A Woman's Heart (17 page)

“This isn't the way it's supposed to work,” she murmured. Like him she was watching the numbers flash by. “You're supposed to be the nasty one. And I'm supposed to be the one jollying you out of your moods.”

“Believe me, sweetheart, you'll undoubtedly have plenty more opportunities to do exactly that. And although I'm not against a bit of role reversal, I'm going to have to put my foot down about tonight.”

“Tonight?”

“I promised you dinner,” he reminded her as the elevator reached the sixth floor with an electronic ding. “And rich, jackbooted Yank storm trooper that I am, I have every intention of taking you out for the best meal in Derry.”

Not giving her an opportunity to argue his renewed plans, he ushered her out the open doorway. By following the numbers and arrows posted on the wall, he found the way to Fionna's hospital room.

Nora was more than a little relieved when she saw her grandmother sitting up in bed watching the television bolted to the wall.

“Shouldn't you be lying down?”

“It's too difficult to watch the telly that way,” Fionna said with a great deal of calm for someone who'd just survived a bombing.

“But you've been hurt.”

“'Tis barely a scratch.” She lifted her wrist, encased in white plaster. “Though I worry this will be troublesome when I knit. I tried to talk the doctor into using one of those stretch elastic bandages, but you know how stubborn folks are up here in the North.”

“Not at all like folks in the South,” Nora said dryly. “At least you agreed to stay the night.”

“Oh, I'll not be spending the night. I suspected Quinn would be bringing you, and since this room is a great deal more comfy than the crowded emergency department downstairs, I was willing to let them check me in while I waited.

“Mrs. Murphy and I have been passing the time watching the scenes of the bombing and lamenting the foolishness of men.”

She tilted her bright red-gold head, which seemed strangely dusted with white powder, toward the occupant of the other bed in the room. The middle-aged woman's leg was held up in the air by a system of pulleys.

“Were you injured in the blast, as well?” Nora asked the woman politely.

“Oh, I was, indeed. Blew me right out of my shoes, it did. Broke my leg in three places.” She scowled. “And to think it had taken me all day to find a pair of pumps to go with my new Sunday dress. And now they're gone.”

“They were a lovely navy,” Fionna divulged. “With
white trim. Of course we wouldn't be lamenting them if anyone had been seriously hurt.”

“Aye,” Mrs. Murphy agreed promptly with a nod of her snowy head. “And isn't that a miracle?”

“The police are reporting the major damage was done to the parking garage,” Nora said.

Fionna sighed. “I suppose that means I've lost my lovely automobile.”

“We can always buy you a new car.” Nora sat down on the edge of the bed and took hold of her grandmother's hand. “What's important is that you—and everyone else shopping in the store—are all right.”

“There is another good thing.”

“What's that?”

“I was having the devil's own time finding anyone to wait on me.” Her grandmother's wicked grin reminded Nora a great deal of Brady's. “So I hadn't yet paid for your new blazer.”

They shared a laugh. Then Nora sobered. “Da's downstairs waiting in the car. I tried to talk him into coming in with me, but…”

“Well, of course he couldn't do that.”

“How did you know?”

“Isn't Brady my son? And doesn't a mother know what disturbs her child, just as you know what upsets your own dear Rory?” Fionna turned toward Quinn. “Brady was born at home. In the same bed you're sleeping in, Mr. Gallagher.”

“I hadn't realized that.”

“Well, of course you'd be having no way of knowing. It was my bed at the time. Mine and my darling Patrick's. When Brady and Eleanor married, it was passed down to them. As it was passed down to you, Nora, when you and Conor wed.”

“Da said at the time it made more sense, with Mam gone, for him to be taking the single.”

“That's true enough. But part of the reason he gave it up when you married was that it was too painful for him trying to get a decent night's sleep in the bed where he'd spent so many years with your mam. The very same bed where dear Celia should have been born.”

“All the rest of us were born at home,” Nora explained to Quinn.

“As have all the Joyce babies,” Fionna agreed. “For as long as anyone can remember. But your mother's pregnancy with Celia was a difficult one. Which is why the doctor arranged for her to have her baby in hospital at Galway, instead of at home.”

And the Galway hospital was where her mother had died. Nora began to understand why her father had refused to leave the limousine.

“But this isn't the same hospital,” she said.

“No. But hospitals are much the same the world over, darling. And the memories are probably too difficult for your dear da to handle.”

“Oh, God.” Nora shut her eyes. “I was so hard on him.”

“He understood you were upset,” Quinn assured her.

“Of course he did,” Fionna agreed with her usual brisk manner. “And no harm has been done. I'll just be getting dressed now and we'll leave here, and—”

“No,” Nora said swiftly. Firmly.

“What did you say, darling?” Fionna looked up at her as if she'd just spoken a foreign language.

“I said no.” She folded her arms across her chest. “I'll not be giving Da another reason to hate hospitals by checking you out early, then having you drop dead because of some terrible fatal head injury.”

“The only thing wrong with my head is that I can still
hear that explosion going off in it.” She grimaced as she combed her fingers through the lank strands. “And my hair is in frightful need of a washing. It's full of plaster dust.”

“It won't do you any good to argue, Gran.” Nora heard a flurry of activity behind her and turned to see a group of white-jacketed doctors standing in the doorway. “Well, it appears it's time for rounds. We'd best be leaving.”

“But, Nora—”

“We're in the doctors' way.” Having sensed her grandmother gearing up for a battle, Nora was more than a little relieved at the timely interruption. She bent down and kissed Fionna's cheek. “Sleep well. We'll be back in the morning to fetch you home.”

“Traitor,” Fionna muttered, nevertheless kissing Nora back. She looked up at Quinn. “Thank you for getting my granddaughter here so promptly. I trust you'll be taking good care of her tonight, as well.”

“I'm going to do my best.”

“Aye. I've no doubt of that.” Fionna tilted her face, offering her cheek to him. “Now give me a quick kiss and get back to my son before he worries himself into an early grave.”

She wasn't his grandmother. But as he did as instructed, Quinn felt a strange jolt of some strong, almost familial emotion. He covered it smoothly.

“You're a remarkably brave woman, Fionna Joyce.” He took her uninjured hand and, in a gesture that seemed to surprise everyone in the room, including himself, lifted her fingertips to his lips. “And although I'm no expert on miracles, I have to wonder if your pull with Bernadette might not be the reason everyone in that store managed to survive the bombing.”

“Faith, I hadn't thought of that.” The elderly woman's
eyes lit up. “I'll have to be doing some investigating after I get out of here.”

“You'll be coming straight home to the farm as soon as you're out of here,” Nora insisted. “You can always write up your report from there.” Her voice and her expression gentled. “The children are worried, Gran. Although they've been told you're all right, they're going to want to see you back home safe and sound for themselves.”

“You wouldn't be trying to make me feel guilty now, would you, Nora?”

“Me?” Nora flashed her first genuine smile of the day. “Would I be doing such a thing?”

Fionna laughed. “You're definitely your father's daughter, Nora Fitzpatrick,” she called out as they left the hospital room.

 

Brady sat alone in the back of the limousine, thinking he should be making a close study of the fancy car. He doubted there were many in Castlelough who'd ever seen a limousine, much less ridden in one. Wouldn't they want to be hearing all about it? The tale should be good for several pints at the very least.

The problem was, he couldn't concentrate on the sparkling Waterford crystal vase in the ever-popular Lismore pattern, or the fine leather seats, or the bar with champagne on ice or even the television.

He closed his eyes and pressed his fingers against his closed lids so hard he saw stars. But it wasn't enough to rid his mind of the profound disappointment on his daughter's face as she'd walked away from him.

You Touched Upon My Life

H
er grandmother's words stayed with Nora all the way back down the hall and during the seemingly interminable elevator ride to the street floor.

“I owe Da an apology,” she murmured finally.

“He doesn't need it.” Quinn smoothed at the lines furrowing her forehead. “Brady's your father, Nora. He loves you. He understands you were under a lot of stress.”

“I should have realized…”

“You're not a mind reader. And just because your mother died doesn't mean you now have to be in charge of the entire world, sweetheart,” he said as they walked out the double glass doors of the emergency department.

He stopped on the sidewalk and, forgetting his lifelong aversion to public displays of emotion, took her in his arms and pressed his lips to the top of her head. “You've already done more than your share to pick up the reins of the family. Brady realizes that.”

Nora wasn't accustomed to being comforted. And al
though she was frightened by how good it felt to have Quinn's strong arms around her, to have someone to lean on for a change instead of being the one everyone leaned on, she allowed herself to cling. Just for a minute.

“I owe you so much,” she murmured into his shirt. “The way you arranged for Kate to stay with the children. For the driving. The plane. And the fancy black car.” She looked up at him, her eyes moist. “For everything.”
For being you,
she thought, but did not say for fear of chasing him away. “I don't know how to thank you.”

“Don't worry.” He flashed a wicked grin as he flicked a finger down the slope of her nose. “We'll think of something.”

 

As with everything else in this country, Quinn's dinner did not go according to plan. Instead of a romantic dinner for two in Galway, he was forced to watch as Nora and Brady treated each other with a strained politeness that set his nerves on edge.

They'd begun with a bottle of champagne, appropriate, he'd said when he'd ordered, to toast Fionna's surviving the bombing virtually unscathed. Nora and Brady had obediently clinked glasses, but their expressions remained as stiff as department-store mannequins.

Time after time he attempted to start a conversation, but the uncharacteristic silence kept hovering over the table, through the smoked-salmon first course, the excellent lamb entrée, and now it appeared that dessert would be ruined by the downcast mood, as well.

Unaccustomed to failure, Quinn decided to give it one last shot. “So, Brady,” he said, leaning back in the brocade covered chair, “have you ever considered writing your stories down?”

“No, I haven't.”

Quinn resisted the urge to grind his teeth. “May I ask why not? It certainly seems there'd be an audience, especially with all the Americans boasting Irish ancestry.”

“Not all Americans are interested in their roots,” Nora said quietly.

“True. But I'll bet enough are that your dad could earn a bundle if he only took the time—”

“It's not the time.” Brady's voice held no more enthusiasm than Nora's. “Writing my tales down would offend my belief in the oral tradition.”

“Da's already turned down offers from publishing houses in Dublin and London,” Nora divulged with a bit more strength.

“And New York, too,” Brady reminded her.

“Aye.” She smiled for the first time since they'd entered the five-star hotel dining room. “The poor man was quite put out that he'd flown all the way across an ocean only to be sent back home again empty-handed.”

When she named the famous publisher, Quinn said, “You actually had the man come here? From New York?”

“It was his choice,” Brady explained. “Didn't he choose not to believe me when I'd already told him no in a letter? And all those phone calls?”

“His wife heard Da at the Puck Fair and tape-recorded some of his stories,” Nora said. “When she returned home, she played them for her husband, who was quite impressed.”

“There are probably thousands of writers who'd sell their souls for an offer from that house.”

“A soul's a high price to pay for success,” Brady said.

“I was speaking metaphorically.” Quinn had almost forgotten how seriously religion was taken in this country. Wasn't a centuries-old religious conflict the reason Fionna was lying in a hospital right now?

“Of course you were, lad. And you're right. Many at The Rose called me a fool for turning down such a generous offer. But I've given the best years of my life to the oral tradition. It didn't seem right to sell out a belief. Even if it would pay for a new roof.”

“And that prize bull John Kavanagh was wanting to sell us,” Nora reminded him without reproach. She turned back to Quinn. “Da's never approved of writing the stories down. He insists they're meant to be told, to be passed down from generation to generation.”

“That's commendable,” Quinn allowed. “Although I'll have to admit I'm glad not everyone feels that way.”

“Oh, books are lovely in their own fashion,” Brady said, a bit more lilt in his brogue. “But what's right for one is not always right for another.”

“True.”

“Da's been asked to perform at the heritage center at Ardagh this summer,” Nora revealed with unmistakable daughterly pride. “That's the village where Saint Patrick consecrated Saint Mel as bishop.”

“Aye, and that's an important enough historical event,” Brady allowed as he reached into his pocket, took out a pouch of tobacco and began filling his pipe. “But I was thinking I'd be telling the story of Una Bhan.”

“Oh, Da.” Nora frowned. “That's such a sad tale.”

“Aye, I can see how some might view it that way. But others might have a different opinion. And won't it give me an opportunity to sing, as well.” He turned to Quinn. “Not that I'd be wanting to boast, mind you, but there are those who say I've a fine tenor voice.”

“You've a grand voice,” Nora said. “And, of course the fact that your favorite version of the song runs forty-five verses wouldn't have anything to do with you choosing that particular story.”

“'Tis a long tale. It needs to be told in its own time.”

There was another pause as Brady looked expectantly at Quinn.

“Of course I'm going to bite,” Quinn said, leaning back in his chair and taking a sip of his after-dinner brandy. “I'd love to hear it.”

“Well, now, since you asked…” As the older man lit the pipe, the flare from the match danced merrily in bright blue eyes that once again reminded Quinn of a leprechaun. “In County Roscommon, there's a lovely lough that spreads wide and serene on the upper Shannon River. In the very center of the lake, there's a lonely island—”

“Castle Island,” Nora interjected.

“Now who'd be telling this tale?” Brady asked.

Nora's answering grin revealed that things were back to normal. “You are, Da.”

“And isn't that what I was thinking?” He huffed out a breath, leaned back and puffed on his pipe. “Well, to continue my story, Castle Island was, for many centuries, the seat of the MacDermotts.

“Now I tell you that there was a fair and handsome daughter named Una, who attracted the love of a man named Thomas Costello, who went by the nickname Tumaus Loidher, which is Irish for Strong Thomas. There was, in Ireland at the time, no man with the strength of Thomas Costello. Indeed, he was so strong that when he was only a lad, about seventeen years or so, a bully—a man who'd already killed a great many people—came to the town of Sligo and challenged the entire county to put forth a man to wrestle with him.

“Well, as it so happens, Thomas had come to the town with his father's brother and they watched as the bully hurled man after man to the ground. In those days, you see,
the unfortunate city would be forced to support the champion.

“Against his uncle's wishes, Thomas volunteered to wrestle, but his uncle refused again and again until finally he grew weary of the young man's beseeching and gave him permission to fight.

“There was a gasp from the people gathered, because they feared that such a young man would surely be killed. Young girls and women wept, and it's said that even Thomas's own uncle had tears on his face.

“But Thomas knew he was stronger than the people thought. Indeed, the muscles in his arms were as firm and hard as iron, so when the match began, he grabbed the bully before the man could get hold of him and squeezed. Now everyone, especially Thomas, was puzzled when the champion didn't fight back. But then, when Thomas released him, the man fell back, stone-cold dead, don't you know, his back broken. And that was the first of many heroic feats Thomas Costello performed.

“But that is neither here nor there—there are so many stories about the grand deeds Tumaus Loidher performed that if I were to begin relating them, I'd never cease—and I must be getting on with my story before Nora complains that I've gotten sidetracked again.”

“I wasn't going to say a thing,” Nora insisted.

“And aren't you a fine polite girl.”

Quinn watched as Brady beamed at Nora, causing her to smile back.

“As I was saying, Thomas, who was much beloved by the people, fell in love with the fair Una MacDermott and she with him. But Thomas was not a rich man, and the MacDermotts were a family of property, don't you know, and MacDermott had already chosen a wealthy man for his daughter to wed.

“And then of course, there was that other dilemma I must tell you, which I forgot to tell you before, that the Costellos and MacDermotts had taken opposing sides during the Cromwellian upheavals, like Irish Capulets and Montagues, you see, and there was no way MacDermott was going to allow his family to be linked with the one who'd lost out in the Cromwellian settlement.

“Una was heartbroken and when she fell ill of lovesickness, her father finally allowed Thomas to visit her, but when MacDermott continued to withhold his consent to a marriage, Thomas grew angry and rode away, swearing never to return if he was not recalled before crossing the Donogue River to his own home.

“He tarried for a long time in the water, hopefully awaiting a messenger from his fair Una, but finally, after being taunted by a servant for surrendering his pride to a woman, he drove his horse up onto the bank. He was scarcely on dry ground when a messenger did, indeed, come from Una, entreating him to come back to her.

“But Thomas was known throughout the land as a man of his word, don't you see, and he'd given his vow not to return once he'd crossed the river.”

“Pride goeth before a fall,” Quinn murmured.

“Aye. You've spoken the sad truth. And Thomas was a fearsome prideful man.” Brady gave a regretful shake of his head. “To pursue the story further, 'twas after this regretful day that grief and melancholy settled hard on poor Una. She died of a broken heart and was buried on Trinity Island in Lough Key.

“Thomas swam his horse to that very same island every night to lament their tragically lost love, and during those lonely nights, he composed the passionate tormented poem he called
Una Bhan,
or
Fair Una,
as it's also known by some. And then, his own heavy heart broken, as well, he
died and, as he had requested, was buried beside the darling love of his life.

“And it was soon after that an ash tree magically grew out of Una's grave. And another out of the grave where Thomas Costello had been laid to rest, and they inclined toward each other like lovers, and kept growing until the branches entwined like a bower over the two sweethearts who were finally together at last.

“And if you go to Lough Key today, you'll see poor MacDermott's castle still standing amidst the tangled thickets of briers, wrapped in ivy and creepers, looking for all the world like Sleeping Beauty's castle, awaiting young Tumaus Loidher to return and bring it back to life again.”

“Great story,” Quinn murmured, lifting his glass in a salute. A man who'd written tales of banshees, ghost stallions and lake serpents could appreciate the story of an ill-fated romance and a castle awaiting rebirth. “A tragic tale of man's flaws of pride and prejudice.”

“Aye, I've always thought so, as well. But you'd be overlooking the most important part. The part about two lovers reunited after death.” There was something in his voice, something deep and profound that made Quinn wonder if the older man could be thinking of his own lost love.

“You're not only a splendid storyteller yourself, Quinn Gallagher,” Brady suddenly declared, his mood lightening once again. “You're a good and generous fellow, getting me talking so as to help ease the pain I've been suffering all day.”

“I enjoy hearing tales. And yours was a good one.”

“It's a fine tale, sure enough. But that doesn't take away from the truth that you're an equally fine man.”

He'd been called many things. But
good
and
generous
had never been words used to describe him. Uncomfortable
with the personal turn the conversation had taken, Quinn declared the evening at an end by calling for the check.

In a quirk of bad timing, The Chieftains were appearing in Derry's concert hall, and members of the group had booked all the suites in the hotel. The other top hotels were booked as well, but fortunately Brenda had proven her usual efficient self, managing to reserve adjoining rooms for Quinn and Nora, and one for Brady on the floor below.

Remembering what Laura had said about the gossip concerning his relationship with Nora Fitzpatrick, he decided that Brenda booking Nora's father on a different floor had not been a coincidence.

When they retired to their respective rooms, Quinn found the comforter turned down, a piece of minty chocolate on the pillow and the radio tuned to some local station that specialized in “easy listening.” The work of the unseen maid was, Quinn thought, the first familiar thing he'd experienced since stepping off the plane at Shannon.