The Delaney Woman (15 page)

Her stomach twisted. “I'm not jealous.”

“Of course not.” Susan's voice brimmed with amusement

“It would be ridiculous to be jealous. We're beyond that.”

“No one is beyond that. There's nothing wrong with not wanting anyone fawning over your man. It's only natural.”

“He's not—”

“Don't say it Kellie,” Susan warned her. “It will make it so.”

“That's superstitious and ridiculous.”

“You're a lovely woman. My granddaughter is content and my son has another chance for happiness. That's all that matters.”

“What if—?”

“Don't borrow trouble. Take the days as they come. Let Tom help you. It's time you trusted someone.”

Kellie begged a bowl of water for Lexi before turning down the road that led to the long way home. She needed to run, to feel the ground swallowed up beneath her, the burn in the back of her throat the cramp in her calves. She craved the physical test of endurance, the numbing anesthetic of exercise to mitigate her conversation with Kate.
Jealous
. The word itself had a dreadful ring. Was she jealous? If so, what did it mean?

Heather was sleeping when Kellie finally arrived home. Tom was in the sitting room cleaning out the fireplace. The room was cool and dim. An odd resentment rose in Kellie's throat.

“You're home,” he said, sitting back on his heels. “I was beginning to worry about you.”

“In Banburren?”

He frowned, wiped his hands free of ash and stood. “You know what I mean.” He waited for her reply. She said nothing. “Where were you, Kellie?”

“I met Kate and your mother in town. We stopped for tea and then Lexi and I went for a run.”

“My mother and Kate were together?” He looked surprised.

“No. Susan came later. It was a coincidence.”

Tom's eyes flicked over her, his gaze measuring, assessing. “Is something wrong?” he asked at last.

“Nothing.” She sat down on the couch and began to unlace her hiking shoes. She didn't want to tell him, not just yet. A part of her wanted him to worry, to share the insecurity carving a hole in the pit of her stomach. The other part, the mature reasonable part, wanted to clear up the problem and settle into the normal, comfortable routine that had become her life with Tom and Heather.

He sat across from her and picked up the newspaper. She stood and walked into the kitchen. Turning up the flame under the kettle, she opened the refrigerator. His step sounded in the hall, passing the kitchen, continuing into his study. Such casual unconcern inflamed her even more. Pulling out the vegetables she'd planned for lunch, she opened the cupboard and pushed aside a stack of pans, searching for the soup pot. The clatter was loud and satisfying. Lexi, sprawled out under the table, moaned in protest. She imagined Tom walking into the kitchen, imagined him asking, again, if anything was wrong, demanding to know why she was upset. This time she would tell him.

She waited. No Tom. Disappointed and more than a little annoyed, she pulled out a platter from the cupboard above her head, knocking over several glasses in the process. Two of them tumbled out, shattering on the tile counter. She picked up a large shard. Blood seeped from her middle finger. Tears sprang to her eyes.

She heard him walk down the hall and into the kitchen. “Let me look at that,” he said from behind her.

Kellie shook her head. “It's nothing.”

He reached for a paper towel, turned her around and examined her finger. Then he pressed the towel against the cut. “I imagine you'll survive,” he teased.

She nodded. He lifted her chin and his voice changed. “You're crying. Surely it isn't that bad.”

Her lip trembled.

“Kellie,” his voice was low, intimate. “Tell me what's bothering you.”

“Why, so you can run over and discuss it with Kate?”

“What are you talking about?”

She bit her lip. Even to her own ears she sounded childish, petulant. Still, she'd gone this far. “She said you didn't want Claire to come back, that you had sworn off women for good.”

“That's right,” he admitted. “Why should that bother you?”

Tears poured down her cheeks as the irrational words spilled from her mouth. “You're talking about me, about us,” she amended, “with another woman.”

“That was a long time ago, Kellie, long before you came,” he said patiently. “We were discussing Claire, not you. I haven't had a personal conversation with Kate in nearly two years.”

She hiccupped and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “Why not?”

“Because it isn't appropriate. She's my sister-in- law, my brother's wife. Because I have no interest in leading her on or making her believe there can ever be anything between us.”

“Is she in love with you?”

“Of course not. Our relationship doesn't extend beyond family gatherings or accidental meetings in town. She's never even been here.”

“I don't think she would see it that way.”

“Then she's a fool.” He brushed her cheek with his hand. “Don't be an idiot, Kellie. If I had any intentions toward Kate it would have happened long ago.”

Susan had said the same thing. Kellie was embarrassed. What was he thinking?

“You're jealous.” His voice was soft, filled with wonder.

She nodded. “I'm sorry.”

Gently, reverently, he traced the bones of her face with his fingers. “I'm not.” Lowering his head, he kissed her. She leaned into him, opening, responding, kissing him back until he pulled away, his eyes narrowed, his breath short. “God help you if you don't mean this,” he said.

Sliding her arms around his neck, she pulled him toward her once again.

S
usan Whelan reached down into the cool earth, positioned the seed, covered it with soil and moved to the next row in her garden. She was so intent on her task that she didn't see her only living son open the gate and make his way to where she worked.

His voice, rich and pure and easy on the ear, interrupted her. “Hello, Mam.”

“Tom.” She looked up and squinted. “You startled me. Whatever are you doing here this time of morning?”

“I wanted to catch you alone.”

“I'm always alone.”

Tom laughed. “You're never alone.”

Susan pressed her hand against her back and stood. “Age is difficult, Tom. Don't ever get old.”

Tom looked at his mother, at her trim figure, her hair, silvery-dark, cut in a neat bob and the clear, unwrinkled skin. “You're not old, Mam. Even when you're old, you'll never be really old.”

“Thank you,” she said, truly pleased. “Come inside. I'll make a pot of tea and you can tell me why you wanted to see me
alone
.” She pronounced the word as if it were mysterious, almost forbidden. Fortified with a cup of tea and a healthy portion of his mother's biscuits, he looked around the warm kitchen. There was something about a woman's kitchen, a brightness and a warmth that calmed the spirit, soothed the soul. Tea and biscuits, his mother's cure for whatever ailed. He watched her move from the stove to the refrigerator to the counter and back again. Susan Whelan never sat. She was constantly in motion, a condition that hadn't changed in all the years Tom could remember. He didn't know how to begin. It was difficult for him. It would be difficult for her.

“Tell me about Claire,” he said at last.

She stopped in midstep. “I'm sorry?”

“I know you see her, Mam.”

“I've never denied it.”

“Does she ever talk about me?”

Susan was silent.

“Does she ever wish it was different?”

She was looking at him now, her eyes wide and blue and angry. “Claire never was a deep thinker, Tom. There's only the one thing you ever had in common.”

“Heather?”

“I'm not talking about Heather. I'm talking about sex. You and Claire had that between you and that's all. I never thought you would get around to marrying.”

“What did you expect me to do?”

“What everyone else in your generation did. Live with the woman. Get it out of your system and then settle down with someone more suitable.” Susan slumped down into a chair. “Good lord. I didn't mean to say all that.”

“Why do you visit her?”

Susan stared at her son. “She has no one else.”

“They're paroling prisoners, you know. She won't be there forever.”

Susan looked down at her hands.
“Sooner than you think,”
she said, “She's going to be released, Tom. Prepare yourself for that. It's a given.”

“Will she come back here?”

“Why don't you ask her?” said his mother.

“We both know why.”

“They have visiting hours at Maidenstone.”

“I'm not going to her, hat in hand anymore, Mam. She left me. I'm over her.”

“Are you, Tom?”

“Aye.”

They were silent for a bit, staring out the window, sipping tea, lost in their own thoughts.

“I won't stay here,” he said at last, “not if she does.”

“If that's the way it is, you're not really over her.”

“Do you think it shouldn't matter?”

“Aye. I think it shouldn't, not after all this time.”

He was silent.

Susan sighed. Some things were beyond her control. One didn't reach old age without learning that. Tom would do what he must. She would have to trust that it would all come about. It usually did. “What of Kellie?”

“I don't know.”

His mother's lips tightened. “You don't know much lately, do you, Tom?”

“You're hard on me, Mam.”

Susan broke the biscuit on her plate into little pieces. It was a sin to waste food. Her mother had told her that long ago when she was a girl, but Ireland was different then. Now, it wasn't so important that she crumbled biscuits on her plate and washed them down the drain. “What are your intentions toward this woman?”

“My intentions? Does anyone ask that anymore?” “

I just did. Don't be fresh.”

“I don't know. We're brand-new. We barely know each other.”

“You don't know the specifics, but you know her. Living with each other should have told you enough.”

“All right, Mam. I know her. I just don't know what to do about her yet.”

“Does she make you happy?”

“Lord, yes.”

“Then you know what to do.”

“It isn't as simple as that.”

“Why not?”

“She's a person. Her wishes matter, too. She's an educated woman. What kind of life would I be offering her here in Banburren?”

“You might give her the choice.”

“And be rejected.”

His mother looked at him astonished. “I would never have taken you for a coward, Thomas.”

He'd had enough. He stood abruptly, kissed his mother's cheek and strode toward the door. “Goodbye, Mam. I'll leave you to your garden.”

“Think about what I said,” she called after him.

She smiled, not just with her mouth but with her eyes, too, a woman slender and soft with eyes the color of light rain. She was cleaning the stove. “How is your mother?”

He laughed. “Filled with advice.”

“Isn't that why you went to see her?”

Tom poured himself a cup of tea and sat down at the table. “Not exactly. I went for information, but she threw in a bit of advice as well. She always does.”

“Mine, too. It comes with being a mother.”

Tom was immediately caught. “Tell me about your mother.”

She rubbed out an offending spot. “There's nothing to tell, really. There were seven of us, all troubled, except Connor and me. We were her pride and joy. She wanted me to go on to university, to leave Belfast, and I did.”

“Do you see her often?”

Kellie shook her head. “Almost never.”

“When is the last time you visited?”

“A few days ago, actually. While you were with Heather, I went to see her. She lives alone, now. I have one older sister. The boys are all gone, dead or emigrated to America.”

She was so matter-of-fact. It couldn't have been pleasant for her, growing up, moving away, losing her first family. Expectations were low for Catholics in the Six Counties, but Kellie's were lower than most.

He watched her, appreciating her efficient movements, the tendency toward perfectionism. The hunger that affected him when she was near began again. What was it about the skin at the nape of a woman's neck, the dip at her waist, the curve where her shoulder met her arm? Tom recognized desire for what it was. He was thirty-seven years old and the last seven of those years had been dry ones.

She was attracted to him. He knew that. But he wanted more and he knew enough to realize that sex would only make it more difficult when she left, if she left. Still, the wanting was there and he knew, if she was willing, that he would take her, here and now, in his kitchen, while his daughter slept peacefully in the other room. Was she willing?

“Kellie,” he rasped, the word catching in his throat.

She turned. Their eyes met and her cheeks burned. Deliberately, he stood and walked toward her. Taking her hand in his, he pressed his mouth to her palm. “Do you know what I'm wanting, Kellie?” he murmured against her ear.

“Yes.” Her answer was soft, muffled.

He kissed her, gently at first, and then not so gently. His hands moved over her back and down, pressing her close, deepening his kiss. She reached for him, twining her arms around his neck. Heat flared between them. They stood for long moments, holding each other, familiarizing themselves with the weight of each other, the swell of breast, the length of muscle.

Her hands slid under his shirt, boldly exploring the lean, solid strength of him, the bend of his shoulder, the position of his spine, her hands moving, always moving, to the pelt of hair on the wall of his chest and down the flat plane of stomach. Her fingers moved below his belt, down to the hair-rough skin, curling around the smooth, thick heat of him.

He tensed and froze, wanting more, fearing more. What was it about her that made him want her so? Lifting her into his arms, he carried her down the hall and into his bedroom. Pushing the door shut with his foot, he laid her on the bed. She looked up at him, eyes wide and wise, neither resisting nor encouraging.

“What if I can't stay? ” she asked him.

“Do you want to stay? ”

She nodded. “Now, yes. ”

He brushed the hair back away from her face, following with his lips where his fingers touched, the side of her neck, her ear, her cheekbone, the slide of her nose, the seam of her lips.

She reached up and pulled him down on top of her, opening her arms and her mouth, helping him with her clothes. It was incredibly easy, the preparations for loving, the separation of buttons, the cool smoothness of sheets, the mounting anticipation, fingers walking across sensitive skin, the length and heat and strength of a man's desire, sensations found and lost and found again in the swirling moments before it all came together, the purpose for life, the simple amazing act that made everything possible.

“Do you love me? ” he asked when it was over.

“Yes. ”

He laughed softly and pulled her closer so that her head rested on the bulge of his shoulder. Her breath was warm against his skin. The hair under his hand was silky and tangled. The memory of Claire was very far away. She was Kellie, his Kellie, a woman finer and deeper than Claire had ever been.

“Well? ” he heard her say.

“Well, what? ”

“You asked me if I loved you. The logical response is ‘I love you, too. ' Do you?”

“Of course I do.”

She sat up on her elbow. “That isn't enough for me, Tom. I need to hear the words.”

He cupped her face in his hands. “I love you, Kellie. I want you to stay with me or I'll go with you. Whatever you like.”

“Do you mean that?”

“I do.”

She relaxed against him. “I've worried about that for a while now. I know it's ridiculous to worry about the future when nothing is settled.”

Her tone, matter-of-fact and resigned, chilled him. He tightened his arms around her. “Don't say that. We'll sort this out.”

“Do you have a plan?”

“I'm going to find Dennis McGarrety. He's not easy to track down, but I'll manage it somehow.

“Can you think of anything that might have happened in your past that might connect you with something?”

“Many things, but no one thing. I'm sure he'll enlighten me.”

Kellie had had enough of darkness. She changed the subject. “I've never heard you play the pipes in public. May I?”

He stroked her thigh, enjoying the sensation of soft, smooth skin. “You're always welcome to come with me although it won't be much different than my practice sessions.”

“I've read your poetry, but only on your computer. Will you show me where you're published?”

He kissed her ear. “If you like. Don't be expecting another Seamus Heaney or William Yeats. I'm not in that league.”

“Publishing alone is a tremendous accomplishment. You should be proud of yourself. I'm proud of you.”

“Thank you. But this is Ireland. Everyone is published. Words are our strength.”

She laughed and the sound settled, warm and right, around his heart.

“Everyone isn't published,” she corrected him, “and you're much too modest. I want to read your poetry in an official publication. Tell me you'll show it to me.”

“I will,” he promised. It was lovely sharing with her, lovely to release the truth and hold nothing back, to hold her beside him in the middle of the day, naked and willing, lazy and sated.

Footsteps sounded in the hall. He felt the muscles of her shoulders tense.

“Heather,” she whispered.

He pulled the sheet up, covering both of them.

The door opened and Heather peeked in. “Da,” she said reproachfully, “I couldn't find you.”

“We're here, love.”

“Are you sick?”

“No.”

“Why are you and Kellie in bed?”

“We took a nap.”

She thought a minute and then nodded. “Are you rested?”

His voice was laced with amusement. “Are we rested, love?” he asked Kellie.

“I think so.”

“Turn on the telly, Heather. We'll be up and about in a minute.”

“I'm hungry.”

“That's grand. Run along now and we'll be there in a minute.”

They waited until she'd left the room. Kellie buried her face in his shoulder. “Do you think she saw the clothes?”

“It doesn't matter. She takes off her clothes when she goes to bed. Children are remarkably logical.”

Kellie lifted her head. “You're not embarrassed at all, are you?”

“Not a bit. I'm only sorry she didn't sleep longer. But there's always tonight.” He watched the smile begin at the corners of her mouth. She wanted him. The last lingering kernel of his doubt dissolved.

Heather's lower lip trembled. She stood at the door in a clean blouse and jumper, her jacket zipped, her book bag at her feet. “I don't think I'm well enough to go to school.”

“Of course you are,” Tom said bracingly.

“What if I'm sick at school?”

“Your teacher will call us,” Kellie said.

“Will you come for me right away?”

“Immediately,” Kellie promised. “We'll race right down there and pick you up straight away.”

A reluctant smile tugged at the child's mouth. “You won't.”