Heather Graham - Night Of The Blackbird

His shoulders, she assured herself, were not as broad as Michael’s. Michael was quintessentially tall, dark and handsome. And more. He was decent. Kind, entertaining, courteous and concerned with the well-being of those around him. When she’d first met Michael, right after the Christmas holidays, she’d thought he was definitely appealing, sexy. Then she’d thought he was intelligent, bright and witty. Then she’d started becoming emotionally involved with him. But with Danny…

He had just been there. A whirlwind in her life, coming and going, visiting her folks with his uncle when he’d been young, coming on his own once he’d turned eighteen. He was Patrick’s age, three years older than she was, and he’d been someone she’d adored when she’d been ten and he’d been thirteen, the first time he had arrived. He’d come back when she was fourteen, fifteen, sixteen and then eighteen, and it had been that year when she’d realized there was nothing in the world that she wanted as badly as she wanted Dan O’Hara. Maybe he’d resisted at first. He’d just graduated from college with a degree in journalism. He had a passion to write; to change the world, and she was still wet behind the ears, not to mention the fact that she was also the child of his good American friends. So she’d set out to have what she wanted. She was enthralled, in awe, and being with him changed none of that. Neither did it change Danny. He’d told her that he was bad for her, that she was young, that she needed to see the world, know the world. And still, year after year, she had waited, going to school, loving the learning, looking, always looking, hoping for someone who could make her forget Danny was in the world somewhere. Danny, with his passion and, always, a level of energy about him that was electric. She knew that he cared for her; perhaps in his way he loved her. Just not as much as he loved the rest of the world—or at least his precious Ireland. As she’d gotten older, she’d begun to understand him in a way. She was an American, and she loved being an American. And she had her own dreams and aspirations. They weren’t meant to be together, but that had never stopped her from wanting him.

But now she had found someone. Michael. She inhaled deeply, forced a casual smile. So you’re here, Danny. Good for you, nice to see you. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a great life that I’m living….

She meant to turn away, but Danny’s smile deepened as the number ended, and in the midst of the applause, she saw him lean over to whisper to Jeff Dolan and her brother.

“Oh, no,” Colleen breathed. “They’ve seen us together.”

“So what?” Moira whispered.

“I said I wouldn’t sing until you showed up.”

“Colleen!” Moira protested.

“Hey, folks, we’ve got a special performance for you this evening,” Jeff announced over the mike. “The prodigal daughters have returned for Saint Patrick’s Day. We’re going to get them both up here for a special number in honor of all the Irish in America—and remember, on Saint Patrick’s Day, all Americans are a wee bit Irish!”

“Daughters, go on now,” Eamon said proudly.

“Come on up, Kelly girls,” Jeff said, encouraging them determinedly. “Ladies and gentlemen, a real treat. The Kelly girls. No one can do a rendition of ‘Danny Boy’ with quite such melodious Irish beauty.”

“What do we do?” Colleen whispered. “I can’t believe they’re doing this to us. I haven’t even heard the song in ages.”

“Um. Not since the last time we were here,” Moira said dryly. “I guess we go up there. We can’t hurt Dad.”

Danny had instigated this. She knew it. She walked toward Jeff, trying to ignore Danny with casual negligence as she took the mike. “Irish-American melodious beauty,” she said, smiling at Jeff and apologizing to the patrons in the pub. “No guarantees, but we’ll do our best.”

The first strains of the violin brought a sigh from the crowd. Moira reflected briefly that, with this particular audience, she and Colleen could have sung like two crows and sentiment alone would have evoked wild applause. But she did love the song, and she and Colleen had done it together since the Saint Pat’s program at church when they had been in grammar school. Her sister’s voice harmonized perfectly with hers. They might not have produced the most melodious Irish beauty ever, but they did the song proud. She loved the music. There was a magic to it, to being home, to singing with Colleen…and even in knowing that Daniel O’Hara was playing a soft beat on the drums behind her.

Naturally the crowd went wild when they ended the tune. Of course, here, it was singing to a group of proud relatives. Moira smiled along with Colleen, thanking those who called out compliments. She felt an arm around her, and before she could completely stiffen, she realized it was her brother.

“Patrick, hey.” She hugged him.

“What about me?” Jeff protested.

Jeff Dolan looked like a latter day hippie. She gave him a hug and a kiss. Jeff had put himself through the wringer. On drugs, off drugs, politically wild—protesting everything from toxic waste to government spending. He’d survived. Cleaned up. He was still an activist, but one with temperance and vision. At least, she hoped so. She gave him a warm hug, along with the three other regulars, Sean, Peter and the odd man out, Ira, an Israeli.

“Did you notice me back here?” Danny asked her. “Or am I supposed to line up?”

“Danny,” she murmured, trying to sound as if missing him was an oversight. She kissed his cheek perfunctorily. “How could anyone ever forget you?”

He grinned, catching her after the kiss, hugging her tightly and planting a kiss firmly on her lips. She escaped his touch as quickly as possible. It was far too easy to underestimate Danny. The quick strength with which he held her belied the lean appearance his height afforded him. Energy always seemed to radiate from Danny. In a flash of time, she felt as if her flesh burned.

“Good to see you, Danny,” she murmured.

“Something light, fellows,” Jeff instructed the band members.

“‘Rosie O’Grady,”’ Ira suggested.

Stepping from the stage, Moira looked across the room to the bar—and froze. Josh and Michael were in the pub, standing behind the taps near her father.

They had arrived far earlier than she had anticipated.

Josh had a camera running. Michael was still applauding, meeting her eyes, a sparkle in his. She wasn’t sure why, but she felt as if she had been caught off guard. She was irritated with Josh, filming her unaware, and yet warmed by Michael’s presence and his never faltering support. She also wondered if Danny, pounding out a new beat, was aware that Josh had arrived with another man. She was sure that he had noticed; Danny always seemed to be aware of what was happening around him. And certainly, since Danny had apparently been there awhile, he had spoken with her parents and knew there was a man in her life.

She wasn’t given to effusive public demonstrations, but she smiled at Michael and hurried across the room, leaning past a bar stool to give him a welcoming, openmouthed kiss. Very emotional, she thought. And perfectly natural, despite the sound of her father clearing his throat. She hadn’t seen Michael in a while. He’d been traveling, making connections, when she’d made the decision to come here for Saint Patrick’s Day.

“Beautiful, babe,” he said softly.

“Thanks.”

“Very nice,” Josh agreed.

She gritted her teeth, wondering why she was so irritated with Josh for taping the performance and wondering just how much of it he had captured on camera. Why was she angry? This was the centerpiece of their planned coverage: an Irish pub in America. She was a performer; she was on a show almost every day of her life, vulnerable to criticism and ridicule. Part of the game. But this…