Night Of The Blackbird. Heather Graham
and entering could jimmy the bolts.
He went down the stairs, into the pub, to his allotted room.
He took a hot shower, then slid beneath the sheets and comforter. He flicked on the telly. CNN. The world was in bad shape. Violence flaring in the Middle East. In Eastern Europe, a terrible train wreck, the fault of an antiquated switching system. The weather taking a gruesome toll in South America.
Then the news reporter, who had just given a grim tale regarding flooding in Venezuela, put a smile on her face and began talking about Saint Patrick’s Day. She showed a cheery scene in Dublin, crowds in New York, then a brief interview with the Belfast politician, hailed worldwide, who was en route to Boston to help celebrate with the Boston Irish.
The news continued. Dan stared at the picture on the screen but didn’t hear much more.
It was a very long time before he slept.
5
The house seemed quiet when Moira left her bedroom the following morning. She saw that Colleen was just ahead of her, walking down the hall to the kitchen.
She followed her sister. “Good morning,” she murmured, as they entered the kitchen together. Her mother had evidently been up already; coffee had been brewed in the automatic coffeemaker, and a pot of tea sat on the big kitchen table, as well. Her brother was up, sitting at the table, sipping coffee, reading the newspaper.
“Top o’ the morning to you,” Colleen returned, eyes rolling as she turned them on Patrick. “And you, brother, dear. You’re looking well-rested for a man who spent half the night playing—”
“With the band.” Moira interrupted in horror, amazed that Colleen would make any reference to the fact that they’d been outside his door the previous night. She slid into her old chair at the table and cast Colleen a warning glare.
“Playing with the band,” Colleen repeated. “That’s exactly what I was saying,” she continued, glaring at Moira, eyes wide with innocence and mock indignation.
Moira felt like hell. She hadn’t fallen asleep until three or four. And then, perhaps out of force of habit, she’d found herself wide awake and unable to pound her pillow into any semblance of comfort when she’d realized she didn’t have to be awake so early this morning. She did have things to do, of course. Michael and Josh had done their work well. Permits to tape the parade and the goings-on in various areas of the city had been procured. But she needed a plan of action, and she needed to pretend that she had been on it from the moment she had hung up after talking to her mother and making the decision to come to Boston.
Patrick looked at them both, slightly puzzled. “I feel just fine, thanks. Colleen, you look all right, but Moira…hmm. Trust me, you don’t look as bad as you sound. Wouldn’t do, would it? Can’t have bags beneath your eyes that stretch to your chin when you’re on camera, now, can you?”
“Great. How come Colleen looks all right but I merely look better than you think I feel?” Moira asked him.
Patrick grinned. “You’ve had this shell-shocked look since you arrived,” he told Moira.
“Has she?” Pouring coffee, Colleen turned to study Moira.
“If you’re going to turn that cup-filling ritual into a day long event, perhaps you could let me go first,” Moira said.
“Give her the coffee—she needs it,” Patrick said.
Moira glared at her brother. “How come you’re saying that?”
“I heard you tossing around all night.”
“Me!” Moira protested. She stared at Colleen, and suddenly she couldn’t help it; she burst into laughter, and Colleen followed suit.
“What’s the inside joke?” Patrick asked, eyes narrowing as he looked from one of them to the other.
“Well, we were trying to be discreet…” Colleen began.
“But honest to God, surely, that old bed frame hasn’t created such a noise since…well, probably since Colleen was conceived,” Moira said.
Patrick’s heritage was instantly visible as his cheeks flamed a brilliant shade of red.
“You two are full of it,” Patrick managed to sputter. “How rude. I mean, this is our parents’ house….”
“Hey, we’re not chastising you,” Colleen said, retrieving the coffeepot from Moira.
“No, we’re simply happy—”
“For you both, of course,” Colleen interrupted.
“That after all your years of marriage,” Moira continued.
“And at your ripe old age,” Colleen added.
“You can still get it up, that’s all,” Moira finished.
Patrick set his cup down, shaking his head, eyes lowered. Then he stared at them both across the table. “Well, all that from the woman who nearly attacked a stranger in the bar last night.”
“Michael’s not a stranger,” Moira protested.
“Hey, we’ve never met him before.”
“I know him very well.”
“Apparently so. What, you met him after the Christmas holidays? That doesn’t exactly make you eligible for a diamond anniversary band.”
“Cute,” she told Patrick.
“Well, she probably only did it because of Danny,” Colleen said, yawning.
Moira glared at her sister. “Hey, whose side are you on here?”
Colleen instantly looked sheepish. “Sorry.”
“You’re not supposed to be taking sides against me to begin with,” Patrick protested.
“Ah, now, are the girls beating up on you again, Patrick?” their mother asked, sweeping into the kitchen from the hallway. “Shame on you, the both of you. Now, don’t I spend half my life reminding you that—”
“That we’re all the greatest gifts you ever gave to any one of us,” the three of them said in unison, creating an outbreak of laughter around the table.
Katy shook her head. “One day you’ll know the truth of it. When the world is against you, when friends have failed you, you always have your family.”
“Oh, Mum,” Moira said, rising and walking to her brother to give his shoulders a hug—and his arm a pinch. “I adore my big brother. Honestly.”
“And me, too, of course,” Colleen said.
“And you, Patrick?” Katy demanded of him firmly.
“And me?” Patrick asked, grinning at Moira. “Why, my sisters are the light of my life. Though there is that other person. My wife. Oh, and my kids, bless the little demons. My life is just one big radiant ray of light.”
“Enough of that,” Katy said with a grin. “Moira, move back a bit. Patrick, scooch in your chair. The children are awake—they’ll be out for breakfast any minute now. Let me get the eggs going. Girls, would you give me a hand?”
“Girls?” Colleen asked.
“Aye?” Katy asked, puzzled.
Moira slipped an arm around her mother. “Mum, what she’s saying is that you’re being sexist. Patrick can help out just as well.”
“After all, you’re cooking for his children.”
“Well, now, Patrick can’t help out,” Katy said.
“And why is that?” Colleen asked.
“Because he’s the most useless human being in a kitchen I’ve ever seen. Granny Jon says that he’s the only person