the tavern, the guest quarters, where he had been staying. The pub band, Blackbird, was already playing a mixture of old and new Irish music with a bit of American pop thrown in here and there. He knew all the members from way back.
It was the first time he had come into the pub during opening hours, and he was ready for the greeting he knew he would receive.
“And there he is!” Eamon Kelly called from behind the bar. “The best and brightest of you lot of reprobates, Mr. Daniel O’Hara.”
“Hey, Danny, how are you?” asked old Seamus.
“Danny boy, you’re back in town!” Liam McConnahy said.
The lineup at the bar was made up of Eamon’s longtime friends, some old country, some born and bred in the USA. He recognized Sal Costanza, an old school chum who had grown up in the Italian sector along the North Shore. Eamon Kelly had created his own little Gaelic empire here, but he was a good-hearted, friendly fellow, with a keen interest in everyone around him and—usually—a nose for a decent character in any man. But now Dan didn’t like what was happening here. He would have done anything in his power to keep Kelly’s Pub and the Kellys themselves out of what was happening. But things had been set in motion; he had no choice. Whatever was going down had been given the code name Blackbird, and that could only refer to Kelly’s Pub.
Hell, a Kelly could be involved.
“Back in town,” Dan said easily, embracing both old Seamus and Liam, then shaking hands with the others as each man spoke a quick greeting.
“So,” Seamus said, his thick, snow-white brows rising over cloudy blue eyes, “have you been hanging around back in the old country or gallivantin’ around the States?”
“A bit of both,” Dan said.
“You’ve been in Ireland recently?” Liam asked. He had the same cap of white hair as Seamus, except that his was thinning now.
“That I have,” Dan said.
“The Republic—or the North?” Seamus asked, a slight frown denoting his worry.
“A bit of both,” Dan said. “Eamon, how about a round for my old friends at the bar? It’s good to see them again. Sal, how’s it going in the pasta business in Little Italy? I’ve been hankering for a taste of your mom’s lasagna. No one makes it as good as she does.”
Sal answered, and Dan kept smiling, nodding in reply to the thanks he received for the round of drinks. But as he engaged in the banter at the bar, he looked around the room. Though the band was in action at one end, the scene remained fairly quiet. An attractive young couple, with either his or her parents, were having dinner at a center table. A group just off from work—probably from the IBM offices or the bank around the corner—huddled around a couple of tables near the band, winding down from their nine-to-five workday. Patrick Kelly was in. Eamon’s son, tall, with a head full of dark hair touched by a reddish sheen. He was a good-looking fellow, on stage now with the band, playing along with the violinist. He saw Daniel and gave him a wave and a grin, beckoning to him. Daniel nodded and smiled in return, motioning that he would join them all soon. Patrick nudged Jeff Dolan, lead guitarist and group leader, and Jeff, too, nodded Dan’s way.
Still scanning the room, Dan saw a lone man in a business suit seated at a far corner table, a darkened table. A stranger. Dan had the feeling the man was surveying the occupants of the pub, just as he was doing himself.
“What are you drinking yourself?” Eamon asked him.
“What’s he drinking?” Seamus said indignantly. “Give him a whiskey and a Guinness!”
“Now, Seamus, I’m in the grand old USA,” Dan protested. “A Bud Lite on draft, if you will, Eamon. It may prove to be a long night—back with a party of Boston’s black sheep!”
“How’s the place look, Danny?” Liam asked. “You miss it when you’re away?”
“Why, the pub looks just fine, and old friends look even better,” Dan replied. He lifted the stein Eamon had brought him. “Slainte! To old times, old friends.”
“And to the old country!” Eamon declared.
“Aye, to the old country,” Dan said softly.
The sky was overcast when Moira’s shuttle from New York to Boston made its initial descent for landing. Even so, she stared out the window for a bird’s-eye view of the city where she had grown up, and which she still loved so much. Coming home. She was excited; she loved her family dearly. They were all entirely crazy, of course. She was convinced of that. But she loved them and was happy at the prospect of seeing them.
But then…then there was this whole Danny thing.
The plane landed. She was slow to take off her seat belt and slow to deplane. No one was picking her up; she had made the last-minute decision to take an earlier shuttle than the rest of the cast and crew, who would be taking the last flight. When the people in the seats behind her had filed out, she grabbed her overnight bag and walked out, thanking the flight attendant and the pilots, who were waiting for her exit to leave themselves.
Outside Logan, she hailed a taxi. Once seated, she realized that the driver, a young man of twenty-something with a lean face and amber eyes, was staring at her by way of the rearview mirror.
“You’re Moira Kelly!” he said, flushing as she caught his eye.
“Yes.”
“In my cab! Fancy that. You just travel on a regular plane and get in a regular taxi?”
“Seems to be the best way to get around,” she told him, smiling.
“You mean you don’t have a private jet and a limo waiting?” the man demanded.
She laughed. “I don’t have a private jet at all, though sometimes we do hire private cars.”
“And no one recognizes you—and hounds you?”
“I’m afraid that all of America doesn’t tune in to the Leisure Channel. And even those who do don’t necessarily watch our show.”
“Well, they should.”
“Thank you. Very much.”
“What are you doing in Boston?”
“I’m from here.”
“Wow. Right. And you’re Irish, right? Are you home to see family, or are you going to film stuff here?”
“Both.”
“Wow. Well, great. Hey, it’s a privilege. If you need more transportation while you’re here, call me. I’ve got the cleanest cab in the city. I grew up here, too. I know the place backward and forward. No charge, even. Honest.”
“I’d never take advantage that way of anyone making a living,” Moira said. “But give me your card, and I promise when we need transportation we’ll call you.” In fact, he did seem to be a good driver. Boston’s traffic was as crazy as ever. There was always construction; the freeway was as often as not a stop-and-go place. Once they
