An Irish Love Story

by Russ Durbin

  “What now, Maggie?” I asked.

  “Let’s just enjoy each other as fully as we can in the time we have left before you leave,” she whispered. “When you go, know that you will be in my mind and heart forever, as I am in yours.”

  We sat for what seemed like hours, just holding each other, touching and sharing bittersweet kisses. As the wind picked up and clouds rolled in, we walked slowly down the hill to the car park.

  Lost in our thoughts, we drove in silence until we came to the Pass of Keimaneigh.

  “Oh-h-h, look, Padraig, how beautiful and wild this is,” Maggie suddenly exclaimed! “Legend has it that a deer trying to escape from hunters leapt from one cliff to another.”

  Looking up at the towering crags overhanging the highway, I thought it would take a mighty leap of an equally mighty buck to make it. “Yes, Maggie, it is a wild and beautiful spot.”

  As we drove around the corner of the gorge-like pass, a river valley opened before us, and the sun broke through the dark clouds, making vivid the emerald fields. We took our time on the drive back to Cork, wending our way through picturesque villages. Unlike the trip out to Gougane Barra, Maggie, having lost her somberness, was gay and cheerful. Nothing significant or particularly memorable was said but the trip was pleasant as we enjoyed each other’s company, laughed and told stories, and sang Irish songs.

  The sky was ablaze with spectacular reds, golds, purples, and blues as the sun gradually lost its fight with the clock and sank below the western horizon as we arrived in Cork.

  Fionna greeted us at the door with “Maggie, darling, one of your boarders came back to the house drunk, fell on the stones in the garden and broke his stupid head open.” As Maggie gasped and opened her mouth to ask, Fionna went on, “The medical boys packed him off to the hospital where they stitched him up. I hear he was off to his brother’s house in Fermoy to recover and sober up.”

  Maggie’s sister was matter-of-fact about the whole affair. “Other than that bit of excitement, it was a pretty dull day. So this is your Yank! Hi, I’m Fionna, Maggie’s terribly exasperating and fascinating younger sister.”

  I held out my hand. “I’m Pat. Glad to meet you Fionna, Maggie’s terribly exasperating and fascinating younger sister.” At that, she laughed. “This one is all right, sis.” Turning to me, she ignored my outstretched hand and gave me a great hug and kiss on the cheek.

  As we settled in the sitting room, Fionna asked, “Are you two going out for dinner, or do you want me to whip up something?”

  “Well,” said Maggie, “I hadn’t really given much thought to tonight. I’m not sure what I have on hand. Maybe I ….”

  I interrupted. “We are going out tonight, and you, my dear Fionna, are coming with us.”

  And out to the dining room at the Silver Springs Hotel we went to dine on steaks, seafood and wine until our bellies were near bursting.

  Returning to the tall, red brick house on Western Road, Fionna thanked me, excused herself and disappeared into the back bedroom, leaving us standing in the entry hall.

  “Padraig, it was a lovely gesture, inviting Fionna to be with us tonight,” Maggie said looking up at me with those smoldering green eyes. “You make me very sasta, mo gra.”

  “I’m not exactly sure what that means but I think it’s good, right?”

  “You make me happy, my love.”

  “Good!”

  “Let’s go up to bed. You can make a nice turf fire in the fireplace, and we’ll snuggle under the downy cover.”

  And we did!

  Chapter 17

  A LIFETIME

  For our last two days, we spent almost every moment together. If we could have made time stand still, we would have done so. But, instead, it seemed that time, elusive as a hare, ran far too quickly before us. We walked, and talked, and held hands as lovers do, oblivious of the world around us until on occasion the harsh realities of Mother Nature demanded our attention.

  I had come prepared this time with a plastic poncho to cover my head and my “rubbers,” as Maggie called them. They were actually farmer-type pull-on boots designed to keep feet dry in wet and muddy conditions. We had driven to the Old Head of Kinsale to walk the perimeter, a distance of about two miles.

  “Why is it called the Old Head of Kinsale?” I asked.

  “It’s the farthest land south of Kinsale and where a lighthouse stood until it was destroyed by a terrible storm,” she explained. “It was just off the Old Head that the Lusitania went down. Oh-h, what a terrible tragedy. Nearly 1,200 people lost their lives when the Germans torpedoed the ship during World War I. A few of the survivors were rescued by fishermen from Garrettstown and Kinsale.”

  “I have heard of the Lusitania and its sinking. In fact, I believe that was one of the things that got the U.S. into the war.”

  As she concluded my history lesson, a priest dressed in foul weather gear walked past. “Best get your gear on,” he chirped to us. “There is a storm brewing. I can smell it.” And off he went, making the first of many circuits around the ruins and the herd of sheep milling about.

  “Perhaps we should take the good Father’s advice,” said Maggie, reaching for her red rain hat and slicker. I shrugged into my poncho, pulled on my boots, and had to run to catch up with her.

  Before we had completed one complete circuit of the rocky land, the storm descended in all its fury, lashing the rocks, ruins and us with soaking rain.

  “Maybe we should pack it in,” I shouted over the storm.

  “Ah, you Yanks; can’t take a bit of weather, can you?”

  “Maggie! Listen to….” But she was striding away. Anyway, she couldn’t hear as the wind whipped away my words.

  It seemed I was always trying to catch up. For a small woman with short legs, she certainly could move fast. Finally, after a couple of turns around the Old Head, we stopped near the car. Despite the wet weather gear, we both were soaked.

  “I think, my dear Yank, you may be right. It looks as if this storm is settling in for the day.”

  Easing the car down the now muddy path back to the main road, we drove to Kinsale where we checked into Acton’s Hotel, across from the harbor. Stripping off our wet clothes, we took a long, hot shower and spent the rest of the afternoon in the comfortable bed.

  It was dark when we awoke. I turned over to find Maggie staring at me.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Why are you staring at me?

  “I just love looking at you, especially when you are sleeping, mo gra. You look so peaceful.”

  Reaching for her, and feeling her slide into my arms, I whispered, “I am peaceful…when I’m with you. In fact, I cannot recall a time when I’ve felt more at peace.”

  I was going to say more, but her lips followed by her hands caused whatever I was about to say to disappear from my mind. We seemed made to fit together, as two parts of a whole.

  Some time later, I roused from my dreamy state to find Maggie up and dressed, her clothes now dry from the nearby radiator.

  “I’m hungry.

  “What a surprise.”

  “Come on, Yank. Get up and feed me.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  It turned out that Acton’s had a decent dining room and a fairly sophisticated menu. As we ate by candlelight at a small corner table, we talked about ourselves, our hopes, our dreams and strange fate that brought us together only to cause us to part.

  Suddenly, we felt the urgency of making the most of our moments together, and we hurried back to our room to continue where we left off. It was as if we couldn’t get enough of each other.

  Brilliant sun streaming through the open window awakened us to morning. After breakfast, we took a leisurely drive back to Cork.

  Fionna, like the good trooper she was, had the boarders under control with the stitched-up one back in his room, sober and quietly sedated.

  ‘I wondered if you two had been swept away in that rippingly wild storm we had yesterday.
” As she shook her finger at us, she admonished, “You really should have called.”

  “Sorry, Fionna. But your sister was so busy attacking me that we just didn’t have time.”

  Maggie blushed but her sister just laughed. “Oh, by the by, Mary Kate rang. She wants to talk to you, Maggie.”

  As Maggie left to phone, I thanked Fionna for making it possible for us to spend as much time together as we could.

  “My sis deserves this, and more. She has always sort of looked after me when my other sisters and brothers married and moved away.”

  She had a direct way of looking at you that reminded me of Maggie, especially her green eyes. “She deserves this time with you.” Dropping her voice, “I’ve never seen her so happy. And for making her happy, you’ve made me happy, too.” She kissed me and ran off up the stairs.

  “Mary Kate wanted to know what your plans are. Are you driving back to Dublin or taking the train?”

  “I plan to turn in my rental and take the train.”

  “Very well. When you turn your car in, Mary Kate will pick us up and take us to the station. I want to be with you as long as I can.” Both of us were dreading the moment we would have to part.

  Chapter 18

  LEAVING REPRISED

  “The Day” arrived appropriately with no sunshine. Dark clouds and a fine mist promised weather to match our moods.

  Our last night together was a quiet one, the kind that only two people, long married and accustomed to each other’s moods and feelings, can share. We talked about serious things and light things. We shared our life’s experiences with each other, understanding more, and drawing ever closer. I massaged her cold feet and she rubbed my back. We held each other and stared into the fire, each lost in our thoughts.

  And then, as if on cue from some unseen director, we rose and slowly walked upstairs to her bedroom where we began a ballet-like disrobing and settling into the soft feather bed. Our love-making, slow, gentle, and quietly intense, left us spent and breathless. As I dozed, I heard Maggie whisper something in Gaelic that sounded like ta tu i mo chroi go deo. I had no idea what she said, but the music of her words lulled me to sleep.

  Later, I awoke to feel her rhythmic breathing on my chest, her head pillowed in the crook of my arm. “I love you my dearest Maggie,” I whispered. She never stirred, but as I drifted off, I heard her murmur, “I love you too.”

  The morning drizzle became increasingly heavy as we forced ourselves out of bed and into our robes. Downstairs, we shared the breakfast-making, she frying eggs and ham and I making toast and strong black tea with hot milk. We ate in silence, unable to take our eyes off each other. In her thoughtful way, Fionna had taken herself off somewhere, and we were alone. No sign of the boarders either.

  “Why don’t you get your shower and shave while I clean up,” suggested Maggie. “You can pack while I’m getting my bath.”

  I nodded and headed upstairs to prepare to leave. I had quit my room at Jury’s days ago to spend all my time with Maggie.

  As I finished packing, Maggie came in to the bedroom, drying her long red hair with a fluffy blue towel. I snapped the locks on the suitcase shut and moved over to put my arms around her. We shared a long, hungry kiss. As I started to undo her robe, Maggie held my hands and stopped me.

  “Let’s not, mo gra. Last night was special; let’s keep it that way.”

  I felt empty as I let my hands fall.

  She grabbed my hands. “Oh, my dear love, just hold me. Hold me until the moment you leave.” Tears slid from the corners of her eyes and rolled down her face. I matched them with my own.

  As we stood there, looking out the tall windows at the rain pelting Western Road, she said, “You know, some people never know the kind of love we have had in their whole lifetime. We are so blessed to have had a lifetime of love in the past month. It is something I will treasure until I die.”

  Just then, we saw Mary Kate’s mini-Cooper pull to the curb and honk.

  “Time to go,” said Maggie, grabbing my briefcase while I picked up my suitcase.

  I stowed the luggage in the boot of the Cortina and Maggie hopped into the passenger seat. “Mary Kate will follow us to the car hire for you to drop your car.” At the rental office, I signed for the charges, and ran back to Mary Kate’s car.

  The Cork train station was a depressingly dark grey stone affair, made darker by the morning rain.

  “Thanks, Mary Kate, for being so thoughtful.” Instead of offering a handshake, I held my arms open and Mary Kate willingly walked into them. We hugged and kissed. I thought I saw a tear on her cheek, but it might have been a rain drop.

  “Have a safe trip home, Yank!” Mary Kate turned away quickly and took herself off to a discrete distance from Maggie and me.

  As the train eased into the station, Maggie and I looked at each other. Everything that needed to be said already had been. The pain I felt was real and cutting. Maggie’s eyes showed the same pain.

  “I love you Maggie, and I always will.”

  “Oh, my dearest Yank, I do so love you. You’ve made my life so beautiful.” There was that word again, the first syllable drawn out in her unique way.

  As I picked up my suitcase and briefcase, I turned for one last look.

  “Remember, mo gra, this is not good-bye. It is merely a parting.” She gave a small wave as Mary Kate moved up to put an arm around Maggie.

  I put the luggage in the overhead rack and bent to peer through the dirt-streaked window of the train. I could see the two of them standing there. Maggie’s shoulders were shaking as she sobbed. I was sobbing inside.

  The horsehair seats of the old car smelled musty. The rain made small rivulets through the caked dirt on the windows. “Tears,” I thought. “Tears of good-bye. No! Not good-bye but only a parting. Will we ever see each other again?” My heart said “yes,” but my mind said “no.”

  There was a short jerk, and the train slid out of the Cork station.

  “I’m going home,” I thought. “Home to Pennsylvania and to my family. But was it home? Or is this where my home is?

  It was too much for me. I felt exhausted, waahed out. Leaning my head against the high seat back, I slept.

  Part 2

  ONE IRISH CHRISTMAS

  By RUSS DURBIN

  Chapter 1

  THE PHONE CALL

  The accusing blank screen stared back at me. This staring match between me and my computer had been going on for…I’m not sure how long. Periodically the match was interrupted by this brightly colored ball bouncing around the screen. A quick tap on a key and the blank eye was back.

  Trying to work out in my head details of Murdock’s next move, I was stuck, not sure which way I wanted him to go. Consequently, no words were forthcoming from fingers to keyboard. Murdock, in case you’re interested, is a Gary Cooper-type marshal in my latest novel of the Old West.

  Dimly in the recesses of my mind I was aware of an insistent chirping that had been going on for some time. It had stopped a couple of times and then resumed its infernal chirping. My cell phone, where was it?

  I rummaged through the piles of paper on my credenza and then my desk. There! It was hiding under a candy wrapper beneath a stack of recently printed pages.

  “This is Pat,” I answered.

  “It’s about time. I thought maybe you had died and no one had found the body yet,” said the voice on the other end. It was Jamie Lipchitz, my agent, calling from New York.

  “Sorry, I was trying to work out some plot details. What’s up?”

  “Patrick, my dear, I have good news and bad news. Which do you want first?”

  I thought for a moment. “Better give me the bad news first. I always like to end my stories on a happy note.”

  “Okay, Tom Caldwell, your editor, called today and said you are a month overdue on the next installment of your new western. He wants it on his desk yesterday!”

  “Yeah, yeah. So what else is new?”

  “How about some
good news?”

  “That would be nice.”

  “Remember that little love story you wrote that didn’t sell too well?”

  I remembered. I had sort of forced the publisher to issue An Irish Interlude after the successes of my westerns. I was the new “Louis L’Amour,” according to the Times. So I used my new-found clout, such as it was, to get the novel published. That story was a labor of love for me; I didn’t care if it never made a dime. My publisher had a substantially different view, so, for a time, I was in the publisher’s dog house…until my next western.

  “Yes, I remember. What about it?”

  “The publisher’s partners in Ireland—Sheehy, Reilly, and O’Connell—are considering publishing it for an Irish and British audience. They also have BBC interested in doing a TV movie jointly with RTE. They want you to come to Dublin for a meeting.”

  I sat back, stunned. My memories, locked away for years in my mind and heart, came back with a rush.

  “Patrick, are you there?” Jamie’s voice sounded anxious. “Patrick, speak to me.”

  “I-I’m here. Just surprised that anyone has taken notice.”

  “Well, apparently the partners at SR&O, especially one Ms. Kathryn Reilly, the “R” in the firm’s name, really liked your story and thinks it will be a great hit there.”

  “How soon do they want to meet?

  “As soon as you can get there. Definitely before Christmas.”

  “That’s great!” I feigned enthusiasm I didn’t feel. I was scared. The emotions I had tightly controlled for two decades threatened to overwhelm me.

  “Well, I…I don’t know how soon. After all, I still have to finish The Marshal. So, I….”

  “Buddy boy, you better get the next installment to Tom ASAP. He used language that my tender ears are not accustomed to hearing. But you need to call SR&O right away to schedule the meeting. Then let me know so I can arrange to be there.”

  “Will do,” I said, writing down the Dublin number on my nearest post-it.