Night Of The Blackbird. Heather Graham
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does that mean?”
She looked at him, smiling wryly. “A hundred thousand welcomes.”
“Nice. Well, good luck. I’ll be seeing you.”
“Thanks.”
He got in his car and drove away, it seemed regretfully. Nice kid, she thought. Then she hefted her suitcase and started up the outside stairs that led to the family living quarters above the thriving business.
Her mother was a model of domesticity. The porch beside the front door of the home area was set with white wicker café tables, and the canvas overhang was clean as a whistle, even in the dying days of winter. Moira set her case down by the door and knocked, her fingers colder than she had realized inside her gloves. Knocking was easier than trying to find her key.
The door opened. Her mother was there, taking one look at her face and giving her the kind of smile that would have made a trek halfway around the world worthwhile. “Moira Kathleen!” And then, though Katy Kelly was thin as a reed and two inches shorter than Moira’s five feet eight, she enveloped her daughter in a fierce hug with the strength of a grizzly.
“Moira Kathleen, you’re home!” Katy said, stepping back at last, hands on her hips as she surveyed her daughter.
“Mum, of course I’m home. You knew I was coming.”
“Seems so long, Moira,” Katy said, shaking her head. “And you look like a million.”
Moira laughed. “Thanks, Mum. Good genes,” she said affectionately. Her mother was a beautiful woman. Katy didn’t dye the tendrils of silver threading through her auburn hair. God was granting her age, in her words. A head full of silver wasn’t going to matter. Katy was trim from moving a thousand miles an hour every day of her life. Her eyes were the green of her old County Cork, and her face had a classical beauty.
“Ah, sweetie, I miss you so!” Katy said, kissing her. “It’s been so long.”
“Mum, we’re just heading into Saint Patrick’s day. I spent Christmas here. And we all did First Night in the city together, remember?”
“Aye, and maybe it’s not so long, but your brother, Patrick, you know, manages to get back at least once a month, he does.”
“Ah, yes, my brother. Saint Patrick,” Moira murmured.
“Now would you be mocking the likes of your brother?” The question came from behind Katy. Moira looked past her mother to see her grandmother standing there, Granny Jon. On a good day, Granny Jon might be considered an even five feet. At ninety something—no one, including Granny Jon, was quite sure what year she’d been born—she was still as straight as a ramrod and spry as a young girl. Her keen sense of humor sparkled in hazel eyes as she playfully accosted Moira.
“And there—the heart of Eire herself!” Moira laughed, stepping forward to hug her grandmother. As she hugged Granny Jon, she felt the old woman shake a little. Spry and straight she might be, but her grandmother was still a tiny mass of delicate bones, and Moira adored her. She’d given Moira leprechauns and legends, wonderful tales about the banshees being tricked or bribed to go away, and then, when she’d been older, true tales of the fight for freedom for the Irish through long years of mayhem throughout history. She was keen and wise and had seen the battlefield of her city torn to shreds, yet had somehow maintained a love for all the humanity around her, a glorious sense of humor, and a sound judgment regarding both politics and people.
“Why, Moira, you haven’t aged a day,” Granny Jon teased. “Katy, have a heart now. The girl is out there doing us proud. And she is living in New York, while Patrick has stayed in the state of Massachusetts.”
“Um. As if western Mass weren’t nearly as far away as New York City,” Katy said.
“But it hasn’t the traffic,” Granny Jon said.
“Then there’s my evil younger sister,” Moira teased, rolling her eyes.
Katy inclined her head with a wry smile for the two of them. “Well, then, Colleen has gone as far as the west of the entire country now, hasn’t she? And she’d never even consider not being here for Saint Patrick’s Day.”
Moira sighed. “Mum, I’m here, and I’m even bringing in the non-Irish for you to convert,” Moira told her.
“Ah, now, ’tis enough,” Katy said. “We’ll give you a quick cup of tea. Granny Jon was just brewing—”
“And it will be strong enough to pick itself up and walk itself right across the table, eh?” Moira said, teasing her grandmother and putting on her accent.
“We’ll have none of that,” Granny Jon said. “And I do make a good pot of tea, a real pot of tea, nothing wishy-washy about it. And what have we here?”
The main entry to the living quarters was a foyer, with the kitchen—a very large room with added warmth in winter from the oven—and a hallway leading to the bedrooms, library and office straight ahead. Moira hadn’t heard a thing, but when she looked beyond Granny Jon, she saw three little heads bobbing into sight.
Patrick and his wife, Siobhan, had nearly repeated her parents’ pattern of procreation; their son Brian was nine and daughters Molly and Shannon were six and four respectively.
“Hey, guys!” Moira called delightedly, hunching down on the balls of her feet and putting her arms out for the kids. They came running to her with whoops and hollers, kissing her, hugging her.
“Auntie Mo,” Brian said. As a baby, he’d never quite gotten her name right. She’d been Auntie Mo to the kids ever since. “Is it true we’re going to be on the telly?”
“On the telly? Oh, dear, you’ve been hanging around the Irish too long, me lad!” she teased. “Yes, of course, if you wish, you’ll be on the telly.”
“Cool!” Molly told her.
“Cool!” Shannon repeated, wide-eyed.
“Oh, yes, all the kids at the preschool will be talking!” Moira said, ruffling her nieces’ hair. Brian was almost a Mini-Me of her brother, with his hazel eyes and deep auburn hair. The girls had acquired their mother’s soft true-blond hair and huge blue eyes. Leave it to Patrick. They were wonderful children, well-behaved without being timid, full of personality and love. Chalk that all up to Siobhan, Moira thought. Her sister-in-law was a doll. Patrick…well, as Granny Jon had once said, he could fall into a mire of cow dung and come up smelling like roses. She adored her brother, of course. She just wished he didn’t manage to go his own way all the time and still wind up appearing to be the perfect child on every occasion. He should have been a politician. Maybe he would be one day. He’d gotten his law degree and now practiced in a tiny town in western Massachusetts, where he also owned land, kept horses and a few farm animals and still maintained a home that always seemed as beautifully kept as something out of Architectural Digest. Business frequently brought him to Boston, where, naturally, he always stopped in to see his parents.
Her brother had married well, she decided. She knew Siobhan, née O’Malley, had taken a chance with Patrick after his wild days in high school, but apparently the chance had paid off. They both seemed happy and still, after ten years of marriage, deeply in love.
“Cool, cool, cool, Auntie Mo!” Shannon repeated.
“Cool. I like that. Good American slang term,” Moira said seriously.
Her mother let out a tsking sound. “Now, Moira, if you can’t hold on to a few traditions…”
“Mum! I adore tradition,” she said.
“And you, you little leprechauns!” Katy chastised the children. “It’s nearly nine. You’re supposed to be asleep now. You’ve gotten to see Auntie Mo, now back in bed.”
“Ah, Nana K!” Brian protested.
“I’ll not have your mother telling me I can’t handle