by Clare Austin
Muireann was undeniably desirable. She wanted him. He couldn’t keep his hands off her. They had waited half a lifetime. Why had he bolted?
So I’m not the greatest playboy of the western world.
One tentative step onto the landing outside his room elicited a groan from the floorboards. He held his breath. No sound of the telly from the sitting room. No light crept under the kitchen door. Ty let himself breathe as he descended the rest of the stairs.
He thought he had seen a phone book on the hallway table. Ty felt for it in the dark and knocked something to the floor. With a prayer that Mary wouldn’t notice and pop in on him, he switched on a table lamp and started to rifle through sundry tour information.
No phone book. Typical. With ubiquitous mobile phones, townsfolk would have everyone on speed dial. Ty bent to retrieve the item he had knocked onto the floor under the table.
A newspaper. He’d seen this before. Last night at O’Malley’s, Simon had bragged about his involvement in the local rebellion. Now he took time to notice the headline splashed across the front page: Ballinacurragh Fisherman’s Bank loan chief challenged by local woman.
He noted the set of her shoulders, the defiant posture of her head, the long tangled tresses. Muireann.
Ty’s throat locked down and he was unable to swallow. The local woman was Muireann. His Muireann. How had he failed to see the tree, the whitethorn decorated with trinkets, baubles, and tokens?
His tree.
Chapter Eleven
Muireann left the door of her workshop open so she could hear the song of the sea as she worked. Her hands pressed and nudged, carved and teased until the lump of clay transformed into a jar, pot, or vessel of her imagination.
She’d awakened this morning with a warm memory of Tynan’s lips on hers, only to be chilled by the reality that he hadn’t really come to Ballinacurragh find her.
He came first to sell the old fortress out from under her.
Her head was full of speculation. Thoughts of Tynan merged in an emotional stew and threatened to distract her from her goal. She’d let no man divert her for long. It had only happened once and the guilt of it would not abate.
The rafters of the workshop still bore the weight of timbers destined to become harps. She hadn’t the courage to get rid of the pieces that Ronan had meticulously chosen and saved. So they hung lifelessly over her head like the sword of Damocles.
Muireann should have been the one to take the boat out the day they lost Ronan. She had no excuse. Her brother was not a man of the sea. He would only have gone out in the storm as a last resort. Muireann’s chest tightened and burned with guilt to think she could have prevented his death. If she’d not been swept away by the anarchy of her own desires, Ronan would be here today.
She reached for a cutting tool and trimmed the pot base from the wheel.
When Muireann looked up, a silhouette blocked the late morning sun from the east facing doorway.
“Simon, yer blocking my light.” But as soon as the words escaped her lips she knew Simon never made that big a shadow.
“An’ how are ya keepin’ this fine day, Muireann O’Malley?”
His voice was liquid velvet. It stroked her aural center, ran down her spine, and cuddled up below her belly button. “I’m keepin’ just grand, Ty.”
Muireann stood, grabbed a towel and wiped the mud off her hands. She had a flash of regret for her old baggy jeans, Blind Piper T-shirt sans bra, and splashes of clay and water on her face.
He looked fresh, clean, and fabulous: white dress shirt open at the collar, dark trousers, mandolin case slung over his shoulder, and a smile to stop a saint on her way to prayer.
Muireann had never coveted sainthood as a life goal. She wouldn’t start now. Had he reconsidered his premature retreat last night and come to take up where they’d left off?
She looked at his feet. He was wearing hiking boots. She couldn’t help but grin and when her eyes met his, he smiled. He stepped cautiously out of the sunshine and into the dark work shed. “Where’s the pup?”
“Out romancing every female of the canine persuasion in the county.”
“Any chance he’ll show up?”
Muireann shook her head. “In his own time.” She used the rag in her hands to dust off a bench. “I didn’t hear you drive up.”
“Too fine a day to drive.”
“Any day without rain is a fine day,” she repeated the worn proverb. “Have a seat. I’m nearly done here. We can go in and have a cuppa.”
In the light of day, last night’s tomfoolery seemed years and worlds away.
“All set,” she said, put her work aside, and wiped her hands free of mud. “Have you had breakfast?”
Ty rose and followed her outside. “Do you really think Mary would let me out of the house without breakfast?” He caught up with her, stepped ahead, and opened the screen door to the kitchen. “I wouldn’t turn down a coffee.”
Was he going to tell her why he was really in Ballinacurragh? She decided she would wait until he brought it up. He was intentionally hiding the truth from her. Perhaps he knew more about Bertie’s land than he would admit. There was an outside chance the Ó Mháille had a connection with the Sloanes she didn’t know about, rare though it was to have something that important kept a secret. Muireann decided to put it out of her mind for a while. After all, she had a dare to contend with and time was short.
Tynan pulled a chair back and sat. He surveyed her kitchen. It wasn’t an unusual kitchen, but told him much about the woman at the counter, preparing his coffee. He had a strong suspicion Muireann didn’t find the gastronomic arts to be her main venue of expression. In fact, the high-tech espresso maker appeared to be the only evidence of culinary interest.
She had kicked off her clogs at the door and the sight of her bare feet prompted his heart to take an extra beat. He hadn’t thought of himself as a foot fetishist, but he did ponder how it would feel to have those naked toes run up his leg just about now. The casual sense of intimacy she emanated only contributed to his imaginings.
“What else can I get you?” she asked as she turned and set two steaming cups of cappuccino on the table.
“Uh, this is grand.” How about a little of what we started last night? “Got plans today?” he asked instead.
“Sure now. I’ve always got a plan of sorts.” She didn’t look up as she stirred her coffee.
“Wanna share?”
“Share?” Her head lifted and her eyes met his. “Share what?”
“Your plan,” he said and sipped his coffee while keeping his eyes on hers. He felt a nudge against his ankle and looked down at Cú’s big, watery eyes. “How’d you get under there? And where’s my shoe?”
Muireann laughed, choked and sputtered. Trying to stifle the laugh caused tears to overflow her eyes and drip onto her cheeks. “I’m sorry,” she gasped between breaths. “He must like you. He ordinarily doesn’t abscond with shoes.” She gave Cú a disapproving shake of her head. “They were very nice shoes.”
Ty threw his head back and looked toward heaven. “Ferragamos. It was Miguel’s idea. He thought I should dress for success.” It had actually been his idea of dressing to get laid should the opportunity arise.
“Who’s Miguel?” Muireann stood and walked to the fridge.
Ty tipped his chair onto its back legs and stretched out. “The easiest way to explain Miguel Santos is …well, not so straightforward.” Family friend, female impersonator, fashionista. “He helps out at the pub. Sharp dresser. You really have to meet him to get the full impact.”
She returned to the table with bread and jam. “Well, apparently he and Cú like the same shoes.”
“You never did tell me what your plan for the day was. Any chance it could include myself? And we could leave the hound of Chulainn home with a bowl of gruel or …the other shoe.”
Muireann laughed again. She seemed to have a whole repertoire of musical laughter, from silly to sensuous, and it was all pl
easant to his ears.
Laughter may not have seemed an important point on which to judge a woman, but Tynan had suffered the experience of courting a beautiful girl with a laugh that raised chill bumps on his neck.
“I’m going to see about my mam this morning. Care to join me?”
It was his turn to chuckle. “Are you saying you’re taking me home to meet the folks?”
“Let me put it to you this way, Ty. Did Mary see you come in last night?”
He felt a flush of blood creep up his neck and into his face. “Busted.”
“Shoeless and covered with mud?” She stood and grabbed a jumper that hung from a peg by the door. “Speculation is always more interesting than reality in a village such as ours. Folks around might not be able to tell you what they had for supper last night, but they never forget a potential scandal involving a tourist and one of their own.”
****
Ty liked a woman nimble enough to keep up with his long strides. He liked a lot about Muireann. Perhaps he liked her too much, but for today at least he was willing to overlook the gnawing sense that he might be all too easily distracted from the business that had called him to this place. But times like this, by her side with the wind tangling her hair around her shoulders and the sun’s tawny glow on her cheeks, he thought it might not be such a disastrous distraction after all.
“I’d almost forgotten how much I love being out here in the open land,” Ty said, as much to remind himself as to let Muireann know something about him. “In Boston, I walk or ride my bicycle everywhere. It’s a lot like Dublin in that way.”
“I’ve never been to America. Never had any interest.” Muireann looked straight ahead as she spoke. “Everything I need is right here.”
As they walked side by side, he was tempted to take hold of her hand, but she had them stuck into the pockets of her jumper. The heavy Aran knit seemed more a barrier from the world than from the weather.
“Still, you should give Boston a try. You might actually like it.”
“I’ve done Dublin, thank you.” Then she laughed. “Sounds like a porn film. Can’t you just see it in neon lights? Muireann Does Dublin.” She jogged over to a mailbox, opened it, and retrieved a packet of letters. “My mam is probably the only person left in Ballinacurragh who refuses to use e-mail. She gets all her letters by post.” She pointed up a dirt path. “This is home.”
The bungalow sat amidst the most prolific flower garden Tynan had ever seen. He could no sooner name the constellations in the night sky than the plants and shrubs scattered from the front stoop to the stone wall that marked the perimeter of the plot.
Baskets of purple and white blooms hung suspended under the eaves of the roof. A lazy yellow cat curled confidently in the mossy groundcover and bees worked in unison taking advantage of the dry day.
A slender woman, straw hat protecting her fair skin from the sun, stood bent over a potting table. She turned toward the visitors and her somber face took on a radiant smile. Tynan looked from her to Muireann. No mistaking this genetic pool. Dervla was Muireann in thirty years. The same dark eyes but with a hint of pain, shoulder-length sable hair streaked with silver, secured at her neck with a slide made of a scallop shell, and her face refined as though an artist had gently added the years of care.
Muireann enfolded the woman in her arms. “Dia duit ar maidin, mo chroi.” Good morning to you, my love. The Irish greeting stroked seldom played memory cords. His own mam had often used the Irish with family in much the same way.
He couldn’t make out the next whispered words between mother and daughter, but he saw the muscles in Muireann’s jaw tighten and distress in her eyes.
“Mam, this is Tynan,” she said in a tone one might use with a child. “He’s staying at Mary’s.” She turned to Tynan. “Ty, this is my mam, Dervla Ni Conghaile.” Muireann introduced her with her proper name of birth. She was, of course, Mrs. O’Malley now, but she had been a Conneely. One of the selkies’ kin?
The sense of déjà vu caused chill pricks up his arms. The scent of peaty soil, fresh herbs, and the pleasant warmth of Dervla’s face flashed though his memory and took him back fifteen years. He felt like a youth again.
Dervla offered her hand but then pulled it away and removed her garden gloves. “Sorry, I was just starting these herb seedlings. Please come into the house and have a cup of tea.”
When he did take her hand, it was not as delicate at it appeared. Though long fingered and refined, these were the hands of a woman used to her share of hard work over the years.
“Now, Tynan, I understand you’ve met Ronan’s hound. Ran off with your shoes, did he?” Her dark eyes seemed to look past him into some dimension beyond this earthly one. “I’ll have to speak to my son about controlling the big beastie. But no worries. No hounds here.”
Ronan’s hound? Dervla O’Malley spoke as though her son was still alive.
Pain flashed across Muireann’s face and she looked at Ty as though to beg him not to react to her mam’s comments.
“I thought Mary had you confused with someone else when she said you were from America.” Dervla shook her head and looked more closely at this face. “I told her you’re from just up the road.”
“Then you do remember me, Mrs. O’Malley?”
“You would be hard to forget, young man. Your mother was cousin to my husband’s uncle, Albert O’Malley’s, wife. So no panic, we’re not blood kin.” She gave a reassuring smile toward her daughter. “When Cromwell stole the O’Malley land, the only way to save the portion with the fortress was to put it in the name of the wife of the chieftain. She was Ni Moillin, an Aran Islander.”
Dervla grinned and headed for the doorway. “Now set yourself. I’ll make the tea, and then I’ll tell you more about it.”
Tynan shrugged and gave in to the inevitable. No use in arguing with a woman bent on making you tea. He followed the two women into the house. It would have been a typical middle-class dwelling if it hadn’t been so carefully tended. Tynan could see where Muireann got her sense of style. Her parents’ cottage was pleasantly appointed though not extravagant in any way.
From the telltale slope of the floor he knew this dwelling had been here through the ages. As the land shifted and settled, the structure had adapted and reshaped. “How long has this cottage been here?” he asked.
“Oh, now, many generations,” Dervla said. “It’s said to be the birthplace of Mara Conneely…some four hundred years back.”
Muireann took his arm by the elbow and firmly, so he could not refuse, headed toward the kitchen. “Mam, Ty and meself are going to get the tea.”
“Is that the same Mara who disappeared off the cliffs?” Tynan asked. “Mary told me there was a fable involving the ‘stone man.’”
“Please, don’t let her get started down that road,” Muireann whispered, rolling her eyes in the direction of the parlor. “My mam is a direct descendent of Bardán Ó’Conghaile, brother to the legendary Mara.”
“So, what’s the big secret?” Ty pulled her close and copied her whispering tone. Muireann melted into him and then straightened.
“Look, first…don’t ask my mother anything about Ronan. She is completely mental when it comes to him. One minute she’s weeping over his death…the next she’s fixing his favorite tea to welcome him home at the end of the day.”
Ty’s chest squeezed. “I’m so sorry,” he said and meant it more than she would know. He’d known the pain of loss when his mother passed from cancer only a few years before. For so long he would walk into the house, expect to hear her singing, and then realize she would never be there again. Only the passage of years and leaving Ireland had settled the ghost out of his life.
“What else should I know? Any other taboo subjects?”
“I’ll explain later.” She pushed back with her hands on his chest and reached for the tea kettle. “It’s complicated. Just please don’t get her started on selkies and fairies.”
Tynan took the tray of cups
and biscuits. “What’s the fun of an uncomplicated family, I ask ya?” he commented under his breath before he took a seat and gazed around the room.
Neat and impeccably clean, the parlor smelled of beeswax and fresh flowers. Heavy framed photographs hung from an old-fashioned picture border on one wall, with smaller ones set about on the mantel and end tables: Muireann as a girl, dark hair whipped in the wind, Ronan with Cú as a pup. A traditional wedding photo of Muireann’s parents sat on the sideboard next to a picture of a young and vibrant Dervla on a beach with a dark-haired infant in her arms. A few black and white photos had faded with time, but the rugged faces of fishermen and weather-beaten landscapes hadn’t changed.
The emphasis of this home was clearly the family dwelling in it and the family passed on before.
The atmosphere in the room warmed his chest the same as a hot whiskey tea might. He yearned for the comfort and stability of the roots and branches only heritage can offer. Perhaps losing his parents in his young adult years had given Tynan an enduring respect for the kind of solidarity he saw in this home.
Dervla poured tea into three cups. “Do you take anything in your tea?”
“No, thanks. Plain is perfect.” He reached for a home-baked scone. “This is grand, Mrs. O’Malley.”
“I remember our last meeting as though it were only a fortnight ago.” Her smile was genuine. “Your mother was a stunning woman. Dark, almost black, curly hair and pale creamy skin.” Dervla smiled at a recollection. “Your twin never spoke. She sang. And she seemed to know every tune one could imagine.”
“Yes, that would be Kerry,” Tynan agreed.
“And, oh heavens, hard to forget the wee one…a fussy little red-headed sprite,” she laughed. “Had an unusual gift for the fiddle, she did.”
“Flannery.” Ty almost choked on his tea and scone. This woman did remember his family.
“You all came of a weekend to hear the storyteller. Bertie took a special fondness for you, Tynan,” Dervla continued. “We could all see a connection between the two of you. As though he knew you understood the value of our oral tradition.” She gazed on Tynan’s face with acute intensity. “So much like my Ronan.”
