holiday, either,” Moira said.
“He’s a Catholic saint!” her mother said.
“Mother—”
“Moira, please. I’m not asking for myself.” This time, her mother hesitated. “Your father just had to have another procedure….”
Her heart skipped a beat. “What do you mean?” she asked sharply.
“They may have to do another surgery.”
“You didn’t call me!”
“I’m calling you now.”
“But not about Dad!”
“He wouldn’t let me call and tell you—he hasn’t been feeling all that well and he didn’t want to disturb you before the holiday. You’ve always come home before. We figured we’d tell you when you got here. He has to have a test on Monday—outpatient, and not life-threatening—and then…well, then they’ll decide just what to do. But, darling, you know…he really would like you home, though he won’t admit it. And Granny Jon is…well, she seems to be failing a bit.”
Granny Jon was ninety-something years in age and, at best, maybe a good eighty-five pounds in weight. She was still the fiercest little creature Moira had ever met.
She would live forever, Moira was convinced.
But Moira was concerned about her father. He’d had open-heart surgery a few years earlier, a valve replacement, and since then, she’d worried about him. He never complained, always had a smile and was therefore, in her mind, dangerous—simply because he was too prone to being half-dead before he would agree to see a doctor. She knew that her mother worked very hard to keep him on a proper heart-healthy regime, but that couldn’t solve everything.
And as to Saint Patrick’s day…
“Patrick is coming,” her mother informed her.
Naturally, she thought.
Her brother, who had property in western Massachusetts, wouldn’t dare miss his own saint’s day. Few men would have such courage.
Still, it was easy for Patrick. He was in Boston often anyway.
In fact, she realized with a small touch of guilt, she had counted on her brother and her sister, Colleen, to make it all right that she wasn’t there for the great family holiday that much of the country saw as an excuse to drink green beer or send out cute little leprechaun cards, though it meant far more to them.
“You want to see Patrick, don’t you?”
“Of course, but I’m mostly worried about Dad.”
“If your father and I were both to drop dead tomorrow—”
“My brother, sister and I would still see each other, Mum. Honestly, you’re not going to drop dead tomorrow, but don’t worry, we love each other, we’d see each other.”
It was an old argument. Her mother said the same thing to her, she said the same thing back. Her mother said the same thing to her brother—who said the same thing back.
Her sister just sighed and rolled her eyes each time.
But Moira did love her family.
“Mum, I’ll be home.” She wasn’t that far away, and it wasn’t that she didn’t get home frequently. This time, this Saint Patrick’s Day, she hadn’t thought much about it—just because she did get home so often. She had just been home for the Christmas holidays. Going home now hadn’t seemed crucial, in part because of the filming schedule.
But it was crucial now.
“Did you hear me, Mum? I will be home for Saint Patrick’s Day.”
“Bless you, baby. I do need you.”
“I’ll call you back as soon as I get things straightened out. You make Dad behave, okay?”
“I will.”
She started to set the receiver down, but then she heard her mother’s voice. “Oh, sweetheart, I forgot to tell you—”
“Yes?” She brought the receiver back to her ear.
“You’ll never guess who’s coming.”
“The great leprechaun?” She couldn’t quite help herself.
“No!”
“Auntie Lizbeth?” She wasn’t really an aunt, just an old neighbor from back home. She came to the States every few years. Moira liked her, though she seldom understood her—she simply smiled at the old woman a lot. She was even older than Granny Jon, had the thickest brogue known to man—and her wolfhound had chewed up her false teeth, since she hated them and was always leaving them on the table. To Moira, she had been almost totally incomprehensible even when she’d had her teeth, and now, well, it was almost impossible for Moira to make sense of her words. Still, Granny Jon and her folks seemed to do just fine understanding the old woman.
“No, silly. Not Auntie Lizbeth.”
“I give up, Mum. Who?”
“Dan. Daniel O’Hara. Isn’t that wonderful? You two were always such good friends. I know you wouldn’t have wanted to miss him.”
“Uh…no,” she said, and her voice cracked only slightly.
“Goodbye, darling.”
“Bye, Mum.”
Danny was coming.
She didn’t realize that she was still holding the receiver with a death grip until her hand began to hurt and the low buzzing sound from the phone began to sink in. Then a recorded operator’s voice. If you’d like to make a call…
She hung up, stared at the phone, then shook her head in disgust. How long since she had seen Danny? Two years, maybe three? He’d been the love of her life—the love of her young life, she corrected herself. But he’d come and gone like the wind. She’d refused to see him the last time he had called to say he was in the States. He was about as dependable as good weather in a Boston winter. And still…
Her heart quivered with a little pang. It would be good to see Danny.
Now that she was really over him.
And she was seeing someone, so she really would be immune to his, “Ah, Moira, just a quick beer.” Or, “Moira Kelly, you’d not take a stroll with me?” Or even, “You’d not like to make time stand still, hop in bed with me, girl, because you know, you do, that we were magic?”
No more, Daniel.
She had a hectic life; she would be busy, especially since she was about to ask everyone to reschedule everything for her.
She loved her business. She was still in awe of the fact that she and Josh had made a go of it, that they were a production company and that their show was
