Night Of The Blackbird. Heather Graham
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of nostalgia stole over him. This place really was home to him, certainly as much as any other. His early years seemed a very long time ago. Living with his uncle, he had traveled a great deal. Brendan O’Toole, his mother’s brother, who had married a cousin of Katy Kelly, had been a scholar and broker for antique manuscripts. He had given Dan his first love of literature. Of the written word and the power within it. He’d been a storyteller, another talent he had passed on to Dan. His house in Dublin had been home, but they’d been on the go constantly. Dan had seen many foreign countries, and he had spent a great deal of time in America. He did love the States.
And after any length of time away, he missed this old place.
It was time for him to be there. He could go on in. But he had said he was arriving in the morning. He would wait. No reason to tell the folks that he had been in Boston a bit before checking in with them.
Aye, he would wait.
As he stood there against the building, he saw another man striding down the street. He wore a huge overcoat and a low-brimmed hat. Nothing odd in that. Boston could be frigid this time of year.
But this man approached the pub oddly; then, as Dan had done himself, he paused, staring at the windows.
He stood there for a long time. Dan dropped his cigarette to the ground and remained still, watching the watcher.
The man was peering through the windows, trying to see who was in the pub.
Apparently he didn’t see the person—or people—he was seeking, because after a long moment, he turned away and started down the street again, back in the direction from which he had come.
Nothing odd in that. A guy out to find friends at a pub, taking a look for them, realizing they weren’t there, deciding to leave.
Nothing odd in that.
Except that the man in the huge coat and low-brimmed hat was Patrick Kelly, son of the owners of Kelly’s Pub.
Dan lit another cigarette, feeling a new tension, as if rocks were forming in his gut.
He waited awhile longer, then hiked up the collar of his coat and started off down the street, as well.
Moira seldom paused to window-shop; she was usually running somewhere, and besides, she had been in New York a long time. She still loved the beautiful displays that were put out for holidays, and she appreciated the fact that she could buy almost anything in the world in the city where she lived and worked. She loved clothes, but she also loved a day when she could take the time to try on outfits, go through a zillion pair of shoes, driving salesmen crazy.
But that morning, walking toward the new French restaurant in the Village where she was to meet the lady from Maine to discuss their taping schedule, she found herself stopping to stare at an incredible Saint Patrick’s showcase. The stores usually had out all their Easter wares along with their Saint Patrick’s Day items. This particular window had been done with real love. There were shamrocks everywhere, arranged artfully. A field of lovely porcelain fairies had been hung to fly above a rainbow with the traditional pot of gold at the end. Finely carved leprechauns with charming faces were set around the rainbow, as if they were busy at daily tasks. The leprechaun in the middle sat on a pedestal, facing a fairy on another pedestal. The fairy was exquisite, poised on one toe, with wings painted the colors of the rainbow. Pausing without realizing it, she stared at the fairy, charmed. She realized that it was a music box.
She glanced quickly at her watch and decided she had time to take a closer look. She went into the store, not surprised to discover that the shop owner was the cashier, that she still carried a bit of an Irish accent and that she was delighted with Moira’s interest in the item.
“My mother would absolutely love that piece,” Moira told her, and asked the price.
It was high, but the woman quickly explained. “The piece is one of a kind. The fairies and leprechauns, you see. The porcelain fairies are limited, but the carved pieces are handcrafted by two brothers in Dublin. Each is individual, and signed. I believe they’ll be very popular in the future, but it’s not the fact that they may be highly collectible one day that makes them so dear. It’s the time taken for the work that goes into each one.”
“I hate to ask you to take it out of the window.”
“Oh, no, dear, I love the darling little things. Please, it’s my pleasure, even if you don’t buy. You seem to truly appreciate the art of it.”
Moira assured her that she did, indeed. And when the woman took the piece from the window and put it before her, she found that it was even more beautiful than she had thought. The carving of the face was exquisite. The fairy created a feeling that was totally ethereal. She was simply magical. All that is good and enchanting about the Irish people, Moira thought.
“I’ll take her,” Moira said.
“Don’t you wish to hear her play?” the woman asked, twisting the key at the bottom of the small pedestal.
“Sure, thank you. What song does she play?”
The woman laughed softly. She allowed her accent to deepen as she jokingly said, “Why, besure and begorrah, dear. She plays ‘Danny Boy.’ You know, ‘Londonderry Air.”’
The little fairy began to spin, to fly on her pedestal. The music tinkled out, charming, beautiful, sweet, the haunting melody familiar and yet light, different.
“Danny Boy.” Of course. What else? There were so many beautiful old Irish tunes, but naturally this box would play “Danny Boy.”
“Is something wrong?” the woman asked.
“No, she’s lovely, thank you so much. I’ll definitely buy her for my mum.”
“I’ll wrap her very carefully for you.”
“Thanks so much.”
As Moira waited, she realized that she would be spending the next week listening to “Danny Boy.” Might as well get used to it now.
“Are you sure there’s nothing wrong, dear?”
“Not at all. In fact, I’d like both of those little stuffed leprechauns, please. They’ll make cute little gifts for my nieces. Then I need something for a boy.”
“I have a small, hand-held video game just in. Banshees against fairies, with the leprechauns being the chance factor, some of them good, some of them bad.”
“Sounds perfect,” Moira said. “Thank you so much.”
Tomorrow she was going home. And suddenly, here in this shop, anticipation mingled with her dread.
Kelly’s Pub was already in full nightly swing when Dan O’Hara emerged from the back room of the tavern, the guest quarters, where he had been staying. The pub band, Blackbird, was already playing a mixture of old and new Irish music with a bit of American pop thrown in here and there. He knew all the members from way back.
It was the first time he had come into the pub during opening hours, and he was ready for the greeting he knew he would receive.
“And there he is!” Eamon Kelly called from behind the bar. “The best and brightest of you lot of reprobates, Mr. Daniel O’Hara.”
“Hey, Danny, how are you?” asked old Seamus.
“Danny boy, you’re back in town!” Liam McConnahy said.
The lineup at the bar was made up of Eamon’s longtime friends, some old country, some born and bred in the USA. He recognized Sal Costanza, an old school chum who had grown up in the Italian sector along the North Shore. Eamon Kelly had created his own little Gaelic empire here, but he was a good-hearted, friendly fellow, with a keen interest in everyone around him and—usually—a nose for a decent character in any man. But now Dan didn’t like what was happening here. He would have done anything in his power to keep Kelly’s Pub and the Kellys themselves