Running Back

by Allison Parr

Mike and I exchanged a glance, and then Mike nodded.

  Maggie lifted her tea. “You can find him at the pub over on Blue Street. Just ask for Paul Connelly.”

  Chapter Eight

  We broke for lunch first. We picked up pre-made sandwiches at the local Spar, a tiny chain convenience store, and ate them sitting on a bench looking over the tiny harbor. Boats bobbed in the water, and people occasionally stared. We were stopped three times for introductions before we were finally able to unwrap our food.

  I liked it here, with the warm summer breeze and the scent of the sea and the warm bread in our hands. I turned to say as much to Mike, but switched topics when I saw the furrows in his brow. “So what’s up with this estrangement? What happened?”

  The furrows melted away when he looked at me, replaced by a grin. “You’re pretty nosy.”

  “Who, me?” I widened my eyes. “I just have an active interest in understanding the world. Also, that was a little weird, wasn’t it? Shouldn’t we have talked about Patrick and your dad and your lives, considering that you’d never met before?”

  He finished off a bite of his sandwich. “My dad and Patrick grew up on Kilkarten, but by the time Dad was ten, they’d moved to the village—actually, probably to the house Maggie’s in now.” He threw a glance over his shoulder, like he’d only just realized his father might have spent years in that same house. I had to touch his knee before he shook himself and went on.

  “Right. Anyway, after my grandparents died—and this was when my dad and Patrick were in their late teens, early twenties—Dad wanted to sell the farm. Patrick didn’t. They had some huge fight and then Dad moved to Boston.”

  “What was the fight about?”

  He shrugged.

  Right. “Personal reasons.”

  He gave me that crooked smile.

  We finished off our sandwiches. I looked out over the water, dark blue and endless. Mike’s dad had wanted to get rid of the land, and now Mike refused to. What had that fight been about? Did Maggie know? Did Mike’s family? “So I’m guessing you haven’t met this cousin of yours, then.”

  The idea seemed to astound him. “Cousin?”

  His shock was kind of cute. “Almost. If he’s Maggie’s nephew.”

  He groaned. “I should be back home celebrating the off-season and instead I’m meeting lost cousins and bitter aunts.”

  I hopped off the bench. “Come on. Let’s go find this pub.”

  Blue Street looked a lot like Red Street, with just a handful of shops and houses and the cobblestone road interrupted by a small fountain. A signpost pointed toward shops and the church, written in two languages.

  The pub clearly took precedence, busy even at two in the afternoon. A green pennant hung outside the brown brick building, while inside it looked like the Irish pubs at home, except the music didn’t hurt my ears and the TVs didn’t blast. People ate as much as they drank, and off in the back a group of teenagers played pool.

  We headed for the bar, and the college-aged kid watching the soccer game from behind it. “Hey,” Mike said. “We’re looking for Paul Connelly. Is he here?”

  The teenager dragged his gaze from the screen and raked it over us, with the amount of judgment I usually associated with NYU student bartenders in the East Village. It morphed slowly to recognition. “You’re Michael O’Connor.”

  He nodded. “Yeah. Is Paul here?”

  The kid slouched back and crossed his arms. “Connelly! Your American cousin’s arrived.”

  Every head in the pub swiveled in our direction.

  From the back, a man detached himself from a clump of Guinness guzzlers. He was about my height and age, but he had thick black hair and dark eyes. Black Irish, they called it, Iberian blood. He shoved his hands in his pockets and sauntered over.

  “Well.” Paul Connelly had a low, lilting voice, and I immediately thought of Cam’s Operation: Irish Boyfriend. “That didn’t take very long.”

  Beside me, Mike relaxed very slowly. The great control that went into his apparent laziness was more alarming than if he’d tensed up all over. “’Scuse me?”

  Paul propped his elbow on the bar and shrugged. “Seems to me you swooped right in as soon as you inherited some land.”

  Mike curved his lips up. “Actually, my uncle just died. I’m here for his month’s mind.”

  “After twenty-six years of never even talking to the man?”

  Mike relaxed his body even more, like he was lounging in midair. “You’re pretty well-informed for a guy I never even knew existed.”

  Paul scoffed and shook his head. “Just like a Yank.”

  Mike didn’t even twitch. Like a snake before the death-strike. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Great. Could no one in this family communicate without weird accusations? If Paul Connelly’s body language was any indication, Mike was about to get punched in the face.

  I squeezed between the two guys and stuck my hand out. “I’m Natalie Sullivan. Sorry for your loss. I never met your uncle, but we spoke several times. I’m an archaeologist from Columbia University.”

  Paul waited a moment, his square jaw working, before he transferred his attention to me. When he did, surprise crossed his face. “You’re a lot prettier than I expected.”

  “Hey,” Mike said sharply. He moved up beside me.

  I stepped on Mike’s foot and kept my gaze trained on Paul. “Your aunt said you might be able to take us by Kilkarten today.”

  Paul looked back and forth between Mike and me. “You two a thing?”

  I refused to look at Mike. “No.”

  Mike spoke at the same time. “What’s it to you?”

  Paul smiled slowly and Mike scowled. Then, focusing all his attention on me, Paul said, “Right this way.”

  Mike caught my arm as we headed out the door, leaning close enough that his breath brushed my neck. “Watch that guy.”

  I shivered, focus stolen by the thrills of attraction running down my arms. “Why?”

  “Because I have two younger sisters, and can spot an asshole a mile away.”

  I shook my head at him and followed Paul out onto the street. We piled into Paul’s truck, and Mike and I had a brief, silent struggle for the front seat while Paul headed toward the driver’s side. Mike won.

  Paul had to start and stop several times as oblivious pedestrians wandered into the streets before us. He didn’t speak. Mike didn’t speak.

  So of course I did. “So your aunt says you live in Paris?”

  “That’s right.” He looked at me in the rearview mirror. “You been?”

  “No, but it’s on my list. Do you travel a lot, out of Paris?”

  He slowly grinned at me in the mirror. For a moment, he looked shockingly like his cousin, despite the lack of blood between them, and the darkness of Paul’s looks compared to Mike’s brightness. He nodded. “A bit.”

  I kept babbling. “I’ve never been to Paris but I did a whole circuit of Eastern Europe—Prague and Istanbul and Croatia...”

  A spark of genuine interest lit, and some of the tension drained from the car. “You ever get to Dubrovnik?”

  “I loved Dubrovnik.” I turned to Mike. “It’s this gorgeous walled city with red roofs and these winding streets—”

  Paul interrupted. “Did you walk the walls? See the Old Town?”

  I nodded. “Oh yeah, of course. Did you go out to that island?”

  “With the monastery?”
/>   “Yeah. Okay, listen to this. We met the weirdest old man on the ferry...”

  Mike didn’t seem to like the conversation going on without him. “We might go to Paris later this summer.”

  Paul switched his attention to Mike as though I hadn’t been in the middle of a sentence. “You and her?”

  Mike shrugged non-committedly.

  Please. Though if Mike’s family invited me to go to France, I’d have a hard time resisting. Think of all the croissants!

  Still, I didn’t really appreciate Mike using me as a chew toy to make Paul jealous.

  I looked back at Paul. “Are you from Dundoran originally?”

  “From Dublin. Came down to take care of my aunt since my mum couldn’t get away from work and I have the summer off.” His accent was gentle and lulling. “Came for the funeral and everything too.”

  My hands twisted in my lap. In front of me, I caught a quarter of Mike’s profile as he looked toward Paul. A muscle pulsed in his cheek. “Look, man, I don’t know what your problem with me is. Did you want Kilkarten to be left to you?”

  Paul scoffed. “What do I want with a heap of grass? Not like there’s anything interesting there.”

  I leaned forward. “I beg to differ. There’s a whole freaking harbor.”

  Paul glanced back. “Sorry, love. Forgot about that.”

  My lips twitched at the endearment. Mike let out an unimpressed hmph.

  The ride to Kilkarten had taken us out of the village and through rolling hills. The sun glided over the land, picking out a dozen shades of green, so many that I found my brain stunted by color and the inability to think of anything new to say. We passed a turnoff for someone else’s farm and a few sheep watched us go. A handful of miles later Paul took another turnoff, and the road rambled upward before leveling out. Green and blue stretched out before us, the water a flat line in the distance.

  Paul threw the truck into park in a dirt lot next to the dead remains of a building. Ah, the O’Connor farmhouse, burned years ago when Patrick and Mike’s father were boys. “Here we are. Good old Kilkarten.”

  A chill of anticipation swept through me, and I fumbled for the door and fell out of the car.

  The air caught in my chest. This land was everything. Ivernis’s past, my future, Jeremy’s redemption. My eyes scanned as far as I could see, and I knelt and threaded my fingers through the grass. Here had been dark blue water. A calm bay; a drastic change from outside the cove, from the great Atlantic waves crashing against the shore, whipped by frenzied winds into white foam and spray. Here—right here—the water had only rippled, surrounded on three sides by land. Small ships sailed from Ireland to Britain. Traded for iron, introduced a whole age. Beneath me could be the skeletons of ancient curraghs. Buried in the harbor’s mulch could be coins fallen overboard, from Rome—even Greece—there could be anything fallen over. There could be a whole story buried here just waiting to be read.

  I sucked in a deep breath and stood, searching for Mike, wanting more than anything in that instant for him to share my happiness. I thought that he, out of all the people in the world, would also be able to feel how wonderful this place was. I jogged to his side. “Mike, isn’t it fantastic?”

  He didn’t seem to hear. Standing like that, with his spine straight and his gaze distant, he looked just like the lord of the land, surveying his kingdom.

  Because, of course, he did understand how special this place was. He owned it. As far as he could see, until the quiet strip of blue, this land was his.

  To cover my disquiet, I kicked off my flip-flops. “Race you to the ocean.”

  He blinked, and his attention shifted back to me. “What?”

  I took off. It must have been two miles until the sea, but it slipped away beneath my bare feet in a blur of grass and sky and the occasional impressionistic blur of flowers. I glanced behind and saw Mike gaining. His legs were longer than mine, and he had to be just as used to running as I was. Arms pumping in a steady rhythm, he caught up, and then passed. I summoned a burst of energy and ran flat out after him.

  We went up a small hill, a gentle roll that disappeared under our long strides, and I almost lost my breath at the top. It slanted down steeply on this side, falling ten feet into a narrow strip of hard sand.

  Mike turned with a grin. His chest rose and fell. “I win.”

  I ignored him, dropping to a dangling seat on the edge of the small cliff, twisting my body so my arms were braced against the grass while my feet found small crevices in the stone. “What are you doing?” Mike demanded, grabbing for one of my arms, alarm passing over his face.

  I tugged my arm away and beamed at him. “You only win once your feet are in the water. Rule of the beach.” I launched backward.

  Exhilaration jolted through me as I fell, my stomach swooping out, Mike cursing above me. I landed with bent knees, stumbling as the pressure rushed through my bones. Mike, yelping, followed, but I splashed into the ocean before him, letting out a scream as the cold water hit my calves.

  Mike landed beside me, hopping up and down in an unsuccessful attempt to keep out of the cold. I kicked water at him and splashes spotted his shorts. Outraged, he splashed back, and then leaned down and cupped a small wave my way in retaliation. I danced back. But the sea floor deepened and I stumbled, wheeling my arms as I tried to stop from falling into the freezing water.

  And then Mike’s arm wrapped around me and hauled me forward until I pressed against his chest. My hands automatically wrapped around his biceps for balance, my face nestling into his throat. He smelled like salt and earth and I could feel his heart beating against mine. My feet and calves were numb, but the rest of me flushed with heat and headiness.

  Heart pounding, I leaned my head back. The bright blue sky surrounded his head, his hair bright red in the afternoon sun, his face shadowed. His body breathed in and out with mine, each breath pushing me close against him. His arms dropped down to encircle the small of my back, and my hands slid up over his shoulders almost of their own accord. If I pulled up just the smallest bit, if I pushed up on my toes...

  I kissed him.

  His mouth moved against mine with the ease of long familiarity, as though we’d been kissing for years, as though this was a kiss that had been and would always be part of who we were. I could have stayed there forever, with the wind, the waves, the sun, Mike’s lips moving against mine.

  But something caught my attention, some flicker of movement or color on the shore, and I looked over. Paul stood on the small cliff, watching us with crossed arms.

  I pulled away and shoved heavy strands of hair out of my face. The wind had whipped it everywhere. “We better go. Paul is waiting.”

  Chapter Nine

  The next morning, I headed downstairs just past dawn. Kate O’Connor sat alone at a wicker table, her hand loosely clasped around a wide brimmed mug. She stared steadfastly through the alcove windows. The orange glow beat back the slate and coal, gradually lightening the sky behind the clouds and giving color back to the fields.

  I wondered if she saw the sunrise or the past.

  Eileen entered through another door, carrying a tray of white and blue porcelain dishes. “Here you go, love.” She set an omelet and hash browns before Kate, and then caught sight of me. “Ah, Natalie! What can I get you?”

  “Good morning,” I said, sort of at both of them. Kate angled her body my way. “Um, just a cup of coffee, please. And maybe some shortbread?”

  “How about a fresh scone now?”


  My stomach rumbled at the thought of clotted cream and jam. “That would be wonderful.”

  “Did you have trouble sleeping?” Kate asked after Eileen departed. “I know the time adjustment can be tricky.”

  “Oh, I slept fine.” I’d actually slept perfectly, and woken with lingering dream fragments that featured her son. I tried to banish the memory and drum up something else to say. “Is this your first time in Ireland? Or did you meet—Mr. O’Connor—here?”

  Kate smiled and took a long sip of her coffee. “No, I met him after he moved to Boston.”

  “Why did he move there?”

  “A lot of people did, then. More jobs. More opportunity.” The cup’s steam formed a veil before her face, gentling her features like a camera’s soft focus. “But Brian always said, ‘I’m going to die in Kilkarten.’ Like it was a foregone conclusion he’d come back.”

  Yet he hadn’t spoken to his brother for twenty years after he left. “He must have really loved it.”

  “More than anything.” She finally turned to look at me, her ethereal features firming up with attention. “We’re going to see Patrick’s widow today. You’re welcome to come, but don’t feel obligated.”

  I didn’t; I felt awkward. “Oh. Thank you, but I actually saw her yesterday.”

  Her brows rose and the silence lasted just long enough to feel strained. “And how was she?”

  “Um.” Honestly, you’d think I’d never written ethnographic papers for cultural anthropology classes describing all sorts of relationships and behaviors. “She was—not very talkative.”

  Kate nodded and pursed her lips like she was about to say something, but she changed her mind and stared back out the window. “Did you like her?”

  The question struck me as peculiar. “We didn’t spend enough time together for me to form an opinion.”

  She nodded again, and let out a deep sigh. Then Eileen reentered with my scone, and Kate switched the topic to my schoolwork and interests and other parental inquiries, and the odd moment passed.

  After breakfast, I walked to the village while the sun finished rising, through floating sheets of mist and the spray of the sea and long, sharp calls of birds. I caught an extremely bumpy bus that carried me to Cork, and chatted easily with eighty-year-old Mrs. Buckley, who insisted that Mike’s grandfather had never really meant to marry Mike’s grandma or been interested in Eileen from the inn, but that he’d really loved her.