Born in Fire (Born In Trilogy #1)

Born in Fire (Born In Trilogy #1) Page 43

“And look who’s dragged herself in.” Tim grinned at her as he built a pint of Guinness. “And how are you, Maggie?”

“I’m fit and hungry as a bear.” She exchanged greetings with a couple at a postage-stamp-sized table behind her and at the two men who nursed pints at the bar. “Will you fix me one of your steak sandwiches, Tim, with a pile of chips, and I’ll have a pint of Harp while I’m waiting.”

The proprietor stuck his head around the back of the bar and shouted out Maggie’s order. “Well now, how was Dublin City?” he asked while he drew her a pint.

“I’ll tell you.” She propped her elbows on the bar and began to describe her trip for the patrons of the bar. While she talked the American family came in and settled at a table.

“Champagne and goose liver?” Tim shook his head. “Isn’t that a wonder? And all those people come to see your glass. Your father’d be proud of you, Maggie girl. Proud as a peacock.”

“I hope so.” She sniffed deeply when Tim slid her plate in front of her. “But the truth is, I’d rather have your steak sandwich than a pound of goose liver.”

He laughed heartily. “That’s our girl.”

“It turns out that the grandmother of the man who’s managing things for me was a friend of my gran, Gran O’Reilly.”

“You don’t mean it?” With a sigh, Tim rubbed his belly. “Sure and it’s a small world.”

“It is,” Maggie agreed, making it casual. “She’s from Galway and knew Gran when they were girls. They wrote letters for years after Gran moved here, keeping up, you know?”

“That’s fine. No friend like an old friend.”

“Gran wrote her about the hotel and such, the family. Mentioned how it was my mother used to sing.”

“Oh, that was a time ago.” Remembering, Tim picked up a glass to polish. “Before you were born, to be sure. Fact is, now that I think of it, she sang here in this very pub one of the last times before she gave it up.”

“Here? You had her sing here?”

“I did, yes. She had a sweet voice, did Maeve. Traveled all over the country. Hardly saw a bit of her for, oh, more than ten years, I’d say, then she came back to stay a time. It seems to me Missus O’Reilly was ailing. So I asked Maeve if maybe she’d like to sing an evening or two, not that we’ve as grand a place as some in Dublin and Cork and Donnegal where she’d performed.”

“She performed? For ten years?”

“Oh well, I don’t know as she made much of it at first. Anxious to be off and away was Maeve, as long as I remember. She wasn’t happy making beds in a hotel in a village like ours, and let us know it.” He winked to take the sting out of his words. “But she was doing well by the time she came back and sang here. Then she and Tom…well, they only had eyes for each other the moment he walked in and heard her singing.”

“And after they married,” Maggie said carefully, “she didn’t sing any longer?”

“Didn’t care to. Wouldn’t talk of it. Fact is, it’s been so long, till you brought it up, I’d nearly forgotten.”

Maggie doubted her mother had forgotten, or could forget. How would she herself feel if some twist in her life demanded that she give up her art? she wondered. Angry, sad, resentful. She looked down at her hands, thought of how it would be if she couldn’t use them again. What would she become if suddenly, just as she was about to make her mark, it was all taken away?

If relinquishing her career wasn’t an excuse for the bitter years that had passed with her mother, at least it was a reason.

Maggie needed time to shift through it, to talk to Brianna. She toyed with her beer and began to put the pieces of the woman her mother had been together with the personality of the woman she’d become.

How much of both, Maggie wondered, had Maeve passed on to her daughter?

“You’re to eat that sandwich,” Tim ordered as he slid another pint down the bar. “Not study it.”

“I am.” To prove her point, Maggie took a healthy bite. The pub was warm and comforting. Time enough tomorrow, she decided, to wipe the film off old dreams. “Will you get me another pint, Tim?”

“That I’ll do,” he said, then lifted a hand when the pub door opened again. “Well, it’s a night for strangers. Where’ve you been, Murphy?”

“Why missing you, boy-o.” Spotting Maggie, Murphy grinned and joined her at the bar. “I’m hoping I can sit by the celebrity.”

“I suppose I can allow it,” she returned. “This once, at any rate. So, Murphy, when are you going to court my sister?”

It was an old joke, but still made the pub patrons chuckle. Murphy sipped from Maggie’s glass and sighed. “Now, darling, you know there’s only room in my heart for you.”

“I know you’re a scoundrel.” She took back her beer.

He was a wildly handsome man, trim and strong and weathered like an oak from the sun and wind. His dark hair curled around his collar, over his ears, and his eyes were as blue as the cobalt bottle in her shop.

Not polished like Rogan, she thought. Rough as a Gypsy was Murphy, but with a heart as wide and sweet as the valley he loved. Maggie had never had a brother, but Murphy was the nearest to it.

“I’d marry you tomorrow,” he claimed, sending the pub, except for the Americans who looked on avidly, into whoops of laughter. “If you’d have me.”

“You can rest easy, then, for I won’t be having the likes of you. But I’ll kiss you and make you sorry for it.”

She made good on her word, kissing him long and hard until they drew back and grinned at one another. “Have you missed me, then?” Maggie asked.

“Not a whit. I’ll have a pint of Guinness, Tim, and the same thing our celebrity’s having.” He stole one of her chips. “I heard you were back.”

“Oh.” Her voice cooled a little. “You saw Brie?”

“No, I heard you were back,” he repeated. “Your furnace.”

“Ah.”

“My sister sent me some clippings, from Cork.”

“Mmm. How is Mary Ellen?”

“Oh, she’s fit. Drew and the children, too.” Murphy reached in his pocket, frowned, patted another. “Ah, here we go.” He took out two folded pieces of newspaper. “‘Clarewoman triumphs in Dublin,’” he read. “‘Margaret Mary Concannon impressed the art word at a showing at Worldwide Gallery, Dublin, Sunday night.’”