The Crow of Connemara (28 page)

“They have, indeed. But we all have duties and obligations we must attend to, no matter what we might think ourselves. I'd be telling yer friends that, should yeh see 'em.”

“As I said, I'm heading to Sligo.”

“So yeh say.” Dunn shrugged again. “Then I'll leave yeh to it, Mr. Doyle. As the saying goes, may the wind be at yer back.” With that, Dunn got back into the cruiser and spoke briefly to the garda behind the wheel. The cruiser lurched into gear, and drove away. Colin watched it until it turned the corner at the bottom of Main Street, sliding past the waiting Sligo bus. Colin put his backpack on again, pondering the Superintendent's conversation.

It was easier to leave than to stay, and he tried to convince himself that also meant it was the right decision. Part of him still rebelled at that decision, believing that he was just demonstrating again that he'd rather run away than deal with a problem, and he had to admit there was truth in that as well.

But now here he was, and his feet didn't want to move in the right direction. He glanced down Beach Road, but if the
Grainne Ni Mhaille
was there, it was moored past the curve where the bulk of Ceomhar Head hid it from easy view of Ballemór.

“I'm sure you'll do what's right in the end.”
His mother's words, but he knew that she didn't expect that of him. He was the one who never did the “right” thing, at least not by his parents' reasoning. He was the one who followed his heart, not his head.

Listen to your heart,
Aunt Patty had told him. She knew him.

He was also the one who fled rather than confront those who disagreed with him. He'd proven that more than once before, as well.

Sligo would be the right thing. In Sligo, there'd be no distractions. In Sligo, or in Donegal, or even back in Dublin, he could continue to work on his music, run out his remaining months, and go home to Chicago without encumbrance.

Sligo would be fleeing from the conflict. Fleeing from the drama. But Sligo would also mean he'd be without Maeve. He hated the thought of that.

The crow was still visible, high up in the brilliant, cloud-studded sky, circling well down Beach Road as if it had been watching him talking to Superintendent Dunn the whole time.

Colin tried to take the step onto Main Street toward the bus. Instead, he found his foot turning the other way, and that way simply
felt
right. He looked back over his shoulder toward Ballemór, but he couldn't make himself step that way at all. His whole being resisted the effort.

He took his grandfather's pendant from his pocket. He held it in his hand, staring at it. For a brief second, he thought he heard his grandfather's voice, faint but recognizable.
Go to her. Do what I should have done.
Then the voice was gone.

“Shit,” he muttered. With that, he put his back to the town and started down Beach Road. The knot of uncertainty in his belly loosened with every step.

Ten minutes later, as he rounded the curve in the road, he saw the
Grainne Ni Mhaille
tied up a quarter mile farther down. On the road in front of the boat, he saw Maeve standing. She waved at him; he waved back.

He tried to convince himself that he was still doing the right thing. He didn't quite manage it, but in his heart it felt right.

23

H
E COULD FEEL MAEVE WATCHING HIM as he put his belongings away in the bedroom of her house, leaning his two guitars against the wall, placing the O'Neill book reverently on top of the dresser, and arranging his clothes into a single long drawer. “Yeh travel light,” she said as he closed the drawer. “Except for the guitars.”

“Don't need much beyond them. A couple pairs of jeans, a few sweaters and T-shirts, a pair of shoes . . .” He shrugged. “I think I told you that my grandfather—Rory O' Callaghan, my mother's dad—emigrated from Ireland. I remember him saying many times that the more possessions you have, the more they weigh you down. He always told me that once you owned too much stuff, you'd find yourself too heavy to move and grow. He was supposedly quite a wanderer himself through his whole life: always restless, always taking off even after he was married, even into his seventies. He and my grandmother didn't settle down in Chicago until late in life, and even then I remember their house being bare and spartan compared to ours. Mom says I'm a lot like him—which, by the way, isn't a compliment, coming from her.”

“I'm very certain yer like yer Daiddeó,” Maeve commented. The undertone in her voice made him glance at her; she gave him a smile. “And what about yer Maimeó? How she'd like his wanderlust?” Maeve had moved across the room, standing close in front of him. Her hands went around him and she laid her head on his chest.

“He met her after he got to the States. I remember the two of them well: it was obvious she loved him, and he her. She enjoyed traveling, too, if not quite as much as he did. They'd go off on trips together two or three times a year as long as I knew them.”

“But they never came back here?”

Colin shrugged. “No, they never did. I always thought that a little strange, since my grandfather was born here, and my grandmother's parents had come over as well. I asked him once, and he said there too many new places he'd never been to, so going back to one he already knew would be useless. They were the same with houses. Every few years, they'd pack up and move to some new city or state; my mom didn't like that much growing up, changing schools every few years, but she said they both claimed moving was what kept them young. And Daiddeó—you're right; that's what we called him, and my grandmother was Maimeó—might go off somewhere on his own for a few weeks now and then. My sister Jen would tell you that Maimeó always said that a good husband doesn't need a leash any more than a good dog does: he knows what he should and shouldn't do, knows where he belongs, and he always comes home.”

Maeve laughed, the sound muffled against him. “She's a wise woman, then.”

“She was.”

“She's gone now?”

“Yeah, they both are. He died about a decade ago of a heart attack; Maimeó followed him a year later. Said the devil had probably had enough of him by then, and she needed to go steal him away.”

Maeve chuckled at that. “I think the both of 'em would have fit in well here.” She lifted her head up, raised up on her toes, and kissed him. “I hope yeh will, too.”

“So far I like it.” He smiled at her. “You're sure it's not a problem, my staying with you? I could take one of the empty houses, maybe fix it up . . .”

“Have yeh not lived with a lover before?”

He could feel his face reddening. “I did. Once. For about a year before we decided we liked each other more as friends.”

He felt her nod against his chest. “I've done the same, an' more than once. The last time was a long time ago, though.” Her arms tightened around him, then she stepped back, her head cocked so that her long hair fell over one shoulder. Her eyes, in this light, were the color of the sea under overcast skies. “It's yer choice, Colin. If it would make yeh more comfortable, yeh can live on yer own. Or yeh can stay here. Yer choice, and I promise I'll take no offense either way.”

“No,” he told her. “I'm fine if you are. This feels . . . right.” And it did. Even as he said the words, a calmness settled around him. He opened his arms and she slid back into his embrace.

“Yeah,” he said. “This is definitely good.”

The next morning, Keara, carrying a plate of freshly-baked blueberry scones, entered the house with no more warning than a soft knock, startling Colin who was sitting in the living room gently strumming the Gibson. Maeve was still in the bedroom.

“You're damned lucky I was dressed,” he said to Keara.

She gave a short, bright laugh. “Oh, I dunno. That depends on yer point of view, I'd say. Want one?” she asked Colin, proffering the plate to him. “I'll put water on for tea. Is herself up yet?”

Keara nodded her head in the direction of the bedroom. “Herself?” Colin laughed. “She was stirring a bit when I left. You always bring her breakfast?”

She shrugged, a little shyly. “Often enough. She likes my baking and cooking, so . . .”

“So what
is
Maeve to all of you? Everyone seems to defer to her like she's royalty.”

“She is,” Keara answered. “T'us, anyway.”

“What do you mean?”

Keara gave a shrug. “Yeh should ask her, though I should think by this time yeh already have yer suspicions.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning that yer nah stupid, and it's right in front of yeh t'see.” She lifted the plate of scones again. “Sure yeh don't want one? They're good, I promise. Let me get the tea going, and I'll set the table in the nook for the two of yeh. Why don't yeh go tell her that things will be ready in a few minutes?”

Colin watched Keara go into the kitchen, her long dress swaying. He leaned the Gibson against the arm of the chair, tilting it so the headstock rested safely against the back, and went to the bedroom. He knocked softly on the open door, but Maeve was already sitting up, the coverlet pooled around her waist. She yawned. “I heard Keara come in,” she said.

“Yeah. She said that tea and scones will be ready in a few minutes.” He leaned against the door, watching her as she ran fingers through her hair, threw the covers aside, and put on a robe. “You always get this kind of service, Maeve? I thought the way everyone waited on us last time was something unusual, but evidently it's not.”

“Does it bother yeh?”

“I guess not. It's just . . . not something I expected.”

She gave a laugh at that. “Expectations get yeh into trouble. In the meantime, I really need to pee and brush my teeth, so if yeh don't mind, tell Keara I'll be out in a few. Yeh can go ahead and start, if yer hungry. G'wan with yeh now.”

With that, she went into the tiny bathroom off the bedroom and closed the door: as Colin had seen the night before, there was little there but a chamber pot and a little sink with a hand pump to pull a thin stream of water from the cistern. As far as Colin knew, there was no indoor plumbing on Inishcorr, and every cottage also had an outhouse in the rear.

Colin padded into the kitchen, where Keara had filled the teapot from the hand pump in the kitchen sink, and was setting it over a wood fire in the hearth. He sat at the table. “Y'know, at the very least, you people could bring propane from the mainland for the stoves,” he said.

Keara grinned over her shoulder at him. “We have all the ancient conveniences here. I don't miss the modern ones much, though I must say that flush toilets have their good qualities.” Keara grinned. “In general, things take longer here, if we do have to get the water from the town well and rain barrels. Yeh have to be more patient; that's nah a bad thing, all told. I like the pace, and I like the quiet. Same with music—I prefer the old tunes. Yeh too, right?”

He nodded. Maeve came in then, still wearing her robe. “Would yeh like me to cook up some eggs and bacon?” Keara asked. Colin couldn't avoid noticing that the question was directed at Maeve, not himself.

“No, the scones look lovely, dear,” Maeve replied. “I'm sure they'll be enough.” The teapot rumbled and whistled on its hook; Keara swung out the crane, wrapped a hand towel around the handle and moved the pot to the table, dropping in a ball infuser. The aroma of mint and spice rose from the boiling water.

“If there's nothing else, I'll be on me way,” Keara said, with a faint inclination of her head to Maeve.

“Thank you, Keara. We'll see yeh later, then.” Maeve took the seat across from Colin and plucked a scone from the plate, taking a bite. “These are delicious.”

Keara nearly curtsied at the comment. “Thank you, ma'am. I'll be going, then. Will yeh need me for lunch?”

“No, we'll manage here.”

“I'll see yeh at supper, then.” With a quick nod of her head, Keara was gone. Colin raised an eyebrow toward Maeve.

“So you're royalty,” he said.

“Maybe to those of us here, in a way,” she said. “Not to anyone else beyond this island. Tea?” She poured a cup for herself, then filled the cup in front of him. He stared at it.

“That day in the woods, the dream I had in the fairy ring. Are you saying that you're . . .” He couldn't finish the statement, but she nodded.

“Aye. 'Twas real, in a manner of speaking.”

“How am I supposed to believe that?”

She smiled at him as a forefinger stroked the rim of her teacup. “Yeh already do, mostly, or yeh wouldn't be here. Yeh'd still be in Ballemór playing with Lucas, or yeh'd have gone on yer way up to Sligo and beyond.” Still smiling, she took a long breath. “Rory believed it. 'Tis what frightened him, I think.”

“Rory . . . My grandfather?”

“Aye,” Maeve said to his implied question. “Drink yer tea and have a scone. I'll go get dressed. I have things to show yeh.”

“Haven't yeh ever been somewhere, somewhere old, and felt like there was a
presence
around yeh—like the people who had once been there hadn't entirely left?”