The Parting Glass (36 page)

“Good. And Irene’s room is far enough from the fireplace that I doubt we’ll disturb her, either.”

“My curiosity knows no bounds.”

“I’ll finish up in here if you’d like to check on Kieran.”

“Let me finish here so you can start the fire. And I checked on Kieran a little while ago. Sleep is the only time when no one is making demands on him. He indulges with gusto.”

“Then I’ll see you in a few minutes.”

Blocks of turf were smoldering nicely by the time she finished. Finn was stretched out on the soft rug in front of the fireplace, and he motioned for Peggy to join him.

She settled beside him, although not as close as he would have liked. “More stories? Twenty questions? Accounts of your childhood? You haven’t told me a thing about your family, you know, and I’ve told you so much about mine.”

“I was an only child raised on a small farm. I played with wounded birds and bugs and made animal hospitals for them. After all those years my parents decided they despised the country, so they moved to Cork four years ago and set up a small florist business. They aren’t good with children, and Bridie won’t visit them unless I stay with her. They only come back to Shanmullin if they’re forced to. They’re good people, just a trifle odd.”

“That explains why they aren’t around to help you with Bridie.”

“They would have no idea what to do with her. Sheila’s parents moved to Belmullet after the accident to get away from the scene of the crime. They wanted to take Bridie with them. If I hadn’t stopped drinking, they would have.”

“Does she see them?”

“They blame me for what happened, so they don’t want to see me if they can help it. They won’t come here to see Bridie, and I’m afraid to send her there alone. I’m never sure they’ll return her, and the law can move slowly.”

“She deserves better, and so do you.”

He heard the undercurrent of anger in her voice. “We cope in whatever ways we can. They were close to Sheila and the children. I think the fact that Bridie looks so much like her mother makes it hard for them to be with her, and harder to let her go afterwards.”

“This is not entertaining. It’s sad. We need entertainment. What’s next?”

He was glad to change the subject. Despite what he’d said, he had felt the absence of both sets of parents keenly, and he knew Bridie had, as well.

“Close your eyes.”

“Do I know you well enough for this?”

“Don’t you trust me?”

“Enough, I guess.” She squeezed them shut.

He’d seen that face before, on her son. “Stay right there, and don’t move.”

“I can probably only bear the suspense for a minute at most. I was a youngest child and not good at delaying gratification.” She paused. “Which, I suppose, is the reason I have a child myself.”

“I was an only child. It seems to have little enough to do with self-control, witness Bridie’s existence.”

“Thirty seconds longer and my eyes pop open. I’m sorry, but you’re forcing me to play against type here.”

He retrieved what she hadn’t noticed when she entered the room. Then he sat behind her, leaning on an armchair for support, and put his arms around her, pulling her back against him. “Okay, you can peek now.”

“It looks like a tin whistle.” She stroked a finger up and down the expanse of it. “It feels like a tin whistle.”

“Your powers of observation are extraordinary.”

“I scare myself.”

He relinquished it as she grasped it. “You love music, and you claim it’s not your ear that’s at fault. I’m correct?”

She snuggled deeper against him. “Did Mozart sing? Did Beethoven? Can we judge their musicality by voices we’ll never hear?”

“You’re not claiming to be Mozart. Please tell me you aren’t.”

“Well, maybe Elton John?” She laughed at his grunt. “My aunt made me take piano lessons, but I wasn’t very good at it. I’m slightly dyslexic. It took me an extra year to learn to read, and trying to remember which hand was my right or left was a trial.”

“I’d rule out surgery as your speciality. Brain surgery in particular.”

“That was a long time ago. I spent two years with ‘R’ printed on one hand and ‘L’on the other. I’m going to be very good at this.”

He didn’t really care how good she was. She
felt
good in his arms, much better than good, in fact. She felt elemental and essential. He had been celibate for two years, despite offers of comfort from an older widow and a young mother who had scandalized the village by seeking a divorce the moment Irish law allowed it. He had considered both, since neither offer came with any desire for commitment. In the end he’d refused, afraid recreational sex would drive him deeper into depression. He hadn’t been ready to feel good or to lose himself in sensation.

He seemed to be ready now.

“All right, here’s what you need to know.” He circled her with his arms. “There are two types of whistles. This one’s in the key of D, which is what’s called for when you’re playing with others.”

“As a child, I got high marks for playing with others.”

“Then clearly this is the right whistle for you.”

He wiggled the mouthpiece. “This moves so the whistle can be tuned to play with other instruments.”

“I also believe in being in tune. I told you I’d be a natural at this.”

“Peggy, you’ve yet to put it in your mouth.”

“Technicalities. I’ve got all the right stuff.”

“Okay, here’s the test. Put it between your lips, and whatever you do, don’t chew. Just hold it there gently, then blow. And try not to wake the household.”

“Don’t I need to know how to hold it and change notes? That sort of thing?”

“Are you teaching me, or am I teaching you?”

“A stern taskmaster, huh?” She did as he asked, blowing softly. The tone was steady and clear.

“I’m impressed.” He actually was.

“I’m sure you are. You thought I’d squawk, didn’t you?”

“Now I’m going to show you how to hold it.” He demonstrated. There were six holes, three to cover with fingers from each hand. “Rest your thumbs behind the index fingers. Like this.” He tipped it so she could see, then he handed it to her.

Her fingers fell over the holes and her thumbs moved naturally into place. “Like this?”

“Perfect. Now keep all the holes covered and blow softly. That will be a D.”

“I beg to differ. It will be an A+.”

“The note will be a D. The quality remains to be seen. Are you going to give me trouble every step of the way?”

“I’m hoping to.” She put the whistle between her lips and blew a well-rounded D. “This is fun.”

His arms tightened around her as she settled back against his chest. Her hair brushed against his jaw; her hips settled against the insides of his thighs. His body reacted noticeably.

He swallowed, moistening a throat that had suddenly gone dry. “Take the fourth finger of your right hand off the bottom hole and you’ll have an E.”

She did and blew. Another pure, sweet note. She uncovered more holes at his instruction and played more notes.

“Now try them all, starting again with all holes covered, and go up the scale.”

She did, with very little wavering in tone.

He demonstrated tonguing, using the tongue to end notes cleanly. She wasn’t bad, although she needed practice. “Now, here’s the hardest part for most people. You’ll need more notes than you’ve learned in order to play most songs, and higher ones at that. And the only way to get them is to blow harder. It’s not something you learn right away, and the first attempts aren’t fit for human ears.”

“In other words, you don’t want me to try the higher notes here and now.”

“You’ve got a lot to practice already, don’t you think? I’m going to leave this with you so you can practice on your own. I have more than one.”

“You don’t trust me, do you?”

“Trust has nothing to do with it. I just think—”

She squirmed in his arms, turning so that her breast pressed against his chest. “You think I’ll make a racket and wake Irene and Kieran and every Tierney in the parish graveyard.”

“You’re determined to show me differently, aren’t you?”

She eyed him for a moment, then raised the whistle to her lips. Then, with her gaze locked with his, she played God’s sweetest version of “The Foggy Dew” from beginning to end.

“You never asked me if I knew how to play,” she said once she’d lowered it.

He tried not to smile. “Don’t blame me. You were letting on that you didn’t, allowing me to make a holy show of myself.”

“Hubris, Finn. Pure and simple.”

“Mind yourself, Peggy-o.”

“Why? And by the way, that’s the only song I know how to play. So the lesson wasn’t strictly for nothing.”

“Where’d you learn?”

“A cousin. She plays in an Irish band. She hoped I’d pick it up quickly so I could join in, but right after she taught me ‘Foggy Dew,’ she moved to Milwaukee. Nowadays she’s into something she calls Celtic rap. Scary stuff, that.” She set down the whistle. “You know, Finn, this wasn’t a bad way to get close to me.”

“You think that’s what it was about?”

She touched his cheek. “I’m wondering how long we’re going to go on like this.”

He knew what she was asking, but he didn’t have an answer. These days, he walked around in a state of arousal. He wanted her, thought about her night and day, always followed closely by thoughts of Sheila and his sons. He had no right to feel anything.

“Would Sheila have wanted you to die with her if she’d known you couldn’t save your boys?” Peggy asked softly. She touched his lips before he could answer. “Not if she loved you, Finn. Did she?”

After that first burst of passion and fertility, love had come slowly. He had grown to love Sheila, too, perhaps not the way he would have loved a woman with whom he’d had more in common, but as the mother of his children, the presence who both ordered and softened his life, the sweet ethereal fairy princess who charmed him with her harp and high, mournful voice.

She saw the answer in his eyes. “She wouldn’t want you to be half dead, either,” Peggy said. “She wouldn’t begrudge you this. Lie down.” She put her hands on his chest and nudged him toward the rug.

He knew better than to let this happen. He wasn’t ready, not for Peggy, who was more to him than a pretty face and pleasing body. Yes, his body screamed for release, but he also yearned for her in ways that had little to do with sex. Peggy made him feel young and alive, and he knew that was part of the reason why he had fought so hard to stay away from her.

He was on his back now, and she was over him, unbuttoning his shirt. She smoothed the fabric apart and touched his chest, then she laid her cheek against it. His hands came up to tangle in her luxuriant hair. When she began to kiss him, all his doubts assailed him at once, as if they had gathered and planned this final assault.

“Shhh…” she whispered. “You can’t bring them back with your unhappiness. You’re alive, and this is right.”

He turned her to her back in one frantic movement. “Is this sex or grief therapy?”

“It’s two people who need each other here and now. It’s just you and me, Finn. But don’t make love to me if there’s anyone else in this room.”

He waited for guilt to make its fatal thrust, for memories to wrap their fingers around his throat. He realized that all he felt was the wild beating of Peggy’s heart against his chest and the soft warmth of her breath on his cheek. Then he kissed her, and there was nothing between them except their clothes. And soon, not even that.

He didn’t tell her that he loved her, but when he sank into her at last, for one fleeting moment of awareness he knew that what he felt was more than lust or even gratitude. And fear followed quickly when they had both found their release, and he lay with her head cradled on his shoulder.

chapter 23

T
he kitchen at the Whiskey Island Saloon was finished. Megan had never expected to have such a beautiful, organized space to work in. Everything was at her fingertips, and for the first time in memory there was enough built-in storage that she and the staff wouldn’t have to juggle pots and pans with supplies.

“The only problem is that there’s nobody to cook for,” Megan told Casey after giving her the tour. “Except the work crew. And they’re more a peanut butter sandwiches and pizza crowd. No one’s breaking down the kitchen door for my soups and stews.”

Casey perched on the edge of a counter, careful not to mar the cabinet below with her muddy shoes. The west side of Cleveland was in the midst of a heavy downpour. Fall and cooler temperatures weren’t too far in their future. “When are we due to reopen?” she said.

“Nick thinks another month, max.”

“Are you going to start off with a bang?”

“Free food and one dollar Guinness for all our regular customers and family. That ought to wipe out whatever’s left over from our insurance money.”

“It’s really going to be beautiful. Nick and the boys are doing great work.” Casey accepted the herbal tea Megan had brewed for her. “The place is nice enough for yuppie businessmen now. Maybe we ought to add tapas to the menu, or sponsor Saturday afternoon wine tastings.”

“Just so you’re the first one through the pearly gates to deflect the unfriendly fire. I don’t want to explain tapas to the Donaghues who ran the place before I did.”

“You think we’ve lost customers?”

That was a very real concern, and it preyed on Megan’s confidence. What if Nick, Marco and the kids had done all this work and the place folded because people forgot to come back?

She tried to be positive. “I hear complaints every single day about the other places people have to go instead. I get another five or six phone calls a week from people who want to know when we’re going to reopen.”

Casey was reassuring. “Then as long as we do it soon, we should be all right. For a lot of our patrons Whiskey Island’s like Grandma’s house. Maybe Great-Aunt Fifi’s condo has a better view and a fancy elevator, but it doesn’t feel like home.”

“If I had a great-aunt Fifi, I’d move somewhere far away and forget to leave a forwarding address.”

Casey sipped her tea, and Megan puttered, wiping down spotless counters and disinfecting the sink. Niccolo and Marco had gone out for materials and promised to return an hour ago. She wondered if Niccolo had been so busy lately that basic skills like dialing a telephone had been lost.