the sign pointing to An Lár, the town center, he entered the comfortably predictable village, dominated by the steeple of St. Enda’s Catholic Church. His American friends liked to say that it took at least two pubs and one church to make an Irish town. This landscape supported that cliché.

He pulled to the side of the roadway for a moment to let the scene settle in his memory.

A petrol station, Flaherty’s grocery—just in case the Food Mart Express didn’t suit your needs—the ubiquitous sports betting service, and two pubs, O’Malley’s and Conneely’s, all offering plenty of ceol agus craic, music and good conversation lubricated by pints of lager and stout.

All culinary tastes could be satisfied. He could smell Mickey’s Chip Shop before he saw it, and the green-painted Georgian door of the town’s restaurant, The Bloody Oar, boasted a sign proclaiming Tuesdays to be karaoke night.

Change had taken place here since Ty was a boy. Everything seemed to have diminished in scale and the colors were brighter than he’d remembered. He was not sure if the familiarity was singular to this village or the nature of Ireland’s rural population centers in general.

The idea that he could run into someone he knew hovered under a thin veil of denial. When it surfaced, he tried to pass it off as madness, though he had always thought of himself as quite sane.

Resigned to temporary insanity, he put the car in gear and started to pull out. A horn blasted and a dust-covered van sped past as though the devil were at its wheels. Ty slammed his brakes so hard the engine lurched and died. He took a deep breath and decided not to be annoyed. He was not going to let it spoil one minute of his first day back in the land of his birth.

As expected, An Currach was easy to find. A cottage, too large for a single family home in this part of Ireland, it was painted butter yellow and had three white framed dormer windows facing the sea. A black tar fisherman’s boat, a currach, lay upturned in the front garden as though the man of the house had just come home from his day on the tides. Only the clumps of sea pinks and stalks of yellow iris that grew through the hull betrayed its years of idleness.

He parked, opened the car door, and listened. The sea set a steady rhythm, joined by birdsong, a dog barking in the distance, and the bleat of spring lambs. This symphony was rural Ireland and as much a contrast to Boston as he could have found. A couple of weeks of this and Tynan was sure he would welcome the rush and hum of his American city home.

He lifted his suitcase and mandolin out of the boot and walked to the front door. He rang the bell. No answer. He knocked. No response.

He left his burdens leaning against the front porch and walked around back. The same dusty, impatient van he’d seen on the road was parked haphazardly across two designated spaces. The odor of hot brakes pinched his nose. Whoever was in such a hurry had been on his way here. So where was he?

Ty removed his sunglasses and looked up the hill behind the house. To the front he scanned the rock-covered land as it descended toward the cliffs that dropped into the Atlantic. A figure in work dungarees and a hoodie, and carrying a large duffle bag, strode briskly in the direction of the sea.

“Hey,” Ty called. “I’m looking for Mary Conneely.”

He doubted this was his hostess, and whoever it was either couldn’t hear his call or was determined to ignore him.

A door creaked and there was a clatter of footsteps behind him. A plump, grey-haired, and resolutely cheerful woman with a voice like a startled sparrow approached, wiping her hands on a tea towel. The air around her had the scent of scones baking and something else. What was it? Wallpaper paste?

“Ah, now, is it himself? Oh, come in, come in. I was in doing a bit of redecorating while the scones baked and didn’t hear ya drive up. You’ve come a long way. I hope the drive was pleasant. No rain today. It’s been lovely, just lovely. Mr. Sloane, is it? I knew some Sloanes here…Ah, now, it’s been many years…”

“Are you Mrs. Conneely?”

“Ah, yes, sure now. That’s meself, Mary Conneely. One of the many Conneelys of Ballinacurragh. Our family—”

He took hold of her hand and squeezed it in greeting. “Call me Ty. Pleased to meet you, Mrs.Conneely.”

“Well, now, don’t ya be callin’ me ‘Missus.’ Mary will do. I’ve been a widow going on two decades now. Mr. Conneely is in the church yard…God rest him.” She crossed herself. “Scoundrels, the lot of them, the Conneely brothers.”

Ty was tempted to laugh but controlled himself. The woman never seemed to stop talking.

“Ah, now, come in. I’ve a room all ready for you.” She led the way inside. Stairs straight ahead, kitchen to the back, sitting room to the left, and dining room to the right. The floor plan was so common Tynan was sure he could find his way blindfolded. A fragrance of polished wood and fresh soda bread triggered long buried memories. He thoroughly expected to hear his little sister practicing her fiddle in the back garden or his mam singing an old tune as she worked in the kitchen.