Night Of The Blackbird

“I can be there, if you want.” He wondered if he should tell her that he wasn’t in Florida. Maybe he’d better leave that one for Josh.

He was silent for a moment. Yes, there were other women in the world, he knew that well. The fingers of his free hand tensed and eased, tensed and eased. But none like her.

“Aye, me love, at ye olde pub!” he said, giving her his best Irish accent. “If you insist that we wait that long.”

“You’d really drive all night…?”

“I would.”

“I’d rather have you alive in the future than dead in such an effort,” Moira said firmly. “Boston, night after next, Kelly’s Pub, you’ll meet the folks. I’ll see you there?”

“All right,” he told her. Then, though he had expected it, he found himself dreading the fact that they would all be in Boston together. He, Moira, her family, her past—and the future. “I love you,” he added, and he was surprised by the almost desperate ardor in his voice.

“I love you, too,” she said, and he believed her.

A few moments later, they rang off.

Though it was late and he was still exhausted, Michael found himself rising and getting dressed. He glanced at the clock. Not that late; just after midnight.

He dressed and left the hotel room.

His destination was within easy walking distance. Boston was a good city in that respect. Narrow, winding streets in the old section and even in the newer areas. There was little distance here between the colonial and the modern. He liked Boston. Great seafood. A sense of history.

He walked quickly and came to the street he had checked out earlier that day. There, in the middle of the block, beneath a soft yellow streetlight, was the sign.

Kelly’s Pub.

He stood there, staring at it.

And damning the days to come.

The doors were still open, though it looked quiet within. Weeknight. He thought about sauntering in, quietly ordering a draft, sitting in a corner, taking a look.

No.

At twelve-thirty, he turned and walked away.

Twelve forty-five.

From the shadows cast by the long buildings, another man watched Michael McLean leave the premises. He hadn’t really seen his face, had never known the man previously, but even so, he was fully aware of who he was.

Dan O’Hara watched the man thoughtfully until he had disappeared. He had avoided the streetlight on the opposite side of the block and therefore had hardly been even a dark silhouette in the night.

He leaned against the old building. With the street clear, he lit a cigarette, slowly allowing the smoke to filter out of his lungs. Bad habit. He needed to quit, he thought idly. So that was Michael. He didn’t have enough basis for any rational judgments, but by virtue of instinct, he disliked the guy. But then, Moira could be seeing a Nobel Peace Prizewinning certified saint and he would still dislike the guy.

He had to force himself to hold back any conclusions on Michael McLean. He couldn’t even blame the guy for wanting a good look at the pub.

Kelly’s. Dan loved the place himself.

How long had he been gone this time? Too long. Of course, last time he had come back, things had been different. No Moira.

How many times had he pushed her away? Doing the right thing, of course. At first she’d been too young. Then, even when they’d become lovers, he’d just known that he was wrong for her. Yet he hadn’t realized that he still lived with the belief that she was his, that she would still be there. He truly wanted her to be happy, but he wasn’t a man without an ego. Somewhere inside, he had believed that happiness for her would mean waiting for him.

Okay, so he was an ass.

An ass…yet he had done the right thing. She was a strong character, with a sense of the world, of right and wrong and everything that being an American meant. He hadn’t been able to help it; he was Irish. An Irishman who loved America, but who felt…

Obligated.

Was he always going to feel obligated?

Hell, was he going to survive?

He thought angrily of how much he didn’t like what was going on, and there seemed to be no help in the knowledge that it wasn’t his fault. He’d never put any of this into motion, but there wasn’t a damn thing he could do.

Moira was coming home. He’d talked to Katy Kelly on the phone today, and she’d been in heaven, knowing that she would have her whole family home and in one place for the special holiday. She was also a little nervous. “She’s been seeing a man, one her da and I have yet to meet,” Katy had informed him, trying to keep her disapproval out of her voice.

“He’s probably a great guy,” Dan had told her. “She’s grown up a smart woman, Katy, you know that. You should be proud.”

“He’s in television, too. Working for her and Josh.” Katy had sighed. “Now Josh…there’s a good man.”

“A fine man.” Danny could say so easily. He liked Moira’s partner. And the fellow was married, was truly a friend and had never had an intimate relationship with Moira.

“Well, this new fellow is Irish.”

“Oh? And what’s his name.”

“Michael. Michael McLean.”

“Well, there you go. What more can you ask for?”

Katy sighed again. “Well, I suppose…for you two to have married, Danny.”

“Ah, Katy. We were going different ways. Besides, I wasn’t meant for marriage.”

“I think you were.”

She had gone on to insist that it wouldn’t matter that Moira and her crew would be there—the back room of the pub was his, as it always was when he came to Boston. And yes, Moira knew that he was coming.

A strange sense 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.