Hot Whispers of an Irishman

by Dorien Kelly

  The set of his jaw was stubborn. “Money will put me back even, at least. I need it, Vi.”

  That ran a grand “so bloody what?” on her importance scale. “We all need money. Do you think I’m selling Nan’s house because I want to? I’m doing it because I have no choice.”

  “Why?” He sounded startled.

  “Danny wants to go to university, but can’t.”

  “And?”

  “What do you mean…and?”

  “I’m failing to see how your brother’s plans have much anything to do with you.”

  Vi was coming to understand that his family might be too much for him, but hers had fully ceased to act as one years before, and she was starved for connection. His attitude was a slight of what little she had.

  “Because he’s mine,” she said. “Because I’ve damn well raised him for the past two years. And because I won’t let him go through what I did.”

  “What did you go through, Vi?” he asked, his voice soft and low.

  The concern she heard drew her from her anger. She realized that she’d said more than she’d meant to, and could offer no more. “It doesn’t matter. All that does is that Danny knows he has family who cares.”

  “Fine, then. With Danny to think of, if a young buyer came…someone with your tastes…would you take less for your nan’s house than you might otherwise get?”

  “That’s not a fair question.”

  “And neither is yours a fair demand.” Liam glanced at the bedside clock and muttered a quiet “damn.” “We need to finish this, but I can’t now. Meghan will be expecting me and a shower’s in order first.”

  And Vi needed time to think. She waved him on, gesturing to the bathroom. “I know. Go ahead.”

  He left the bed and came to her, settling his hands on her waist. “Don’t be angry.”

  He leaned forward to kiss her, and at the last moment she moved her face so that his lips brushed impersonally against her cheek.

  “Take your shower,” she said, forcing a note of cheer into her voice, but it sang false.

  He picked up his underclothes, giving her a last view of strong shoulders and muscled haunches, and then closed himself in the bathroom.

  Soon the sound of running water came from the small room. Alone, Vi straightened the bed and looked at the condom packets still left on the nightstand. She gathered them into her hand and tucked them back into his trouser pocket. She didn’t regret what they had done, but also knew she was in no hurry to do it again. Too much remained unsettled…including her mind. Readjusting her robe, Vi walked to the window. She pushed aside the curtain. Rain had come in, spotting the glass. The yellowish glow of the streetlight was mirrored in the drops, obscuring the view.

  After a bit, the shower stopped, and minutes later the high whine of the hair dryer fixed to the bathroom wall began. She turned her back to it, thinking of taking and needing and how miserably confusing it could all be. Gold, lovers, family…the frustrating lot.

  Liam emerged and dressed.

  “Do I look as I did when I arrived?” he asked, checking his reflection in the dresser mirror as he buttoned his shirt just so.

  “You do,” she said, and it was true as far as surfaces went.

  He kissed her once, not with passion but more as a goodbye.

  After Liam was gone, Vi showered, the water hot and needle-sharp against her skin. When she came out of the bathroom, she glanced into the same mirror that Liam had used. She shook her head at the woman looking back at her.

  “No marks,” Vi had said when they’d begun their lovemaking, but she’d forgotten about those that ran deeper than the skin.

  Chapter Nine

  If you want to know me, come and live with me.

  —IRISH PROVERB

  Dublin on Sunday morning turned out to be exactly as peaceful as Liam deserved. Meghan had been hell to wake from her adolescent comatose sleep, and then Vi had forcefully persuaded the lot of them into Mass at St. Patrick’s, saying that a bit of reflection would do them all good.

  At church, Meghan had fussed and sighed, Vi had gone someplace deep inside herself, and Liam had tried to locate that elusive sense of comfort that almost never came to him in a crowd. After that, it was breakfast and a tour of Christchurch Cathedral, where he caught Vi eyeing his daughter and then the ancient and well-used stocks in the church’s cellar exhibition with a most speculative expression. He couldn’t say he blamed her.

  Now that they were in the car heading to Kilkenny, Meghan had found a new pastime, honing her accusing glare. Every time he checked the rearview mirror, she was sharply sending it his way. He supposed that his daughter was sophisticated enough to suspect that something more than friendship ran between the two adults in the front of the car. As far as Liam was concerned, it was none of her business.

  He’d returned to the hotel room before the appointed time, and without a hint of sex about him. Perhaps he might have eaten an order of garlic bread to attain that full Italian meal aura, but subterfuge failed to appeal.

  No, he would settle for restraint. He would not hold Vi’s hand or touch her leg just now, even though he craved the contact. He needed to know that despite their differences, they could carry on.

  Liam’s mouth quirked at the thought of that phrase—“carry on.” He wished to do it in a most literal sense, but they’d not parted well last night, and Vi was a woman of strong opinions. He glanced over at her, the remarkably clear November sunlight streaming through the side window and dancing off the lighter red in the countless hues that made her hair. She was still the most beautiful woman he’d ever known, if not the easiest.

  Last night, he’d shocked himself by admitting weakness to her. It was a fool’s move to hand ammunition to a redhead. He’d like to say that it had been a stratagem on his part, to bring her close and lull her into a sense of security as they searched for the gold, but it would not be true. He’d done it because with Vi, intimacy came to him easily. Perhaps too easily.

  Soon Kilkenny loomed, then consumed them. In less time than he would have wished, they were parked in front of Vi’s parents’ home.

  “I’ll be quick,” he said to his daughter before popping open the boot and exiting to help Vi gather her belongings. Shielded from Meghan, he took Vi’s hand.

  “I’ll come see you at Nan’s tomorrow,” he said.

  Vi glanced toward her parents’ front window, where Liam could see the rigid figure of her mam peering out from a part in the lace curtains.

  “I think I’ll be needing a day alone,” Vi replied, taking her hand from his.

  He’d been able to sense her withdrawing from him all morning and he would not have it. “No running this time.”

  “I’m not running,” she said, now gripping her overnight bag with both hands. “I have work to be done, you know?”

  “As do I,” he said.

  She sighed. “Sorry. I’m being moody, and it’s as though I can’t help myself.” She looked back to the house. “I’m not very good at being away from home for any length…and by home, I’m not meaning this place.”

  He kissed the warm skin of her cheek, savoring her exotically spicy scent. “I’ll stay out from underfoot tomorrow, and even walk your wee dog for you, how’s that?”

  She gave him a fleeting smile. “It’s more likely that Rog will be walking you, but thank you for the offer.” She paused, then added in a low voice, “And thank you for Dublin, too.”

  As she neared the front door, he called one last time, “Tomorrow, then?” and smiled like a fool when she nodded her head in agreement. When he returned to the car, Meghan strayed from her usual silence.

  “I don’t like her,” she said as they turned onto the Duncarraig road.

  No point in pretending that he didn’t grasp the subject of the comment. “And that’s something which you’ve not been too shy to share,” he said. “I’d expected better of you.”

  “She made me go to church.”

  “Brutal of her,
” he agreed, tongue-in-cheek. “It’s a blessing you survived.”

  “Forget it.”

  Liam pulled together his mantle of authority. “Meghan, I don’t mean to make light of your feelings. At least, not too much. I’m sorry you don’t like Vi, and hope you’ll change your mind.”

  “Whatever,” his daughter replied in a near-yawn.

  “But—and this is the important part, love—you have to show respect. I’m not asking for anything more than good behavior out of you. If you can’t be polite, you’ll find yourself…” He’d been about to say that she’d find herself banished to her room, but that was her preferred state and no punishment at all. “Well, you’ll find yourself having privileges revoked. No more Internet and IMs to your friends in America. Understood?”

  She nodded while shooting more daggers his way.

  “Aloud, if you please,” he said. “Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  The word had been barely audible, but Liam was content. “Good enough,” he said, then let her lapse into a silent sulk.

  Half an hour later, they were home and Liam’s stomach was growling. He knew for certain that he’d left sliced ham in the refrigerator on Friday night. That and some of his mother’s brown bread—which had an odd way of arriving on his doorstep—would make a fine meal. Mouth watering, he went to the fridge and opened it.

  “Great stinking mountain of boiled tripe,” he said to the empty white plate some ham-thief had left behind. “It takes balls bigger than the Brown Bull of Culaigne’s to steal my meat.”

  Liam shut the fridge door and stalked to the dining room. His siblings’ open-door policy was really beginning to grate. It wasn’t as though he’d amble over to Catherine’s and empty the larder.

  “Meghan,” he called to his daughter, who’d planted herself in her customary spot in front of a television. “I’m running to the market.”

  She looked over. “I’ll come, too.”

  A surprising answer, but then again, after this weekend, any words from her surprised Liam. Together they walked through the town—a slow-moving place on Sunday—and to Nora’s market.

  As with all operations that were Rafferty-owned, the market was staffed mostly by Raffertys. Today’s selection was a bit confusing to Liam, though. Da, who seldom worked anywhere other than the pub, was at the head of an aisle stocking shelves, for it seemed that the stockboy was ill. Cullen lazed about behind the register, talking on his cell phone. Liam would lay odds that a woman was on the other end, for Cullen was using his continental voice of charm.

  Liam joined his father at the cart stacked with tinned fruit and vegetables, then began replenishing the shelves. Meghan wandered over to the news rack and riffled through the glossy magazines.

  “So how was Dublin?” Da asked. “See anything grand?”

  Liam had seen someone grand, to be sure, but that was not news shared with one’s da. He opted for a better clothed answer.

  “When Meghan wasn’t busy buying all she could, we went to the National Museum,” Liam said. “She’d heard me chatting with Vi about Rafferty’s gold, and I thought a bit of education was in order.”

  “It surely never hurt a soul,” his da agreed.

  “It never necessarily helped, either,” Liam said with a nod toward Cullen who was now preening before his reflection in the front window. And still talking on the phone, of course.

  “You’re right, there,” Da said, then moved on to shelve the peas.

  So long as he had Da available, Liam asked a question that had been niggling at him since before the museum trip. “About the gold tale…did Grandda always tell it the same way? I keep thinking I might have heard it differently once or twice.”

  Da laughed. “Likely more than that. It depended how much my da might have drunk. If it was too much, I tried to keep you children away, for the tales got mad.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, putting aside the ones of your grandmother being a fairy he’d captured…you know the bit about Eoin Rafferty having found the gold and hidden it well away?”

  Liam nodded.

  “Past four whiskeys, your grandda would claim that Eoin saw to having half the treasure built into Castle Duneen.”

  “Built into the castle, how? It was already standing.”

  “Only parts, son,” Da said as he grabbed a few more tins of food. “Along with the road, Dunhill was worried about having a chamber fit for Ormond when he came to fe—”

  Da glanced over at Meghan, who was pretending to be enthralled by the pop star magazine she paged through. “I’m supposing you know well enough what himself wanted with Dunhill’s wife. Anyway, the castle’s New Tower was being built with all the modern conveniences…boxy oubliettes for feckless workers to be walled in forever, and the like.” With that, Da shot a glare Cullen’s way, who had failed to notice that a customer was nearing the register.

  Liam was sure his father was longing for a return to the oubliette days. “So Grandda would say that at least part of the gold was in the castle?”

  “He would, claiming that Eoin snuck in and walled it away in the New Tower. But it made no sense on two counts. First, why would Eoin put gold where he’d have to risk death to reclaim it? And beyond that, after the Republicans’ bonfire ate the castle’s roof and innards, it was a ruin for eighty years and more. I know you boys had run of it, as did I and half the town, in my day. If gold were there, we’d have learned so long ago.”

  But on the other side of the issue, where would the gold be best guarded, especially if it hadn’t been Eoin’s intention to sell it? Perhaps Eoin had been as prudent as he was lucky. In any case, the castle seemed to Liam a far more manageable starting place than turning over Nan Kilbride’s land a teaspoon at a time. Except for the complication of the American owners and a full crew of construction workers underfoot, he reminded himself.

  “Tadgh was saying they’re near completion, right?” he asked his da.

  “He was, though you’d do better by asking the O’Gormans.”

  “The owners?”

  “Aye, an American with a wife likely half his age. They’re to the pub most Monday nights for our sessiun. Soaking up the local color and all that.”

  Liam could be colorful enough when the occasion arose. And it was rising fast. He smiled, pleased to have at least the seed of a plan.

  “Would you look at that?” Da said, nodding toward Meghan.

  She was ringing up the customer’s goods as coolly as if she’d done it a thousand times before. Liam was quite sure she’d never touched a cash register, and that this ease in commerce was genetic…though it seemed to have skipped him as of late.

  Liam smiled at his daughter. “She’s a Rafferty, through and through.”

  “Have you thought of going into business, child?” Da called to her after the customer had left.

  “I should probably go to high school first, don’t you think, Grandda?”

  “But after that?”

  Meghan frowned as she considered her options. “I don’t know…” Her face lit up. “Maybe a tattoo artist.”

  “Grand,” Liam’s father said. “We’ll build you the first tattoo parlor in Duncarraig.”

  And Liam would have new skin art of his own—bite marks on his arse once Beth got wind of this conversation. “Thanks, Da. You’ve been at least half a help.”

  James Rafferty chuckled. “Any time, son. Any time at all.”

  Of that, Liam had no doubt.

  Vi had always hated Sunday supper. When she was still in school, it had seemed as though Mam had been determined to take the weekend’s fun and wring it from the family, so that Monday would be deadly tense. This supper was looking to be no different.

  The dining table was precision-set with the good china, the house cleaned to sterile perfection, and Rog had been banished to the front entry, where he moaned pitifully from behind the closed door. As Mam had Vi carry out cuts of roasted beef, the scent of which turned her stomach, Vi
felt ready to launch a few howls of her own.

  Da already sat at the table, wearing his “I’m thinking of finer places while I suffer the here and now” expression. Vi took her traditional seat opposite Mam. Grace was said, food was passed, and Vi received the standard maternal questioning regarding her refusal to eat meat.

  They had scarcely made it to the midpoint of meal when Mam began issuing her marching orders for the next day, commencing with the command that Da was to take her dresses to the dry cleaners, as she had no time with meetings scheduled for the garden club and her weekly tea group.

  Da set down his fork and shook his head. “It will have to wait until Tuesday. I’ve meetings myself in Duncarraig.”

  “Meetings? Whatever could you have to meet about?”

  “I’m considering a position there.”

  Vi smiled at the pride she heard in her father’s words. “That’s grand, Da.”

  “Don’t interrupt,” her mother said, voice icy as a winter wind. “A position, Michael? As what?”

  “I’d be assisting a developer who’s put together a new housing scheme. His right hand man, so to speak.”

  “In Duncarraig?”

  Vi’s da nodded. “In Duncarraig. If all goes well, we should think of selling this place and moving that way. Costs will be less, and with money from this house freed up, we could be of more help to the children.”

  “What help have they ever been to us?” Mam snapped. “And don’t think I’ll let you sell my house from under me, Michael Kilbride. It’s more mine than yours, and you’ll not do it! If you’re moving to Duncarraig, you’ll be doing it alone.”

  “Tempting,” Da said, then pushed away from the table and walked through the archway into the front room. He took his jacket from the back of his armchair and put it on, then was nearly to the entry before Vi could even speak.

  “Da, don’t—”

  “Oh, let him go,” Mam said with an angry wave of her hand. “He’s spoiling my meal.”

  Damn you, Vi thought. How can you be so without feelings? But then she saw a brief hint of something startling in her mam’s eyes. Were she to name that something, Vi would call it fear. She tried to let go of her anger toward her mother. Life would be so much easier if it were made of absolutes.