Whiskey Island (52 page)

“Not really. She had red hair and lots of children.” She touched her curls and made a face. “I’m told that’s where our wing of the Donaghue clan gets the hair.”

“Do you know if she was married more than once?”

“No. Why do you ask?”

“A Lena Tierney is mentioned in Father McSweeney’s journal, along with a reference to one Rowan Donaghue.”

“Well, Rowan Donaghue probably is our ancestor, but Lena Tierney? I never heard Rosaleen referred to as Lena, and I never heard that she had another husband.”

“None of that may have made its way down through the generations. It’s been over a hundred years. My own family still talks about people from the old country like they’re living next door, but facts get skewed. When I visited my grandfather’s home village, I met the daughter of a woman he’d talked about fondly. According to him, the woman was a saint, but the daughter told me her mother was a shrew who made life miserable for everyone who ever met her. When she died, she had the biggest funeral in the village’s history because everyone wanted to be sure she was really dead. Same woman, different story.”

Megan laughed. She was enjoying this more than she wanted to admit. “Did you tell your grandfather the truth?”

“And destroy a myth?”

“You miss your family, don’t you?”

“I’m going back to visit in a couple of weeks. Come with me.”

She stopped. “Are you kidding?”

“I’m not.”

“Didn’t you tell me they’re having trouble accepting the fact that you left the priesthood?”

“I did.”

“Don’t you think they’ll have more trouble with it if you show up with a woman on your arm?”

“Maybe. If the woman wasn’t you.”

“Nick…”

“How could they not love you, Megan?”

She didn’t know what to say. This felt like a commitment she wasn’t ready to make. She might never be ready to make it. He must have seen her fear in her eyes, because he smiled and touched her cheek. “Bad idea. Maybe another time.”

“Maybe…” She doubted it. “We ought to turn around. I’ve got to get back.”

They did, and the silence grew until she broke it. “How’s Josh doing?”

“I finally tracked down his father. He gave permission for Josh to stay with me.”

She read between the lines. “It wasn’t that simple, was it?”

“No. But it’s over and done with now, with the paperwork to prove it. Josh can visit him if he wants to, but so far, he hasn’t had the inclination.”

“How is it for you with Josh living there?”

“The answer to a prayer.”

That surprised her. “Why?”

Niccolo stopped and took her hands, leaning against a convenient telephone pole. They were close enough to the saloon that the piercing notes of a penny whistle were clearly audible. “Josh made me realize I’ve already discovered what I want to do with my life. I’ve been doing it. I just didn’t realize it.”

“Fixing up old houses?”

“Yeah, but with help. I want to make what I’ve been doing with Josh and his friends official. Megan, I want to start a program that teaches kids some of the skills they need to survive. Not just basic remodeling skills, but life skills. Planning projects and following through on them. Learning to succeed and learning to fail. Learning to listen and follow instructions. Learning to reach a goal through small, achievable steps.” He smiled self-consciously. “I guess I could go on and on about it.”

“Could you afford to do it?”

“On my own? If I kept if very small, maybe. But I think the idea has a lot of potential. It can be expanded. More adults, more kids, particularly kids who’ve dropped out of school or are in danger of it. Maybe even working with the employable homeless, doing the same sorts of things. Father Brady thinks it’s a good idea, and he’s willing to go to bat to get start-up money either from the congregation of St. Brigid’s or beyond, in the community at large. I’ll use my house as a base and range out from there, hire staff, but keep each group small, so the kids get the attention they need.”

“Your house.”

He cocked his head in question.

“It’s never been your house before, Nick. It was always the house you lived in, the house you were working on to sell.”

“It’s home. I’m not going to sell it.” He squeezed her hands.

He didn’t offer to make it her home, but this, too, she read in his eyes.

She didn’t know what to feel. He was staying in Cleveland. He was going to do something important. Even she, a confirmed cynic, had to admit that Niccolo had a special gift with kids, that they responded to his warmth and his ability to give them the facts without judging them unnecessarily. And she had a spot in her heart for kids who were trying to find their way in the world without enough help. She’d been one herself.

She had a special spot in her heart for Niccolo, too. And that was the part that was difficult. Because she knew if she just let those feelings grow, she might very well have the things she’d once dreamed about. A man who loved her. A man who was willing to share her life and her burdens, even if the going got tough. A real home and the things that went with it.

“You’re awfully quiet.” Niccolo released her hands and straightened. “You don’t think this is a good idea?”

“It’s a fine idea, Nick.” She started walking toward the saloon. “It’s been staring you in the face, hasn’t it? I know you’ll make a success of it. You’re just the man to do it.”

“I thought you might be glad I’m staying in town.”

“Of course I am.”

He paused long enough that she knew he was wrestling with his own feelings. “I shouldn’t have told you today. My timing’s bad. You’re exhausted. I’m sorry.”

“Look, I don’t know what you’d want me to say even if I’d just had ten hours of sleep. But whatever it is, I’m not ready to say it. You’re taking this too fast for me.”

His voice had a noticeable edge. “I didn’t ask you to marry me, Megan. I just told you I’m staying in Cleveland. If that’s too fast for you, I’ll back off even more. What would you like? On a scale of disappearing entirely to thinking ahead to our fiftieth wedding anniversary? Just say the word.”

He was a man who was slow to anger. But she heard anger in his voice now. And who could blame him? She was behaving abysmally. She knew it, yet she didn’t seem to be able to behave any other way. She was running so fast she didn’t have time for the niceties.

She stopped just outside the saloon. “Right now I need to get back to work. I’m sorry I didn’t sound enthusiastic enough for you, Nick. I
am
glad you’re staying, and I’m happy you’ve found a way to use all your talents.”

He gave a perfunctory nod. “Happy St. Patrick’s Day. Hope the rest of it goes well for you.”

“You’re not coming inside? I have a plate of corned beef and cabbage with your name on it, and we start serving dinner in half an hour.”

“I don’t think so.” He turned and started down the sidewalk.

She watched him walk away and realized he had come on foot again. He’d come here on foot once before, on a cold January night when most sensible people stayed indoors. He’d walked knowingly into a carjacking when anyone else would have run away. He’d probably saved a life or two because of it.

Niccolo Andreani, ex-priest, but a spectacularly special human being.

He disappeared around the corner and into the night.

For the first time that she could ever remember, the Whiskey Island Saloon did not feel like a refuge, but like a prison.

Niccolo had known that Megan’s feelings for him were anything but clear. She was two different people: the woman who wanted love and had so much of it to give back, and the woman who never again wanted to be left with an aching heart and the burdens of a failed relationship.

He could tell himself she was too old to allow her childhood to rule her life, but he knew better than to believe it. Each person found peace and understanding at his own pace. Megan’s burdens had been heavy. She simply didn’t want to open herself to more, and love was a burden.

His head was clearer by the time he got to his own block. He had expected something from a woman who had clearly told him to expect nothing. He had played God again, a bad habit of his. He’d believed that he knew more about Megan’s feelings than she did. The time had come to believe what she told him and to stop hoping that she would see reason. In this situation, reason was just another word for submission.

He paused outside his neighbor’s house. He was scheduled to sign the papers making it his next week. Right that minute, he wished he could take his crowbar and his sledgehammer to the interior walls. He wished he could pry off the porch, board by board.

He wished he knew how to cry.

He unlocked the front door of his own house and stepped inside. Voices echoed from the back—the kitchen, if his guess was right. He followed the sound to find a pale-faced Josh standing at the sink and an unkempt stranger sitting at the table eating a bowl of cereal.

Josh looked more than relieved to see him. He looked profoundly grateful. When he spoke, he kept his voice low. “Nick, this guy just showed up. He had a note from you saying he could come by anytime. Should I have let him in?”

Niccolo was staring at Rooney Donaghue, working his way through a huge bowl of Cheerios. He was dressed in ragged layers, as always, but not as many. The weather was warming. “You did exactly the right thing.”

“Do you need me to stay around?”

“No. Are you heading somewhere?”

“I’ve got to get a book at the library. Do you mind?”

“I’d mind if you didn’t get it. Go on. I’ll be fine.”

“Okay. I’ll be right back.”

Niccolo wasn’t sure that Josh coming back right away was a good idea. At some point Rooney might look up, see he was outnumbered and flee. Nick fished in his pants for his wallet and took out a five dollar bill. “We’ll probably have a late supper. Get yourself something to tide you over. And don’t hurry.”

Josh frowned, but he took the money and nodded. “You’re sure?”

“Uh-huh.”

Josh left the kitchen and, a few moments later, the house.

Rooney finished his cereal. He was starting on a big glass of orange juice when Niccolo joined him at the table. “Mind if I sit with you?”

Rooney examined Niccolo through watery eyes, then turned back to his juice.

“I’m glad you found your way here,” Niccolo said. “I’ve been hoping you would.”

“A man’s got a lot of places to go.”

Niccolo nodded. “Do you have a lot of places where you can eat?”

“Plenty of food, if a man knows where to look.”

“How about Whiskey Island Saloon? Do you look there sometimes?”

Rooney just sipped his juice, staring straight ahead at the wall.

“Your daughters are worried about you,” Niccolo said at last.

“Some things a boy doesn’t understand. Some things a boy doesn’t want to do.”

Niccolo thought he might be talking about Josh. “Josh lives here with me. He’s a good kid. I’m glad he let you in. I’ll tell him to let you in anytime you stop by.”

Rooney faced Niccolo, and Niccolo got his second good look. Rooney’s chin bristled with whiskers, his face was creased and dirty. But the man had made an attempt to clean himself up. His longish gray hair was combed and neatly tied back with a plain rubber band. His shirt was correctly buttoned, and the collar was carefully turned down. When he spoke, his teeth looked reasonably well cared for, but judging by a fetid odor wafting from his clothing, he and his layers hadn’t had a good wash in a while.

“I been watching that place nearly as long as you’ve been alive.”

What place? The saloon? The Whiskey Island excavation site? Niccolo was at a loss. He made a guess. “It used to belong to you, didn’t it? The saloon was yours.”

“I had little girls. Gone now, all of them.”

“If you mean Megan, Casey and Peggy, they’re still here. They’ve just grown up. They’re women now. They want to see you again.”

“Stars took them.” He sighed. “Didn’t do my job.”

Niccolo was confused, but how could he not be? Undoubtedly Rooney’s private world had a logic all its own, but it wasn’t one an outsider could appreciate. There was no way inside it, except by trying out possibilities.

“What job would that be?” Niccolo asked. “They loved you and still do. What more can a father say?”

“Stars watching all the time. I looked away, and they saw me do it.” He leaned forward. “You ever look away?”

Niccolo wondered what the right answer was, the one that would keep Rooney talking. “Everybody does, I guess.”

“Stopped paying attention. Better be careful you don’t do the same.”

Counsel from a crazy man, yet Niccolo felt a surge of warmth. Rooney, with all his problems, could still worry about others. “What should I pay attention to?”

“Stars. Voices. Sounds from the past. Do you hear them?”

Niccolo wondered if he did. Everyone heard voices of people who had been important to them. Not real voices, of course, but memories, remembered snatches of conversations, advice not taken. How different were the voices Rooney spoke of?

He tried to put that into words. “I remember things people have said to me. Everyone does. In a way, those are voices.”

“You listen. I didn’t.”

“I don’t think you have to listen if the voices tell you to do things you don’t want to.”

“No choices to make.”

“None at all?”

Rooney finished his juice, then set the glass down. “It’s over, anyway. Done, and the stars know it.”

“Are they angry?”

Rooney pushed back his chair. “Time will tell.”

“Rooney, Megan wants very badly to see you. Can you stay here a while? Can you let me call her so she can come talk to you? You don’t have to stay after that, but she needs to see that you’re all right.”

“Megan was like her mother. Even stronger. Casey was like me. Never did what she was told.” He smiled a little.

The niggling doubt that this man was really Rooney Donaghue was satisfied. “Casey could come, too,” Niccolo offered.

Rooney didn’t answer. He simply put his head down on his arms, as if he intended to go to sleep.

The kitchen telephone, an ancient model that had been left in the house by previous owners, was now permanently disabled. Niccolo knew if he was going to call Megan, he would have to do it from the den.