The Last Bride in Ballymuir (6 page)

At his answering silence, she turned to face
him. Just looking at him, feeling the odd, intense current that
seemed to envelop them both, sent a shiver through her. Gooseflesh
raised on her arms and she rubbed at it.

“
What I’m wanting has
nothing to do with food,” he said in a voice so quiet and low that
she had to strain to hear it over the pounding of her heart. “What
I’m wanting is to come to you and undo each of the buttons on your
shirt ‘til I find what waits for me beneath. Then I’m wanting to
put my mouth against your skin and learn the feel of you ‘til I
know you so well that you’re part of me.”

More words than she’d yet had from him. Small
wonder he saved them up, what he could do with them. She didn’t
look away from his green eyes. Mesmerized, she didn’t blink,
couldn’t have if she wanted to.

“
But since all that would
surely call for an apology, I’ll be leaving now.” As he walked out
the door, he called over his shoulder, “Though if you like, you can
consider it your engraved announcement for our next time
together.”

Their next time.
Kylie flopped into the worn
arm
chair she’d been so fiercely
gripping.
Their next time.
Her heart had scarcely survived this
one.

Chapter Four

It is better to exist unknown to the
law.

—
Irish Proverb

Michael came downstairs at six-thirty on
Monday morning. Already dressed, Vi sat at the kitchen table
gingerly sipping a steaming mug of tea.

Setting aside the mug she said, “My studio’s
not far from the bank. You can come with me now or join me
later—after the bank’s open.”

“
You’re going to work this
early?”

“
I’ve someone coming over
from the States next week to look at my work. Some nonsense about
doing fabric design for them.”

“
Nonsense?” he repeated in a
teasing voice, amazed that she seemed so uncomfortable with her own
prosperity. “People don’t generally cross the ocean on a
whim.”

He could have sworn his bold sister was
sporting a blush.

“
Don’t go making more of
this than what’s there,” she said. “I’ve things I need to see done,
that’s all.” She stood and settled her hardly touched mug with the
others nesting in the kitchen sink. “Now are you coming with
me?”

He opened the cupboard and found it as bare
as a pauper’s. “I might as well.” One last hopeful peek in the
refrigerator yielded nothing. Shrugging on his jacket he asked,
“What exactly do you eat, sister, fairy dust and summer
dreams?”

“
More like yogurt and the
occasional bit of gra
nola.” Pausing from
her efforts to secure Roger to his
leash
when he appeared more in mind of a game of tug-of-war, Vi grinned
up at Michael. “Mr. Spillane down at the market is usually filling
the shelves about now, and he’s not against letting a customer in a
bit early.”

He followed on his sister’s heels. “So I’m to
go to market for you?”

“
If you plan to do any
eating, you are.”

Vi dropped him off at Spillane’s without so
much as an introduction. Peering in the front window of the market,
Michael saw a burly, silver-haired man busy stacking boxes of soap.
He rapped on the glass, and the man looked sharply his way. Michael
worked up a casual smile and wave, hoping that would get him
through the gates to this paradise.

The man opened the door just enough to stick
out his head. “We open at eight, as the sign on the door would have
told you—had you come when there was light enough to read it.”

Michael gazed at the neat rows and narrow
aisles just beyond the door. “Vi—my sister—said you’ve let her in
early now and again.”

“
Vi? Then you’re Vi
Kilbride’s brother Michael come to visit? I’d heard you were in
town.” The door opened wider and one enormous hand ushered him in.
“I always let Vi shop when the whim takes her. If I didn’t, she’d
forget to eat altogether.”

Michael stepped into the
store. Almost reeling with
pleasure, he
inhaled the combined scents of fruit, flowers, and food. Paradise
it was.

“
I’m Seamus Spillane,” the
storekeeper said, extending his hand. “Welcome.”

Michael shook the man’s hand. “Vi mentioned
that she had an account here.”

“
She does, and because I’d
hate to see the girl starve to death, I also have my son run the
groceries to her house when she thinks to buy any.”

“
Your son hasn’t been up her
way in some time,” Michael commented, then reached out to heft an
orange in one hand. The color was incredible, almost tempting
enough to have him biting into the bitter skin.

The grocer held out a basket. “Fill this, and
when you’re done, take another. You have the look of a man who
likes his food.”

Smiling, Michael took the basket and dropped
the orange into it. “More than you know,” he said.

It wasn’t gluttony
overtaking him. It was the sweep
of hue,
scent, and texture that he’d been deprived of for so long. Though
he meant to have an eye to price, he had soon loaded the basket
with a rainbow of produce: blood oranges from Spain, tomatoes
from
Holland, grapes so perfect they hardly
seemed real.

In the next basket went
goods from around the world: pasta of every conceivable shape,
cereals
screaming with sugar, and tins of
soup that he was sure
would be the
difference between starvation and not.
Looking at the wealth of food in front of him, it hit
Michael how prosperity had come to the Republic.
He’d missed so much in his time gone. So much to make up for. So
much to learn.

His gaze settling on a tub brimming with
bunches of fresh cut flowers—God knew where they had been jetted in
from—he pulled two bouquets and added them to his pile. This he’d
pay for out of his small stash of pocket money. It wouldn’t do to
have Vi buy her own flowers, or Kylie’s, either.

Grabbing the flowers, a bunch of grapes, and
a sweet pastry sealed in crinkly plastic, he left the remainder of
the purchases to be carted to Vi’s by Seamus Spillane’s son. After
thanking the grocer, Michael strolled down the steep hill toward
the harbor. While popping grapes into his mouth with all the relish
of a Roman at a banquet of old, he nodded greetings to the few
people out and about.

In spite of the wind’s sharp teeth, Michael
slowed and gazed in shop windows. Pubs with bicycle rental
counters, bookstores, and bakeries tucked in the same small space,
this town was a tribute to creativity and survival. And
freedom.

Freedom, it was a heady
thing. He could scarcely understand—or believe—that it wouldn’t be
pulled
from him. But he had to believe, for
as Vi had said, it
would surely kill him to
go back there again. These money problems, needing work and a home,
all were small compared to what he’d been through.

As he walked by the solemn
stone front of the bank, he recalled yesterday’s promise to Vi. He
would open the account and buy the car, all the easier to explore
this wonderful new world. But he
would also
keep a record of his expenses and pay her
back as soon as he found a job. Stubborn Kilbride that she
was, if she wouldn’t take the money, he’d save it for the children
she was sure to have one day.

He rounded the corner to the arts village and
quickly spotted Vi’s studio. As he stepped through the door, the
breath was hammered from him. If the market had been a riot of
textures, this was a damned war. Vivid flowing colors battled for
his attention. Fluttering banners, fabric sculptures that breathed
with life, abstract paintings so hungry and demanding. He dropped
the flowers and pastry on the nearest surface that didn’t seem to
be alive and bolted from the room.

“
Enough,” he said after
dragging in a breath of cold air. Leaning against the rough,
whitewashed outer wall of the studio, Michael rubbed a hand over
his eyes as if trying to wipe away the overload of
images.

“
Are you all right?” he
heard his sister say.

Hitching a thumb over his shoulder, he asked,
“How do you sleep at night, with all that in your head?”

“
Sometimes I don’t. It’s too
much, and all of it fights to get out at once.” She reached over
and smoothed a hand through his hair, a sign of affection he
remembered from Nan a lifetime before. “Perhaps I should have fed
my art to you in small doses.”

He shook his head. “It’s more a cumulative
reaction. These past few days, all the people, the places. And then
your art—”

Vi grinned. “Enough to send a customer
screaming into the street, you think?”

“
Not this lifetime.” Michael
pulled away from the wall and stood straight again. “Your art’s as
you are—uncompromising. And if people lack the eye to see your
talent, the hell with them. Now let’s go inside, I have a gift for
you.” He gave a rueful shake of his head. “A pale one, I’m thinking
now.”

Back in the studio he handed her a bunch of
flowers. While she arranged them in a vase, Vi made all the proper
noises about the sweetness of his gesture and the beauty of the
blossoms, but she kept eyeing the remaining bouquet on her display
counter. Having learned that volunteering information was a sure
path to trouble, Michael remained silent.

Finally, Vi swooped up the other flowers and
settled them into a white enameled pitcher. “I don’t need to be
asking whom these are for, do I?”

Michael took the indirect
route. “Gaelscoil Pearse—
do you know where
it is?”

“
I do,” she said sounding
both resigned and unwilling. She returned to her workbench and
began toying with a large, exotic seashell, something that would
never find its way to Kerry’s rocky strand. “Have you thought,
Michael, that this attraction you have for her shouldn’t be
trusted. You’ve been out
scarcely a week,
and it’s been so long since you’ve—”

Michael’s hand sliced through the air between
them. “There are some parts of my life I deserve to keep private.
If you’re wondering whether I plan to drop onto one knee and
propose marriage to a woman I met two days ago, I’ll tell you the
answer’s no. Anything else I intend to do—with Kylie or any other
woman—is my business, and mine alone.”

His anger began to fade as quickly as it had
risen. After all, Vi had said no more than he’d been thinking since
he’d first seen Kylie. “Give me some room, Vi, and I’ll give you
the same with your men.”

Her eyes sparkled with
humor. “Men? I don’t have
even
one.”

“
Not one? Amazing.” He moved
closer and ruffled her already wild hair. “Then I’ve made myself an
easy bargain, haven’t I? Now tell me where to find Kylie’s
school.”

“
After the bank, I will, and
not a moment sooner.”

Kylie probably wouldn’t be free ‘til
lunchtime, so Michael didn’t bother to object.

“
And until then,” Vi said,
pointing to an old apothecary’s chest, gap-toothed with missing
drawers, “you can give me a hand with this. I bought it for storage
but it’s never lived up to its purpose.”

Michael walked to the jumble. As he touched
the first piece of wood, memories spun back at him. Summers at
Nan’s spent fixing odd bits of furniture that had languished in a
shed for decades. Building her a kitchen table and chairs from an
idea so clear in his mind that he’d never felt the need to put
pencil to paper. The hard work, even the cuts and gashes as the
body grew too tired to keep up with the mind. All of it joyous.

Michael smiled. He’d gone too long without
this sort of pleasure. In prison, he’d taken a great number of
correspondence courses, things like business and literature and
mathematics. Anything to keep his brain active while he he’d been
caged. He’d wanted to work on his carpentry, but the authorities
weren’t particularly receptive to activities that could arm
prisoners with awls and chisels.

Hands almost itching with need, Michael began
sorting through the broken parts in front of him. Oak, and a
century and more old, he guessed. A fine piece. Handmade, and
deserving of restoration. A grand job it would be. With nimble
fingers he fitted together two dovetailed pieces. Almost as natural
as spending time with Kylie O’Shea, Michael thought and smiled. And
if he couldn’t be doing one, he’d just as well be doing the
other.

“
There’s more than a
morning’s work here,” he said to his sister. “But it’s fine
craftsmanship—too good to waste for storage.”

Vi gave the chest a skeptical look. “That
you’ll have to prove to me.”

“
It’s been years since I’ve
done anything like this.” Digging through his sister’s toolbox he
muttered, “No clamps at all. No point in putting it back together
if I can’t make it stay.”

“
Stop over at the hardware.
I’m sure they’ll have
whatever you need.
Besides, I hear they’re looking for
help.”
Never once looking up from the soft mountain
of yarn she sorted, Vi added in a breezy voice, “But in
your spare time, perhaps you could think
about
building me a bench for outside the
shop. I thought it
would be a nice touch.
And maybe a new display case
or two. If
you’ve a mind to, that is.”