Heather Graham - Night Of The Blackbird

She managed to regain her footing, then hugged him fiercely again.

“You know the boys at the bar, eh, daughter? Seamus and Liam, Sal Corderi, the Italian here, Sandy O’Connor down there, his wife, Sue—”

“Hello!” Moira called to them all.

“Well, now, I’d be taking a hug and a kiss,” Seamus told her.

“And you’d not leave me out!” Liam protested.

“One more for Dad, then I’ll come around the bar,” she said, holding her father closely to her once again. “Are you supposed to be working this hard?” she asked him softly.

“Ah, now, pouring a draft isn’t hard work,” he told her. Then he pulled back and frowned. “And you, did you fly in alone?”

She smiled. “Dad, I live and work in New York City. I travel all over the country.”

“But there’s usually someone with you.”

Puzzled, Moira shook her head. “I took a cab to the airport, got on a plane, then took a cab here.”

“Boston’s not the safest city in the world these days,” Liam said. Moira noted that he and Seamus had a newspaper spread out between them at the bar.

“I don’t think it’s ever been crime free,” Moira said lightly. “No major metropolis goes without crime. That’s why you raised intelligent, streetwise children, Dad.”

“He’s thinking about the girl,” Liam told her.

Moira frowned. “What girl?”

“A prostitute found in the river,” Seamus said.

“Dead,” Liam added sadly.

“Strangled,” Seamus finished with sorrowful drama.

She looked at her father, finding the situation sad, as well, but wondering why this news should suddenly make him worried about her. “Dad, I promise you, I haven’t taken up the world’s oldest profession as a sideline.”

He shrugged. “Now, Moira—”

“He’s afraid there might be a serial killer in the city,” Liam said, shaking his head. “Apparently the woman plied her trade around the hotel and attracted men of means. Therefore, you see, any lovely lass might be a target. But we’re not here to get you down, Moira, girl. There are fine things happening as well. Let’s look to the good news! We’re getting one of the most important politicians in Northern Ireland for our very own Saint Patrick’s Day parade. Mr. Jacob Brolin is coming here, right to Boston, can you imagine?”

“Oh?” Moira murmured, afraid to say more. Josh, who hailed from the deep South, had told her about a round table he had attended where men still sat together, engaging in deep and sometimes passionate discussions regarding the American Civil War. Josh was an American history buff. At Kelly’s, too, often they relived battles—and the fighting that had eventually led to the Irish Free State and the Republic of Ireland. They drank to the Easter Rebellion solemnly, bemoaning the fate of the freedom fighters executed after the surrender. They argued the strategies of the leaders, they spoke for and against the hero Michael Collins and ripped apart Eamon De Valera, the American-born first president of the Irish Republic. Of course, it always came back to the same thing: if only, from the very beginning, the island had been recognized as one nation—an Irish nation—they would never have had The Troubles that followed. She personally felt rather sorry for Michael Collins. He’d risked his life time and again, devoted himself wholeheartedly to the cause, managed the first true liberation of any of his people, and, in the end, been killed by a faction of his own people for not managing to take the entire island at once.

“Aye, a fine man, this Jacob Brolin,” her father said, brightening. “Why, the flyers are out at the front entry, daughter. We’re privileged, we are. You ought to know this already.”

She tried to keep quiet, but she couldn’t. She shook her head. “Dad, you’ll all have to excuse me if I think that violence against anyone is horrible and if I don’t know every move made in a foreign country regarding the hoped-for union of an island nation. You all can dream of a united Ireland, but I’m sorry if I think that bombing innocent people is beyond despicable. I have friends who are English who have no desire to hurt anyone Irish—”

“Why, Moira Kathleen Kelly! I have good Englishmen in here all the time,” her father said indignantly. “Englishmen, Scotsmen, Australians, Cornishmen, Welsh and a good helping of our close friends the Canadians, not to mention Mexicans, French, Spanish—”

“And excuse me, but have you forgotten your truly closest friends in Boston? The Italians, naturally. To the Italians! Salute!” Sal said, smiling, meeting Moira’s gaze and winking in his attempt to defuse the argument.

“God, yes, the Italians! Salute!” Moira said.

“To the Italians!”

The men at the bar were always happy to toast to anyone and everyone.

It did nothing, however, to change the gist of the conversation.

“Moira, you would admire this man Jacob Brolin,” Seamus said earnestly. “He’s a pacifist, working for the rights of every last man in Northern Ireland. He’s arranged social events where all attend; he’s worked hard for the downtrodden and poor and he’s loved by Orangemen and Catholics alike. There’s seldom been so fine and fair a man to reach a position of power.”

Moira let out a long breath, feeling a bit foolish. All she’d wanted was to get everyone off the subject. Instead, she’d nearly created a passionate argument herself.

“Well, then, I’m thrilled that this man is coming to our country, to our city—”

“You’ll want him on your program,” Seamus said.

“Aye, and then maybe we’ll all get to meet him,” Liam agreed.

“Well, we’ll see,” Moira murmured. “We planned on asking Mum to make a traditional Irish meal, tell leprechaun stories, things like that.”

“Aye, but you’ll want the parade on your show,” her father insisted.

“Moira?”

She had seldom been so relieved to hear her name called. She spun around, delighted to see her younger sister, Colleen, coming to her, threading her way through the crowd.

They’d fought like cats and dogs as children, but now Colleen was incredibly dear to her. Her sister was beautiful, Moira’s height, with red hair a far softer shade than Moira’s deep auburn. She had Granny Jon’s hazel eyes and a face of sheer light and beauty. She had been living in Los Angeles for the last two years, to their parents’ great dismay. But she had been hired as the lead model for a burgeoning new cosmetics line, and though they were disconsolate that she spent so much time so far away, they were also as proud as it was possible to be. Her face was appearing in magazines across the country.

Colleen hugged her. “When did you get in?”

“Thirty minutes ago. You?”

“Earlier this afternoon. Have you seen Patrick yet?”

“No, but he’s down here, right?”

“With the band. Along with Danny.”

Moira jerked her head around. She’d heard the band playing since she’d come in, but Jeff Dolan had been doing the singing—she’d heard Jeff play and sing at least a third of her life, and she knew the sound of his voice like the back of her hand. Now she saw that her brother was indeed up with the group, playing bass guitar.

And Danny was there, as well, sitting in for the drummer this time. As if he had known the exact moment she would look his way, he suddenly stared across the room, meeting her eyes.

He smiled slowly. Just a slight curl of his lips. He didn’t miss a beat on the drums. Ah, yes, Moira, love, I’m here. Was that part of his appeal? The slow grin that could slip into a soul, amber eyes that seemed always to be a bit mocking, and a bit rueful, as well? She tried to stare at him analytically. He was a tall man, which seemed oddly apparent even as he sat behind the drums. His hair, a sandy shade that still carried a hint of red, was perpetually unruly, an annoyance to him when it fell low on his brow, but somehow rakish and sensual to the female gender.