The Last Bride in Ballymuir (8 page)

Kylie nodded. She was about to give Mairead
his name when some odd feeling made her stop. Brows arched, Mairead
waited.

“
He’s new to town,” Kylie
offered as a sort of com
promise.

“
I see,” her employer said,
clearly not quite satisfied. She cleared her throat and said, “Well
then, before Alan’s mishap, I’d been coming out to tell you I had
the most marvelous call!”

“
What was it?”

“
A local artist proposing a
long-term special proj
ect with the
children. I want you to follow up on this.
I’ve told her that you’ll be contacting her.”

A woman artist. There were
plenty in Ballymuir, an
arts-loving town.
To think that it was Michael’s sister
was
sheer paranoia. Still, Kylie could feel a snare
tightening around her. “And who is it I’m to
contact?”

“
Her name’s Vi Kilbride. Do
you know her?”

“
I do,” she said, imagining
the final tug of the line binding her to a fate that seemed more
designed than coincidental. Three days ago the name Kilbride had
been one Kylie knew only as part of the community; now it was
winding its way through her life.

“
Good enough. Stop by her
studio after school and
the two of you can
talk.”

Kylie nodded, her gaze
drifting to the road Michael
had taken.
Quite a talk that could be.

At four-fifteen, Kylie
stood outside the door of Kilbride Designs. Though she had no solid
reason to be nervous, she felt as though she were about to beard a
lioness in her den. But there was only one
way to face conflict and that was head on. Putting on
a bright smile, she stepped inside.

“
Welcome,” Vi said. “I’ve
been expecting you.”

Kylie smoothed her palms against her wool
skirt, then shook Vi’s offered hand. The artist’s grip was firm,
and her expression polite and blessedly impersonal.

Seeing that this meeting just might be
survivable, Kylie relaxed. “Thank you for offering to work with our
students. It’s a wonderful gift you’re giving us.”

“
This is far more a gift to
me. I love children.”

One thing in common, Kylie thought. Two, if
she permitted herself to consider Michael—a dicey proposition at
best. “Well then, what do you have in mind?”

They spent half an hour
discussing the project Vi proposed. The longer they talked, the
more Kylie came to like Vi Kilbride. She was animated and
charming—hardly the imposing figure Kylie had seen
in church the day before. Her proposal was ambitious,
tied in with the children’s study of the bold
warriors, Fionn MacCumhaill and CuChulainn, and ending with an art
exhibition. Kylie would have expected nothing less grand from the
woman who had created
the beautiful things
in this studio. And she wanted no
less for
her children, either.

“
I’d like to work closely
with you on this,” Vi added
just as Kylie
was getting ready to leave.

The comment was casual and not especially
notable considering what they were to begin. Still, there was the
other unspoken link they shared. Another reason Vi might want to
spend time with her. And if she didn’t raise it, Kylie knew she’d
never feel truly comfortable around this woman.

“
About your brother,” she
began.

Vi raised a hand, palm outward. “I’ve been
told in no uncertain terms that what’s between the two of you is
none of my business. And while I’m of a different opinion, he’s an
adult, and so are you.”

Just as Kylie felt the
tension begin to seep out of her, Vi’s gaze grew challenging. “But
since you raised the subject, I will tell you this. Michael’s not
the hard man he likes to appear. He’s suffered his share and more
of pain and betrayal. And if anyone
should
hurt him again,” Vi said in a low, fierce voice,
“they’ll be answering to me.”

Courage, Kylie reminded
herself. She met Vi’s
gaze with a steady
calm. “You’re right. Michael and I
are both
adults and able to care for ourselves. And you’re getting ahead of
yourself, thinking that we have anything more than the beginnings
of a friendship. I can’t fault you for loving him, but he doesn’t
need your protection.”

“
He needs it more than you
know.”

“
What do you mean by that?”
Kylie asked.

“
I’ve said all I’m going to.
Whatever you want to know about my brother, you’ll have to ask
him.” Vi turned to a small loom sitting on a table. “Now I have to
be getting back to work. Call me when you have the project schedule
approved.”

Dismissed. The Kilbride family certainly knew
how to end a conversation when they chose to. If she weren’t so
annoyed, Kylie might have been amused by Vi’s high-handed
tactics.

“
Fine then.” Noticing for
the first time a bouquet similar to the one she’d received from
Michael, she
added,
“And if you don’t consider it meddling, tell your brother I
thank him for my flowers. Oh, and tell him that Gerry Flynn has no
spine at all.”

Vi’s head shot up. “Gerry Flynn? Michael was
talking to Gerry Flynn? What about?”

“
I’d be asking your
brother,” Kylie finished, then swept out of the studio. O’Sheas
were known for liking the last word, too.

All the way home, Kylie
thought of Michael. With
each bend in the
road she looked for him, hoping she’d see him, his long stride
covering the ground.
She
didn’t, though. The road was empty, its stony gray
color met by that of a rain-heavy sky.

She stopped to check in on
Breege, and found her
cooking a supper of
lamb stew. Not ready to face her
empty
house, Kylie accepted Breege’s offer of a meal.
They chatted about town events, then after a while
fell silent and listened to the drumming of the
rain on
the slate roof.

Breege sighed and shifted in
her chair. “It settles in
my bones, this
weather. Reminds me that I’m no longer a girl.” She smiled, showing
teeth still even
and white. “Though I had
promised Edna McCafferty
I’d meet her for
the
sessiun
at
O’Connor’s tonight. I’ll
not let a few
aches stop me from enjoying good music
and
company.”

Frowning, Kylie glanced at
the window; it was sheeted with rain blowing straight at the house.
This
was no night for Breege to travel
alone, not that she’d
take kindly to such
an observation.

“
I’d been planning to go to
the pub, too,” Kylie announced in a bright voice. She glanced down
at her long skirt and prim white blouse. More suited to a convent
than a pub. “I’ll just stop home to change.”

The furrows in Breege’s forehead grew deeper
with her broad grin. “The pub? You? How grand! I’ve not seen you in
there once in all the time I’ve known you. And I’ve spent too many
nights worrying that if you don’t get yourself out for the young
men to admire, you’ll end up being the last bride in
Ballymuir.”

“
I’ll be having a pint,
Breege, not a husband,” Kylie corrected as she stood and gathered
the plates and cutlery to take to the kitchen.

Breege followed. “We’ll see
what you say after we
get the pint in you.
I’m betting that later tonight, I’ll be making some lace for your
veil.”

It was Kylie’s turn to laugh. “Now you’re
making lace? I’ve never even seen you knit!”

“
For your wedding, darlin’,
I’d plant the mulberries to feed the worms to get my silken thread.
And then I’d learn to tat the lace.”

Kylie chuckled, then added the last line of
their newfound poem. “And so the last bride shall wed.”

A church. Of all the places Michael thought
he might find himself twice within two days, a church was the last.
Yet he’d walked empty roads and gained no peace, then gone home to
find that the comfort of his sister was also missing. What was left
to him but church? Nothing, he thought, pulling open St. Brendan’s
weathered door.

Feeling it would be impolite to do otherwise,
he glanced away from the few people in line at the confessional.
He genuflected before settling in the last pew, amazed that even
that vestige of religion lingered somewhere in him. Once seated, he
stared up at the empty altar, meditating on the question that
stretched to the end of his life: What next?

Michael knew the Garda’s hostility this
afternoon had been a paltry offering compared to what might have
been delivered. In the eyes of the local authorities, he remained a
guilty man—and one who bore watching, with unrest always just
beneath the surface in the North. He understood this, though he’d
damned well never accept it. And he’d never stop hating the people
who had trapped, then betrayed him.

Even the dim light and serious quiet of his
current surroundings weren’t enough to calm his internal clamor for
revenge. Or the guilt that sickened him.

Revenge
. It sounded a sweet word, a lover’s
word, with its sigh of satisfaction purling off the
end.
He didn’t want to feel this way, so
hungry for it that he could howl. And he didn’t know how to kill
off the need.

Michael stood and walked to
the end of the confes
sional line. While he
waited his turn, he told himself
that this
was useless. Absurd. But he didn’t leave.
The little closet he soon entered probably had stood through
the murders of rulers, rebels, and innocents. He knelt, conscious
of the cramped space and of his own doubts and fears.

“
Bless me, Father, for I
have sinned. It’s been ...” He hesitated, counting back the years
to the last time his mam had dragged him spitting and swearing to
confession. “It’s been twenty years since my last confession, and
whatever else I’m supposed to be saying after this, I just don’t
remember.”

“
Well, twenty years is a
long time gone. I suppose I’d be forgetting a few things, too,” the
voice the other side of the screen said. Michael knew it was Father
Cready. Vi had said he was the only priest in town. “What brings
you here, now?”

Brian Rourke, he almost answered. But saying
the name would be putting a face on his target, renaming Satan.
“I’ve been thinking about revenge,” he said instead. “About how
good it would feel to just once even the score, to kill someone who
has killed. Someone who has destroyed me.”

The priest paused before speaking. “Even in
the twenty years you haven’t been visiting, that rule hasn’t
changed.”

Michael scrubbed a hand over his face. “No, I
didn’t expect it had. Look, I don’t know what I’m doing here,
except that I need to find some way to ... God, I don’t know. To
get to tomorrow and the day after that without wanting to hunt a
man down and take what he owes me,” he finished in a rush.

“
And if you do? Will that
bring you peace?”

He closed his eyes and thought hard a few
moments before answering. “No.”

“
Perhaps you should be
visiting us a bit more often. You’re not alone, son.”

But he was. He was so horribly alone that he
thought he might die. And the idea didn’t frighten him as it
should. Without saying another word, he escaped the confessional
and the church.

Michael ended up in
O’Connor’s, intent on getting drunk. It
seemed, though, he was failing at even that. Shoving
aside his empty whiskey glass and lighting a
cigarette,
he looked around. Far too fine a
place for a man like
him. He’d have
preferred one of those ill-lit pubs with
the dank smell of stale beer soaked into dirty carpets.
But he’d landed here, and once the first drink
was
down, had lost the will to move on.
Besides, after cutting off early attempts at chat, he had been left
alone.

He jiggled his glass at the bartender.
“Another.”

“
It’s getting near to
supper,” the man said, neatly ignoring the demand.

Michael drew in on his cigarette; the smoke
burned less now that he’d worked his way through half a pack. The
television chattered in the background, and the bartender moved to
joke with a group of men at the other end of the long counter.

“
Bookmaker’s sandwich, chips
... and another,” he said in a loud voice, edging the glass closer
to the inward lip of the bar.

The bartender came back with a cup of coffee.
“Drink this, have your food, then we’ll get to the other.”

Michael finished his cigarette, stubbing it
into a black plastic ashtray with an advertisement for some beer on
its sooty face.

“
Pint of Guinness, Rory,” a
woman’s voice called from the door.

Michael watched in the mirror as Evie Nolan
fluffed her fingers through damp auburn hair and tugged at a
clinging dress that seemed to have started an inevitable climb
upward. He knew the instant she spotted him; the predatory gleam in
her eyes cut through his numbness. They watched each other in the
mirror as she approached.