by Paula Martin
"Yes, when I was about eight or nine. What was your hair like when you were a kid?"
"Much longer than this in my teens. Down to my shoulders at one time, much to my mother's disgust."
Kara giggled. "Oh, I'd love to see that. Do you have any photos?"
"Mam probably has some somewhere, unless she's thrown them away."
"Do your parents still live in Dublin?"
"In Dublin? No, they—" He halted mid-sentence before going on, "No, they moved away a few years ago."
Kara was sure he'd been about to say something else. It wasn't the first time he'd been cagey when talking about his past, and she didn't understand why. Was he ashamed of his background? Whatever the reason, she balked against asking him anything more in case it sounded like she was interrogating him. Maybe he'd tell her more once they were in Dublin at the weekend.
* * * * *
By seven o'clock on Friday evening, they were approaching the capital city after the three hour drive from the west coast.
"At least the weather forecast is good for this weekend," Ryan said. "Dublin looks so much better in sunshine than in rain."
The butterflies in Kara's stomach didn't care whether there would be a monsoon downpour or scorching sun. Some fluttered in eager anticipation of sharing a bed with him tonight, while others darted uneasily at the thought of meeting with Margaret. Two days ago she was sure she'd found her birth grandmother, but now all she could think was, What if she isn't?
"Are you okay?" Ryan asked.
"I'm nervous about tomorrow."
"You wouldn't be human if you didn't have some misgivings, and I'll bet Margaret's been living on her nerves for the past two days. This could be the end of the search for both of you, and her search has been going on much longer than yours."
"That's what worries me. If she isn't my grandmother, I'll be disappointed, of course, but her disappointment will be a hundred times worse, and I'll feel bad for raising her hopes for nothing."
"I'm sure she's going through all that in her mind, or else her husband is telling her not to build up too many hopes."
"Yes, you're probably right."
"So will you try to relax, a ghrá?"
The Irish endearment brought a smile to her lips, and she rested her hand gently on his thigh. "I'll try." She risked asking him more about himself. "Come on, distract me by telling me about when you lived in Dublin as a child. Did you live anywhere near where Margaret is now?"
He shook his head. "She lives north-west of the city centre whereas I – we lived south, near Dun Laoghaire."
"That's on the coast, isn't it? Is that where you learnt to sail?"
"No, I did all my sailing on Lough Derg." He grinned. "At least you don't have to worry about high and low tides there."
Something rang a bell in Kara's mind. "Do your grandparents still live at Portumna? That's on Lough Derg, isn't it?"
"They do, and it is. Both my dad and his father were keen sailors, and they taught me everything I know about sailing. Dad still goes out on the lough every weekend when the weather's good."
"So your parents also live at Portumna now, do they?"
"Yes, they've been there for several years. Have you ever done any sailing?"
"Only when I was at summer camp in my teens, and I think I spent more time in the water than on the sailing dinghy."
Ryan chuckled. "I've had my fair share of capsizing, too. What else did you do in your teens?"
Again, Kara had the feeling that something, somewhere, didn't add up. Hadn't he said he was born at Portumna because his mother returned to her parents' home there to have him? And yet he'd told Maeve Connor that his maternal grandparents lived near Loughrea. The simple answer, of course, was that they could have moved there at some point, so it was no big deal, was it?
She pushed aside the unanswered questions in her mind, and smiled. "In my teens? Sleepovers with my friends when we drooled over our favourite boy bands, or experimented with make-up and hairstyles, and then there were the family events, like Thanksgiving, and the Fourth of July parades and fireworks. Those must be like your St. Patrick's Day parade in Dublin."
"Probably, but it's only the tourists who wear big green hats, or tee shirts saying, Kiss me, I'm Irish. I've seen a couple of parades, but mostly it was a good excuse for a pub crawl."
"In your teens?"
"Late teens, I'm meaning, when I was at—when I was eighteen or nineteen. One year, we decided to visit seventeen pubs and drink a pint of Guinness at each. I failed, but I'm still not sure whether I managed ten or eleven. All I remember is waking up the next morning with St. Pat himself banging his bishop's staff into my skull."
She giggled. "That reminds me of a tequila party at college. I've never been able to drink tequila since then."
"So I'll not be buying you any tequila tonight, will I?"
"No, thanks." She hesitated before going on, "Are we really staying at the Sheldon?"
"We are. Why do you ask?"
"I looked at the hotel website, and it's awesome, but it's very expensive, isn't it?"
"And you're thinking I must have done well with my tips this week?" He grinned. "Don't worry about it. I booked the Sheldon because I wanted somewhere special for us."
"If it's anything like the photos, it'll certainly check all the boxes for me."
"And will you be telling me if I check all your boxes, too?"
The heat rose to Kara's cheeks as anticipation simmered through her veins, but she kept her voice light. "Only if you tell me first. I mean, whether I check your – oh, you know what I mean."
He laughed. "Indeed I do, but, at the moment, I need to concentrate on the traffic now we're coming into town. I think I know where I'm going, unless they've changed any of the streets to one way since the last time I was here."
He pointed out some of the sights while he drove along the north bank of the River Liffey, and Kara gazed with interest at the entrance to Phoenix Park, the Jameson Distillery, the impressive façade of the Four Courts, and the cast iron Ha'penny Bridge spanning the river.
When they approached a busy road junction, he said, "I'm turning right here, but if you look to your left, you'll see O'Connell Street, with the statue of Daniel O'Connell, one of our early freedom fighters, and further up the street is the Millennium Spire. It's known locally as the Stiletto in the Ghetto."
Kara grinned. "Do you give all your statues nicknames? I saw the one of Molly Malone when I was here in December, and someone said it was often called the Tart with the Cart."
"Or the Trollop with the Scallops, and there are other statues with even less complimentary names. There's Trinity College on your left, by the way, and we're now about three minutes away from the Sheldon."
Outside the large white stone and brick Victorian building at one side of St. Stephen's Green, Ryan pulled their bags from the car and handed the key to the parking valet, before escorting her into the lobby. Even though she'd seen photos, she still gazed up in awe at the central area where wide stairways and landings with wrought iron balustrades led to the upper floors.
Check-in was fast, and the bell boy accompanied them in the elevator to their room on the fourth floor.
While Ryan tipped him, Kara crossed to one of the two long windows, pulled aside the net drapes, and gazed out at the large park with trees, green lawns, colourful flowerbeds, and an ornamental lake.
"It's hard to believe we're in the centre of Dublin with this lovely view from our window."
Ryan came up behind her and slipped his arm around her shoulders. "I'm glad you approve."
He kissed her neck, and she turned, leaning against him as his mouth claimed hers. When he tightened his hold and his tongue sought hers, she surrendered willingly to him. This was what she'd longed for ever since their first kiss at Lough Derg, and now it was about to happen.
As their kiss deepened, an escalating urgency led her to fumble with his shirt buttons. Once his shirt was open, she slid her hands down his firm chest, lov
ing the curly hairs beneath her fingertips. His deep intake of breath as she pushed her hands past the waistband of his trousers was enough to create a storm of arousal deep inside her, and they paused only long enough for him to yank his shirt off, and lift her cotton top over her head.
His mouth returned to hers, his tongue probing deeper, and she was lost in a sea of desire, only half aware of him moving back toward the bed and pulling her down with him.
When the pile of cushions at the head of the bed cascaded onto them, she broke away with a giggle, and Ryan laughed as he flung them to the floor and pushed back the thick duvet. "I'll never understand why hotels think we need two dozen cushions."
She smiled up at him as she trickled her fingers from his shoulders to his chest. "But you were right about the Sheldon having comfortable beds, a ghrá."
His blue eyes softened in gentle amusement. "Perfectly pronounced, me darlin' girl."
Another long and searching kiss followed, becoming more intense as their passion was unleashed. Their hands explored each other's bodies, and zips and buttons were frantically unfastened until the rest of their clothes were tossed aside.
Every second increased Kara's delicious arousal. The warm waves of pleasure changed to hot torrents of almost unbearable need until they finally came together in an ecstatic release that left them both gasping for breath.
As she came back down to earth, blissfully spent, she stroked Ryan's damp hair, and eventually he raised his head from where he'd collapsed against her shoulder.
"I love you, Kara Stewart," he said, so gently that her heart turned over.
She smiled. "And I love you, too."
It no longer mattered that she knew so little about his past. The red thread of destiny had brought them together, and the present and future were more important than the past. Her initial attraction to him had deepened, and she'd fallen in love with this man who had understood and supported her search for her mother's ancestry.
And tomorrow might bring her to the culmination of that search.
* * * * *
After a full Irish breakfast in the dining room, they returned to their room for Kara to collect her tablet, the adoption certificate, and the printed photos of her mother as a child and teenager.
"You've remembered the one of her as a baby?" Ryan asked.
"Yes, of course." Kara double-checked the folder of photos. "Here it is. Linda Jane, May 1960, aged 13 months. If, as we now suspect, she was born in June and not April, she was only eleven months old in this photo."
"Impossible to tell the difference from a photo like this, and there wouldn't be any reason for her adoptive parents to doubt the birth date on the adoption certificate."
She gave him a tense smile. "I think I'm dreading Margaret saying her daughter had blonde hair or brown eyes."
"And I'm keeping everything crossed that she won't, but in the meantime, how about we go to Glasnevin Cemetery this morning? It's not far from Margaret's house, and I know visiting a cemetery sounds somewhat morbid, but it's a fascinating place. Oh, and there's a café and gift shop, too."
Kara raised her eyebrows. "A gift shop at a cemetery? That's different, I never heard of that before."
"Memorabilia of some of the famous people buried there, and a good stock of books. I'm always tempted to spend far too much."
"You may have to explain things to me, because I'm woefully ignorant of a lot of Irish history."
"In that case, I'll give you my brief history of Ireland on the way."
By the time he parked near an arched gateway to the cemetery, Kara had learnt more Irish history than she'd ever known before.
"You really should have been a teacher," she told him. "You have a way of explaining things more clearly than any of my history teachers at school."
He laughed. "Thanks, but I'm thinking it's easier to talk to a captive audience of one than to thirty kids who aren't interested in history. And I've parked here rather than the main entrance, because we can come back to this pub for lunch." He indicated the stone building on their right. "Its official name is John Kavanagh's, but it's also known as the Gravediggers' Pub because they had a secret hatch where they used to buy their drinks while they were working."
Two hours later, when they strolled along the tree-lined avenue back to the pub, Kara's mind reeled with all the graves they'd seen.
"That was awesome. This whole place is like a microcosm of Irish history, isn't it? Not just politicians and martyrs, but all the authors, poets, and artists, too.
Ryan nodded. "And actors and musicians and singers, and, of course, thousands of ordinary Dubliners. We've only skimmed the surface today, but it's an amazing place. I've spent whole days here in the past, and still not seen it all."
"It's kind of weird thinking some of my ancestors might be buried here. Do you know if any of yours are?"
"None that I'm aware of."
She turned to him, raising curious eyebrows. "Have you ever researched your family history?"
He shrugged. "I once did some basic research, but didn't get very far." As they walked through the arched gateway, he went on, "Are you ready to step into the past again?"
Yet again, he'd changed the subject from his family, and she was curious. It seemed strange that a man who was obviously interested in Irish history hadn't pursued his own history. Was he concerned about finding a criminal or traitor? Or had he unearthed some secret family scandal and didn't want to admit it? Was there something he wasn't telling her?
She halted her thoughts as he held open the pub door for her, and blinked a few times while her eyes adjusted from the bright sunshine to the darkness inside. Her first impression was of uneven wooden flooring, and dark wood panelling everywhere, enclosing small booths with old tables and narrow benches. The pub was crowded. Chatter and bursts of laughter filled the air, from couples in the booths, people standing in groups, and others leaning against the bar counter.
She turned to him. "You're right. This is a real traditional Irish pub. It even smells old, doesn't it?"
He nodded. "Beer, years of cigarette smoke until indoor smoking was banned a few years ago, and that indefinable scent of old wood. This place has been owned by the same family since 1833, the year after the cemetery was founded. It's reputed to serve the best Guinness in Ireland, but I'll have to forego that because I'm driving. How about you? And do you want something to eat? There's a lounge through there where we can get soup or panini or tapas."
Kara pressed her hand to her stomach. "After the huge breakfast at the hotel, I'm not hungry, and although the last couple of hours have diverted my thoughts, my nerves are starting to kick in again."
"Okay, I'll order soft drinks for us now, and we can eat later. We may even be cracking open a bottle of champagne to celebrate."
She shuddered. "No, don't tempt fate. Somehow this is ten times scarier than meeting Theresa."
Even the iced mineral water with a slice of lemon did nothing to stop her stomach from churning, which worsened when they went out to the car again.
She clenched her hands on her lap as Ryan drove along several suburban streets, before turning into a small avenue with about a dozen two-storey brick houses, separated from each other by rustic fences.
"Number seven, is it?" he asked, and she nodded, unable to find her voice.
He pulled up outside a house that was similar to the others in the street, with rounded bay windows on the ground and upper floors, a neat lawn in front surrounded by a few flowering shrubs, and a paved driveway that served both the garage and the front door.
Kara smoothed back her hair with her hands. "Is my hair okay? And – oh gosh, should I have worn a skirt instead of these capris?"
He leant over to kiss her cheek. "You look beautiful, a ghrá."
She gripped his hand as they walked to the door, and held her breath when he pressed the brass bell-push, tightening her hand even harder around his when the door was opened.
"Hallo, you must be Kara," said the
white-haired woman who wore a simple blue blouse over trim navy pants. "Do come in, both of you. You're most welcome."
Her smile was as strained as Kara imagined her own was as she stepped into the hallway. "Thank you." Her voice came out almost like a croak, and she cleared her throat. "This is my friend, Ryan Brady. He's been helping me with my research."
"And this is my husband, Jonathan, or Jon as everyone calls him."
Kara shook the hand of the tall, handsome man with a shock of thick, white hair. "I'm so pleased to meet with you both."
"And it's grand to meet you, too," he said.
"Now, come into the front room," Margaret said. "I'll just wet the tea, and then we can sit and chat. Do you like barm brack, or would you prefer chocolate cake?"
Unsure what barm brack was, Kara hesitated, but Ryan grinned. "Barm brack every time for me, Mrs. Sheridan, and I'm sure Kara will love it, too."
Margaret escorted them into a pleasant lounge with the bay window overlooking the front lawn, and two beige couches on either side of stone-clad fireplace.
"Make yourselves comfortable," she said. "I'll only be a minute or so."
Kara glanced around at Ryan as they sat on one of the couches, and he raised his eyebrows. "What do you think?"
"About Margaret? I'm not sure. Her face is a similar shape to my mom's, but it's difficult to tell, because her hair's white. She has blue eyes, though, and—"
