young man kept his right hand solidly on the steering wheel and slipped her a card with his left hand.
“Hey, I’m Irish, too.”
“Your name is Tom Gambetti.”
He grinned at her in the rearview mirror. “My mom is Irish, Dad is Italian. Hey, this is Boston. There are lots of us living on pasta and potatoes! Both your folks are Irish?”
“Oh, Lord, yes!” Moira laughed.
“Right off the old potato boat, eh?”
“Something like that,” she said, then leaned forward, pointing. “There it is—Kelly’s Pub.”
The street was narrow. Though both corners held large new office buildings, the rest of the block still had a lot of old character. The building that housed the pub was two stories, with a basement and an attic. It dated from Colonial days, as did many of its nudged-in neighbors. An old iron tethering pole remained in front, from the days when the country’s forefathers had come to knock back a pint or two. Kelly’s Pub was lettered on an attractive board above the door, and there were soft friendly lights issuing from lamps on either side. When the weather was warm, tables spilled onto the narrow enclosed patio in front. There were two windows in the front, as well; they were closed now, in deference to the winter, but within the pub, the lace-edged curtains were drawn back so that passersby could see the welcoming coziness to be found inside.
“Want your suitcase right in the pub?” Tom asked.
“No, thanks, just on the sidewalk. I’m going upstairs first.”
“I’ll be happy to take it up for you,” he suggested.
She shook her head. “No, thanks. I appreciate it, but—”
“But a homecoming is best alone,” he said.
She paid him as he set her bag down. “Thanks. And I will call you if we need transportation.”
“You may not have to call me. It looks like a great pub.”
“It is,” she murmured, listening to the laughter and music coming from within. “It’s everything a pub is supposed to be. Céad mile fáilte.”
“What does that mean?”
She looked at him, smiling wryly. “A hundred thousand welcomes.”
“Nice. Well, good luck. I’ll be seeing you.”
“Thanks.”
He got in his car and drove away, it seemed regretfully. Nice kid, she thought. Then she hefted her suitcase and started up the outside stairs that led to the family living quarters above the thriving business.
Her mother was a model of domesticity. The porch beside the front door of the home area was set with white wicker café tables, and the canvas overhang was clean as a whistle, even in the dying days of winter. Moira set her case down by the door and knocked, her fingers colder than she had realized inside her gloves. Knocking was easier than trying to find her key.
The door opened. Her mother was there, taking one look at her face and giving her the kind of smile that would have made a trek halfway around the world worthwhile. “Moira Kathleen!” And then, though Katy Kelly was thin as a reed and two inches shorter than Moira’s five feet eight, she enveloped her daughter in a fierce hug with the strength of a grizzly.
“Moira Kathleen, you’re home!” Katy said, stepping back at last, hands on her hips as she surveyed her daughter.
“Mum, of course I’m home. You knew I was coming.”
“Seems so long, Moira,” Katy said, shaking her head. “And you look like a million.”
Moira laughed. “Thanks, Mum. Good genes,” she said affectionately. Her mother was a beautiful woman. Katy didn’t dye the tendrils of silver threading through her auburn hair. God was granting her age, in her words. A head full of silver wasn’t going to matter. Katy was trim from moving a thousand miles an hour every day of her life. Her eyes were the green of her old County Cork, and her face had a classical beauty.
“Ah, sweetie, I miss you so!” Katy said, kissing her. “It’s been so long.”
“Mum, we’re just heading into Saint Patrick’s day. I spent Christmas here. And we all did First Night in the city together, remember?”
“Aye, and maybe it’s not so long, but your brother, Patrick, you know, manages to get back at least once a month, he does.”
“Ah, yes, my brother. Saint Patrick,” Moira murmured.
“Now would you be mocking the likes of your brother?” The question came from behind Katy. Moira looked past her mother to see her grandmother standing there, Granny Jon. On a good day, Granny Jon might be considered an even five feet. At ninety something—no one, including Granny Jon, was quite sure what year she’d been born—she was still as straight as a ramrod and spry as a young girl. Her keen sense of humor sparkled in hazel eyes as she playfully accosted Moira.
“And there—the heart of Eire herself!” Moira laughed, stepping forward to hug her grandmother. As she hugged Granny Jon, she felt the old woman shake a little. Spry and straight she might be, but her grandmother was still a tiny mass of delicate bones, and Moira adored her. She’d given Moira leprechauns and legends, wonderful tales about the banshees being tricked or bribed to go away, and then, when she’d been older, true tales of the fight for freedom for the Irish through long years of mayhem throughout history. She was keen and wise and had seen the battlefield of her city torn to shreds, yet had somehow maintained a love for all the humanity around her, a glorious sense of humor, and a sound judgment regarding both politics and people.
“Why, Moira, you haven’t aged a day,” Granny Jon teased. “Katy, have a heart now. The girl is out there doing us proud. And she is living in New York, while Patrick has stayed in the state of Massachusetts.”
“Um. As if western Mass weren’t nearly as far away as New York City,” Katy said.
“But it hasn’t the traffic,” Granny Jon said.
“Then there’s my evil younger sister,” Moira teased, rolling her eyes.
Katy inclined her head with a wry smile for the two of them. “Well, then, Colleen has gone as far as the west of the entire country now, hasn’t she? And she’d never even consider not being here for Saint Patrick’s Day.”
Moira sighed. “Mum, I’m here, and I’m even bringing in the non-Irish for you to convert,” Moira told her.
“Ah, now, ’tis enough,” Katy said. “We’ll give you a quick cup of tea. Granny Jon was just brewing—”
“And it will be strong enough to pick itself up and walk itself right across the table, eh?” Moira said, teasing her grandmother and putting on her accent.
“We’ll have none of that,” Granny Jon said. “And I do make a good pot of tea, a real pot of tea, nothing wishy-washy about it. And what have we here?”
The main entry to the living quarters was a foyer, with
