Quinn's Deirdre

by Lee Ann Sontheimer Murphy

  “Thanks.” Deirdre sipped and sighed with pleasure. “Did you tell Desmond about the man I saw?”

  “I did.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Ni neart go cur le cheile,” Quinn said and although she had no idea what the lovely Irish words meant, she liked the sound of them. Because he knew she understood no more than a few words and simple phrases, he translated.“It means there is no strength without unity.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “If we stick together, we’re strong and it’ll be fine.”

  She pondered it. “I like that. I just hope it’s true.”

  “It will be, bean mo chroi. I know ye’re worried, but can you let it go for now? Naught may come of it, anyway. Tomorrow we’ll be preparing the feast and gabbing, then we feast and celebrate. The pub’s closed, we’ll stay in, and nothing will happen. Will ye, love?”

  His expression turned so tender, she couldn’t refuse. “I’ll do my best, Quinn, I promise. If I shake the headache, then maybe I can.”

  “Ye don’t plan to skedaddle again, do ye?” Although he kept his tone light, she sensed the genuine fear beneath it.

  “Of course not,” she said. “I’m staying.”

  “That’s grand. Ye’re alive and here, that’s what’s important,” he said. “It’s meant to be a happy time, and I plan to do whatever I must to keep it so. Do you want another cup?”

  “Please. Then I think I’ll go to bed and try to sleep off the headache. If you need to go downstairs, I understand.”

  Quinn reached over his glass to stroke her hand. “I told ye I’d stay and I will. I’ll hold ye close so ye’ll sleep.”

  “I’d like that.”

  * * * *

  The tight ball of anxiety centered in her chest eased as he cradled her close. Earlier, she’d thought she would never sleep, but Deirdre did. Each time she woke, content, she would remember and panic, then relax again. Twice, bad dreams intensified until she woke with a cry, but Quinn soothed her, his voice gentle as he sang her back to sleep. The beautiful words of the classic Connemara cradle song, one of the loveliest lullabies she had ever heard, eased her tension and Deirdre could almost believe what the lyrics promised, angels were watching over her. As she drifted back into sleep, she thought if she had Quinn, she didn’t need any angels but a few wouldn’t hurt.

  In the morning, Deirdre might have thought she dreamed Quinn holding her throughout the night if she hadn’t awakened in his arms. Maybe it came from the sense of security he provided or maybe she wanted to celebration a real holiday with family, even if they weren’t quite her own, but she woke content. The rising tide of fear had diminished overnight to a manageable trickle. When she pushed back the covers, Quinn, still wearing his jeans and shirt from the previous day, opened his eyes. Tenderness filled her heart and overflowed with love for this good man, who slept in his clothes for her sake after all she’d done that hurt him.

  “Good morning, sweetheart,” Deirdre told him with a catch in her voice. She kissed his mouth, light as a summer breeze and his arms locked around her. His mouth intensified on hers and a wild surge of desire ignited. Quinn robbed her breath and when he paused, he wore a cocky, sweet grin.

  “Ye must be feelin’ grand this mornin,” he commented.

  “I’m better, yes.”

  “Good. What time do ye start the cookin’?”

  “I’m not sure. Des will know. We’re not doing as much today as tomorrow. Why?”

  “There’s a thing I’d like to do, ‘tis all.”

  Anticipation sent little shivers from her brain down her back. “What is it?”

  “That’s for me to know and ye to find out later,” Quinn said. “Unless Des has fetched them, I’ve got to go pick up my sister and her lot. If I go, will ye be all right alone for a short while?”

  Last night, she would have said ‘no’. This morning, she nodded. “Sure, I’ll be fine.”

  He showered while she made tea, then he headed out with another kiss and promise to meet her downstairs. Deirdre took her time. She lingered beneath the steady, hot-as-she-could-stand-it spray and finished dressing at a leisurely pace. By the time she wandered into kitchen, Des and Eileen stood together, each stirring something in a bowl. Both glanced up and smiled. Des’ expression seemed genuine, Eileen’s a little forced. “Good morning, love,” Desmond said. “Yer man’s lookin’ for ye. He’s in the back dining room with Neal and the wanes.”

  Deirdre heard Quinn’s voice raised in song. She recognized the ditty, Maidirn Rudh, a cute children’s tune about a little fox. Eileen’s kids sang along so as she entered, Deirdre joined them. Quinn put down his guitar as the little ones protested. “Ah, now, away with ye for now. I need to spend some time with Deirdre now. I’ll sing more later if ye want, I promise. Or ask your da here to give you a song.”

  Neal guffawed. “They know better than that, Quinn. I can’t carry a tune at all.”

  “I want to go, too, Uncle Quinn,” Sorcha said.

  “Not this time, mo mhuirnín. Today’s for grown-ups.”

  “Where are we going?” Deirdre asked.

  “Ye’ll see. Just trust me, woman.”

  She beamed at him. “I do.”

  Halfway there, she figured out the destination. “We’re going to the Nelson-Adkins art museum?”

  “Aye, we are.”

  Although Deirdre loved the place, she had to ask him, “Why?”

  “It’s the first place I ever took ye on a date.”

  Her heart jumped. Quinn possessed a sentimental nature and a broad romantic streak, but Deirdre wondered if he planned to ask her the question he’d mentioned earlier. “I remember.”

  At the gallery, they walked hand in hand through the exhibits. If they’d had the entire day to spend, they might have visited more of the galleries, but Deirdre’s holiday cooking commitment loomed. Quinn headed for the European art and they strolled, pausing when they came across old favorites. On the day before Thanksgiving, the crowds were light and when they reached Deirdre’s favorite, Monet’s Water Lilies, Quinn led her to a bench. They gazed at the lovely painting for a few minutes, and then he dropped on one knee.

  “I’ve something I’ve meant to ask ye this long time,” he said, brogue thicker than ever. His accent always increased with his emotion. “Three years ago, I’d planned to do the same and then ye were gone before I did. Now that ye’re back, I’ve no wish to waste time, so I’ll just say it. Deirdre, mo ghra, mo chroide, would ye marry me?”

  Although she half expected his proposal, his words impacted her. A deep joy burst to life within and spread until she thought for a moment she might faint. His blue eyes mets hers, brilliant with sapphire fire, and the tenderness in his expression brought tears to Deirdre’s eyes.

  “Oh, Quinn, yes!” She stretched her hand forward to caress his cheek, and he caught her hand. Quinn kissed it, his lips warm and gentle against her flesh. “I love you so much.”

  “And I love ye,” he said. He dug into his pocket and pulled out a small box. “I’ve a wee thing here for ye.” Quinn opened it to reveal a vintage ring. A center round cut diamond sat flanked by four smaller Marquise cut stones on a platinum band. “It belonged to my granny. Will ye wear it, love?”

  Deirdre held out her hand. “It’s beautiful and yes, I would be proud to wear it.”

  He slid the ring onto the third finger of her left hand. It fit as if it’d been made for her. “I thought ye might like it.”

  “What if I hadn’t?” she asked as she titled the ring to catch the light.

  “I’d have bought ye a new one. There’s a matching band with the same engraving, but no more diamonds goes with it for when we’re wed if ye don’t mind it.”

  “I adore it and I love you.”

  “Good. I’m in sore need of some lovin’,” Quinn said. He stood up and offered her his hand. “Let’s go home and share the news, tell the wanes you’re as good as their auntie.”

  “Does anyone else k
now you asked me to marry you?”

  “Uncle Des, that’s all.”

  “I hope Eileen doesn’t mind too much.”

  “She won’t, I don’t think. She’ll welcome you into the family now.”

  Skeptical, Deirdre wondered. “We’ll see.”

  They found the others gathered around a table in the front dining room having the noon meal. Before Quinn could make any announcement, Deirdre held up her left hand. The ring caught the light and sparkled. Desmond beamed almost as bright as the diamonds, Neal’s mouth widened into a grin, and even Sorcha clapped her hands. Eileen stared and then leapt to her feet. For a moment, Deidre thought Quinn’s sister meant to attack her, maybe even snatch the heirloom ring from her finger but Eileen hugged her instead. “I’m glad,” she said, voice muffled against Deirdre’s shoulder. “I’m glad for ye and I’m glad for Quinn. Ye make him happy and I can see it. I’d forgive anyone anything if they brought his smile back and his music. Ye’ll be one of us now, a Sullivan.”

  Deirdre hugged her back. “Thank you,” she said, stunned but pleased.

  “When’s the wedding to be?” Des asked.

  “As soon as I can get her to church,” Quinn replied. “I’m in no mind to wait.”

  “Neither am I,” Deirdre said. “We’ll figure out a date soon. Right now, I’m hungry.”

  “Then come eat,” Desmond said. “Then after, I’ll need yer help in the kitchen.”

  As she helped bake pies and learned how to make scones, Deirdre delighted in the unfamiliar weight of the ring on her finger. With Uncle Des in charge, she and Eileen worked until early evening under his direction. By the time they stopped for what she called supper and the others tea, the baking was done. The ham sat in a pan ready for the oven. So did the turkey and the goose. A large pan of cornbread dressing crumbs rested on the counter and Desmond covered it with a lid. “We’ll finish it come tomorrow and do the rest, the ‘taties and all,” he said. “Quinn’s fetched in fish and chips and chicken for tea so let’s go eat a bite.”

  Deirdre sat beside Quinn, thighs touching, hands often interlocking as they ate. The family talked non-stop and laughed often. She basked in their warmth and for the moment, her fears of retaliation from organized crime were distant. After supper, they cleared away the mess and they made music.

  Desmond and Quinn took turns with the guitar. Both men also used their tin whistles to full effect, and everyone except Neal sang. Eileen’s husband held their youngest and grinned. Although they began with rollicking songs like Drunken Sailor and Brennan on the Moor, Quinn shifted the mood toward love with Bold O’Donahue and Courtin’ In The Kitchen. Deirdre loved the light-hearted songs, but the smile on her man’s face pleased her the most. This was the Quinn she’d fallen in love with, the man who held her heart. He and Des sang Eileen Aroon in his sister’s honor, then Eileen did a fair rendition of Jackets Green. Deirdre joined with Quinn in singing Lord of the Dance.

  Quinn finished the evening with two songs, The Land I Love So Well, a reminder for Deirdre that he sometimes longed for his native place, then he brought her to tears with Ballinderry, one of the sweetest, most poignant love songs to ever cross the water from Ireland. The sad song about love and loss brought home Quinn’s anguish when he thought her dead. She remembered how she’d missed him, too, and she wept. When he saw her tears, he handed the guitar to his uncle and came to her. Without a word, she went into his arms and he held her close. “Let’s go to bed,” he whispered into her ear. “Tomorrow starts early and will be long.”

  She nodded. Quinn swept her off her feet and up into his arms. “Good night,” he told the others and carried her up the stairs. Once there, he kissed her. “Are ye happy, love?”

  “Very.” Deirdre nuzzled her lips against his, then kissed his cheek and rested her head against his shoulder. “Are you?”

  “I am.”

  “You look tired.”

  He gave a half laugh. “I’m that as well.”

  “Then let’s get some sleep.”

  “Aye, we will,” he said. “But first let me love ye.”

  In answer, Deirdre kissed his mouth, her lips slow and gentle against his. Beneath his shirt, his muscles rippled and she shivered in response. “Please do.”

  Quinn did. With the same slow grace of a waltz, he kissed first her lips, then cheeks, forehead and her nose. His hot mouth burned a trail down her throat, nibbling and never hurrying as he reached the valley between her breasts. His hands freed her from her blouse and caressed her skin with tender temptation. Then he kissed each breast and at the same time cupped them with his hands.

  Deirdre twined her fingers into his hair, her breath short and body lit with an unquenchable fire. He matched her in his passion but never hurried. Quinn paced himself, each stroke as slow and tanatalizing as honey. She cried out his name when he pierced her to the deepest places of her body; he filled her full. In those moments, they became one in body but also in spirit.

  Afterward, they crawled into bed, sated and strengthened. Almost as soon as he laid down his head, Quinn slept, but Deirdre didn’t. Boneless and as contented as if she soaked in a warm bath, she lay drowsy. Her thoughts flew in tandem, a flock of ideas and moments replayed. She curled tight against Quinn, spoon fashion, appreciating his body heat. Deirdre draped her left arm over his body and lifted her hand to admire the ring.

  As a little girl, she had dreamed of becoming a bride. Deirdre remembered playing wedding with her cousins and forcing Kevin to play the groom. She’d earned a spanking, once, for draping her aunt’s hand tatted lace tablecloth over her head for a veil. As she’d grown up, she had entertained a few fantasies about proposals delivered in rose gardens under a full moon. The reality beat them all, she decided.

  She imagined dresses, wondered about attendants and flowers and cakes. So many details, but none of them mattered as long as she could marry Quinn and live happily ever after, fairy tale style. Although she classified herself as a modern woman, Deirdre craved the tradition customs, the long white gown, the veil, a huge bouquet, and all of it.

  Somewhere around midnight, in the dark reaches of the night, a sliver of fear crawled into her consciousness, a snake into her personal Eden. Every time she began to slide into sleep, Deirdre replayed the moment in the terminal. The wicked face she’d never forgotten and the wink tormented her. She ached to wake Quinn so he could console her, maybe sing to her again but she didn’t. He needed his rest, she thought and so did she. Deirdre focused on every reason she had to be happy and tried to block out the negative.

  Her stubborn will succeeded enough to sleep, cuddled close against Quinn. His solid body and presence eased her, too, and she slept a few short hours. No dreams interrupted her slumber and when she woke, Quinn had already risen. Deirdre lay in the nest of covers, loathe to move from her comfort zone, but when he didn’t return, she crawled out of bed.

  The still warm teapot rested on the small kitchen table and she poured a cup. After she sat down, she saw his scrawled note. “Come down when you’re up, Des said to remind you there’s scones.”

  She smiled. She should know—she had helped bake them. A quick glance at the clock boosted her into high gear. If the cooking wasn’t underway already, it would be soon. Although she had an outfit she planned to wear at dinner, she slid into a favorite pair of worn jeans and a sweatshirt, then descended.

  The kitchen hummed with activity, so busy she almost thought she could hear the buzz. Delicious aromas were already wafting from the ovens and Desmond waved. “There’s tea and scones,” he said. “Eat and then I need ye.”

  Deirdre plucked a scone from the platter and poured a second cup of tea. “Where’s Quinn?”

  “I sent him out to the market. The whipping cream I had had gone sour, and I was in need of more taties for the potato stuffing,” Desmond told her. “Don’t fret, he’ll be back soon enough. And before ye ask, he took his sister with him, thanks be to God.”

  He rolled his eyes heavenward and
she laughed. “Is Eileen cross this morning?”

  “Nay but difficult just the same. She thinks she knows all there is about cooking and she wants to take over. No one runs my kitchen. It’s help I need and not advice.”

  By the time Quinn returned, Deirdre stood chopping the vegetables for both dressings, the cornbread to compliment the turkey and the potato stuffing for the goose. A large measuring cup brimmed with the celery she’d cut and as she diced onions, her eyes teared up. She tossed them into a sizzling skillet, directed by Des and ran water into a large pot.

  “Boil the ‘taters in their jackets, lass,” he told her. “Eileen can do the apples and make the Bramley sauce with them in due time.”

  “The potato stuffing has to be cold before ye cram it into the goose’s arse,” Eileen said as she put down her shopping bags on the counter.

  Des muttered something inaudible as he turned to the sinks to scrub pots. Quinn sidled up behind Deirdre and kissed the back of her neck. He put his arms around her waist. His lips were warm, his hands cold. “Did ye miss me?”

  “Of course I did.”

  “Happy Thanksgiving,” he said. “Of all the things I’m thankful for, I’m most grateful ye’re back. The day never mattered much to me, before, but now it does.”

  She reflected on the old days, before. On Thanksgiving, he’d kept the pub open for any Irish ex-patriots who had nowhere else to go on a Yank holiday. Once, he’d taken her out to dinner, but the restaurant had been busy with a few families and many lonely people. The food had been mediocore anyway.

  Living in Arkansas, she’d spent the day alone the first year with not even a turkey frozen dinner. The past two years, she had attended a community meal at the church she’d sometimes attended, but it hadn’t cheered her at all. She’d been sad afterward, missing Quinn more than she did her family. As a child, after her mom passed away, she and her dad watched the Macy’s parade on television. Sometimes, the best times, they’d gone to her grandmother’s in St. Joseph and later to her aunt’s home, but it’d been a long time since Deirdre had any connection to the holiday.