The Parting Glass. Emilie Richards
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watching him.” Peggy started off through the crowd, but she was stopped by her aunt Deirdre before she could get to her son.
“I can’t believe you’re leaving tomorrow,” Deirdre said.
Peggy loved her aunt. Deirdre Grogan was Rooney’s sister, and she and Frank, her husband, had raised Peggy after Peggy’s mother died and Rooney left. At the same time Deirdre, who had undoubtedly wanted full custody, had been sensitive to Megan’s need to have a say in her baby sister’s life. So Deirdre had walked a difficult line. She was kind, patient and completely opposed to Peggy’s decision to take Kieran to Ireland.
“I love that color,” Peggy said, hoping to change the thrust of the conversation. Deirdre always dressed with quiet, expensive good taste. Today she wore a sage-green linen suit that set off hair that had once been the color of Casey’s but had less fire in it now.
“Are you sure you won’t reconsider, darling? After all, what do you know about this woman? What do any of us know? And how can we help Kieran if you’re off in the middle of nowhere?”
Peggy knew that her aunt was distraught, because Deirdre never interfered. Two years ago, when Peggy informed her that she was pregnant and didn’t intend to marry the father, Deirdre had asked only what she could do to assist.
“I know enough about Irene Tierney to risk the trip,” Peggy said. “She’s been warm and welcoming, and she’s anxious to meet even a small piece of her American family. Until a couple of months ago, she didn’t know we existed.”
“But doesn’t it all seem odd to you? She’s in her eighties? And she found you on the Internet?”
“Her physician gave her a computer to amuse her and got her connected. It’s something she can do from home that gives her broader interests. She’s mostly housebound. And I think it’s wonderful that she was so adaptable and eager, and that she found us.”
“I still don’t understand what she wanted.”
Peggy looked toward the kitchen and saw Greta standing in the doorway, pointing toward the stairs. Peggy waved at her to let her know she’d gotten the message. She was growing frantic, the response of any mother of any species separated from her bawling youngster. “I’ve got to get Kieran. We can talk later.”
Deirdre looked contrite. “Can I help? Would you like me to—”
“No, but thanks. Stay. Enjoy yourself. I’ll be down with him in a bit.”
Peggy didn’t add that she planned to take her time. There were a dozen relatives who would try to corner her before the night ended and quiz her about the remarkable decision to fly thousands of miles to live in rural Ireland with a woman she’d never met. She wasn’t anxious to face any of them.
Upstairs, the tiny apartment, often stuffy in late spring, had benefitted from the afternoon’s wind and dark skies. Peggy knew, without opening the bedroom door, that Kieran would be staring at the sheer curtain beside his crib. Even though the window was only open an inch, the curtain would wave with each gust, and Kieran’s gaze would be locked on that movement. He might even imitate it, waving his hand back and forth. When there was no curtain blowing, no clock pendulum swinging, no ceiling fan revolving overhead, she had seen him follow the slow back and forth of his own hand for as long as an hour, mesmerized and calmed by the fruitless repetition as she sat distressed beside him.
If only she could unlock the mystery that was Kieran Rowan Donaghue.
She opened the door and saw that she had been right. Kieran was awake, but he wasn’t sitting up. He was lying silently, waving his hand back and forth in time to the movements of the curtain. If Kieran was capable of happiness, then he was happiest at moments like this. Happiest when he was alone, with no one asking more of him, no one expecting recognition or, worse, love. No one to distract him from the isolation he craved.
“Kieran?”
He didn’t turn, but she hadn’t expected him to. He heard her, though. She knew he did from the way his plump little body stiffened and his hand no longer kept rhythm. His mouth tightened, and he made a sound of distress, an animal sound. Cornered prey.
“Sweetheart, it’s Mommy. How’s my Kieran boy?” She moved slowly toward him. She knew better than to ask him to quickly give up his solitary world. Not so long ago the family had teased about Kieran’s “sensitivity.” He would be an artist, a poet, a musician, their Kieran. He was a visionary, this youngest Donaghue. He saw the world differently, experienced it at a level more visceral, more elemental, than most children.
In those happy days, before the diagnosis of autism arrived with the crocuses and early daffodils and turned a Cleveland spring into Peggy’s personal nightmare.
“Kieran,” she crooned. “Kie—ran.”
He turned to her at last. His angelic little face registered dismay. He had a rose-petal complexion and soft auburn curls. His pale blue eyes were as bright as stars, but whatever dwelled behind them was Kieran’s own secret.
“Mommy’s here,” she crooned. “Mommy loves you, and she’s here. Mommy’s not going anywhere, sweetheart. Kieran. Love.”
He didn’t lift his arms. He didn’t smile. His body, which had been soft with sleep, stiffened into steel. Then he turned away, turned toward the open window and the waving curtain, and began to hum.
chapter 4
So far, Megan had survived. Rooney’s appearance at her side had been a gift. She had never expected to walk down the aisle on her father’s arm, and that small miracle had gotten her to the front, where the man she loved waited to hold her up. Niccolo’s smile and Father Brady’s patient prompting got her through the service.
Now, hopefully, champagne and Guinness would get her through the rest of the reception.
“My car’s missing,” Niccolo shouted in her ear.
For a moment she didn’t understand. The Civic was nearly new. If the engine was missing, that was a bad omen.
“I think somebody took it to decorate it,” he elaborated.
She felt herself turning shades of mottled pink, the curse of a redhead. After the reception, she and Niccolo were leaving for a relative’s cottage on Michigan’s Drummond Island. She had envisioned anonymity and absolute peace on the drive.
“We’re stopping at the first car wash,” she warned.
He grinned. She couldn’t recall ever seeing Niccolo look happier. She wondered what she had done to deserve him, this man who had stood by her through all her doubts, fears and general neuroses.
“I’d like to outrun this storm,” Niccolo said, “but I think we’ll be driving right into it.”
“It’s raining again? Maybe we won’t need a car wash.”
“Pouring. I’m used to odd weather, but this takes the cake.”
Casey pushed through the crowd with a full plate of food and handed it to Megan. “You haven’t eaten a bite. This is fabulous. Both the Andreanis and the Donaghues outdid themselves.”
Megan realized she was starving. “Nick?” But she needn’t have worried. She saw that Jon was hauling him to the bar to fill his own plate. Niccolo’s brother Marco was helping.
“Having fun?” Casey said.
Megan dug into the best manicotti she’d ever tasted. She wondered if Mrs. Andreani would share the recipe. It was probably too soon in their relationship to ask, considering that until just hours ago Niccolo’s mother hadn’t wanted to acknowledge her existence.
“Is this supposed to be fun?” Megan said.
“You’re enjoying yourself, aren’t you?”
A cousin with a full tray of Guinness stopped, and Megan took a pint, suffering a hug while she was at