Hot Whispers of an Irishman (25 page)

“Do you think I haven’t already cleaned?” Michael said in an undertone, cutting into Vi’s thoughts. He’d spoken quietly, but not enough so, for Kylie looked up and smiled at Vi, who couldn’t seem to look away from her sister-in-law. Green with jealousy? No, the fitting shade was ash gray—dry, empty, and without hope of being transformed into anything finer.

Was it just her anger at Liam over her barrenness cutting her from all that was vital? No, for if that were true, recognizing it as she had last night would have made her whole. By Brid and the spirits, why was it easier to look into others than herself? Why must she always fight so bloody hard? Could she just not surrender?

“Just this last bit and then I’ll come out and greet you properly,” Kylie said to Vi, who managed a vague yet cheery response, likely insufficient to mask her turmoil.

Michael put his hand under Vi’s elbow and led her to the sitting room.

“Are you all right?” he asked. “You’re not looking yourself.”

Whomever that might be. “I’m fine,” she replied, then directed the conversation to a topic she knew would distract her brother. “How long has Kylie been cleaning?”

“Long enough,” he said. “She called in ill at school this morning as her back was aching and she was having what she thought might be contractions, yet I’ve not been able to stop her all day. I scrubbed the damned kitchen floor till it was clean enough to have the village council dine from it, and she told me I’ve no eye for detail, then did it again.”

“No eye for detail? She truly said that?” Vi asked. Now there was a thought to distract even her. No one had a better eye for detail than her brother. Already his beautifully sinuous furniture had been featured in lifestyle magazines and bought by celebrities, and he’d not yet been in business two years.

He nodded, his mouth shaped into an unwilling smile. “She’s got sharp ways about her for a woman currently so round, eh?”

Vi smiled at the image. “So why the mad affair with cleanliness?”

“She’s nesting, or so the books tell me,” he said, pointing to the teetering stack on an end table next to the sofa.

“You’ve read all of those?”

“Parts. At least enough to know that childbearing is left to women for a good number of reasons. And in any case, the real expert will soon be moving on to the refrigerator hinges,” he said, hitching his thumb toward the kitchen. “They’ve not been wiped down in at least a day.”

“Amazing.”

“Tiring,” her brother added. “She’s not due for another three weeks and I’m afraid by the time labor starts, she’ll be exhausted.”

“Three weeks? She’ll be having the baby before then.”

Michael’s gaze was speculative. “Are you seeing something, then?”

The normalcy of the question—one she’d been asked countless times in life—soothed her. “Just that it’s physically impossible for Kylie to get any larger without exploding.”

“I heard that,” admonished her sister-in-law from where she’d appeared in the doorway. “And I fear you’ve got the right of it, too. I’ve decided to start my maternity leave on Monday. It’s getting too difficult to keep up with the children. My back aches, and my temper’s growing short.”

Michael’s relief was obvious. “Finally,” he said, then kissed his wife. “As my begging hadn’t been working, I’d been hoping that reason would arrive.”

“It’s here and telling me that you need to get the furniture done and nursery painted…once we can settle on a color.” She turned to Vi. “You’re the family artist. Do you have any thoughts?”

Vi tried to look at her sister-in-law, yet not actually look at her, too. Since she hadn’t the aptitude for the feat, she fussed with her shirt cuff instead. Thus occupied, she unwillingly considered the question. “Well…”

She meant to slough it off and avoid added pain, but she couldn’t seem to gather her thoughts. Something was coming over her. Suddenly light-headed, she moved to an armchair facing the sofa and sat.

“Are you all right?” she heard Michael asking from a great distance away.

“Forgot to eat again,” she said as awareness of her surroundings receded. Bright shooting stars gave way to a pattern of crimson circles, one inside the other, all shimmering like glowing embers. Instead of the anticipated fainting feeling swallowing her, a low buzzing sounded in her ears.

Could it be
?

Damned horror of a gift, never coming when needed and smacking her upside the psyche when unwanted. Vi let her eyes fall shut. The fiery circular pattern remained, reminding her of her great-grandmother’s notebook. The image faded, then slowly and none too clearly an impression of a baby girl with her father’s green eyes and her mother’s full mouth came to Vi.

“Pale lavender,” she said to her brother, who she knew was hovering nearby, his worried thoughts so loud in her head that he might as well speak. “Paint the nursery pale lavender with a morning sky on the ceiling.”

There, she’d done it. Now would this sensation leave her bloody well alone? She tried to rouse, but couldn’t. Her vision of the babe was replaced by one of the same dark-haired girl years hence leading a flock of younger children in mischief. Not a single one among them could she call hers, either.

Her envy seemed to have one productive aspect, for the moment of seeing passed. Vi opened her eyes, drew in a deep breath, then raised a brow at Michael and Kylie, who were now standing in front of her. “And you’d best make sure that you’ve locked away the breakables and hidden the ladders.”

Michael laughed. “That’s unassailable advice. And don’t think I failed to note that you chose neither boyish nor girlish colors for the baby’s room. Some seer you’ve turned out to be.”

“Really, and would you be wanting to know the baby’s sex?”

Michael’s
yes
clashed with his wife’s alarmed
no.

“No?” he asked Kylie. “If we don’t let her tell us, once the baby’s born, she’ll just say that’s what she saw.”

Vi tried for some of their usual banter. “I’d never do that. At least to no one but you.”

“None of your games, you two,” Kylie decreed. To her husband she said, “I didn’t ask my doctor and I’m not asking your sister, even though I expect she’s more accurate. I’ve no intention of knowing what this baby is till I’m holding him—or her—in my arms. I need something to focus on during labor.”

Chastened, Michael kissed his wife again. “We’ll have it your way, then.”

Kylie pinned Vi with a teacherly frown. “And no telling others, either.”

“Of course not.”

“The baby’s healthy, though?”

“Quite,” Vi assured her.

“Grand.”

Michael gave Vi an appraising look. “You’re still too pale. I’m thinking you need at least some soup before I have to do the unthinkable and carry you to your car, wee sweet Violet.”

Only could Michael, broad of shoulder and soft of heart, get away with teasing her so. “For that, I should make you do it.”

She glanced at her watch. It was already nearly three-thirty and much as she’d like to, avoiding her studio was no longer an option. With her waking dream had come a germ of an idea for the Castle Duneen commission. She wasn’t so rich with inspiration that she could afford to ignore it.

“And thank you for the offer of food,” she said, “but it’s to work for me….” She meant to say more but those circles had returned, dancing in fire. She wasn’t sure how long she fell silent, except it was long enough for Michael to now be giving her a most exasperated look.

“You’re getting fed before you float away altogether,” he said before turning heel and heading to the kitchen.

Kylie walked to the sofa. She somehow managed to lower herself onto it and still look graceful. Another pang of jealousy stuck Vi, followed by the obligatory bite of guilt. Ah, yes, this was why travel to Duncarraig had sounded so appealing. She gave fate a grudging nod. It was a dark irony that she should have run to more sharply personal woes than those she’d fled. She kept her gaze on her sister-in-law’s face while they chatted about village events over the days Vi had been gone.

Soon, Michael reappeared with a paper sack in hand. “I won’t be standing between you and your work, but I won’t be having you starve, either. There’s bread, fruit, and cheese to tide you over till supper.”

Vi rose, hastily telling Kylie to please sit back and relax when it looked as though she intended to move. Michael walked Vi outside and stood by as she and Rog got settled in her car.

“So now that Kylie’s out of range, is it a boy or girl?”

Vi laughed. “I value my life, thank you, so I’ll not be telling you.”

“But I’m your very own brother,” he wheedled. “I promise I won’t tell her.”

“No matter. You’re mad in love with Kylie, and she with you. She knows you too well, Michael. One look at you and she’ll be sure I told.”

“Impossible. I’m not obvious at all.”

Vi could only laugh at her brother’s protest. “When it comes to Kylie, you’ve always been.”

She briefly considered giving him family news of a sootier feather than the stork’s—that of Mam and Da’s battle—but discarded the notion. If Mam was hard on her, she was merciless on Michael. A prison stay, even one not quite wholly deserved, was a sin never to be forgiven according to Mam’s commandments. Michael and Mam had worked a tenuous truce, and Vi doubted it would ever grow warmer between them.

Instead of cause for more upset, she manufactured her very best seer’s smile and said, “Here’s my gift to you, brother. I promise I’ll tell you boy or girl before the babe is born…
thirty seconds
before.”

With that, she rolled up the window, gave him a wave, and drove off.

“Ready for a marathon at the studio,
ma chiste?
” she asked her hound.

Roger whimpered, as would have Vi, except she knew it would change nothing. The fire was in her, and burn she would.

On a cold Sunday mid-morning, Liam looked out his window at another dozen or so reasons to be gone from Duncarraig. Yesterday, his family’s tale of lost wealth had appeared in the
Kilkenny Courier.
The newspaper must have a rabid readership, for earlier he had awakened to a small gathering of the terminally optimistic standing out front of his house, in search of a leader.

In telling them to leave, he’d made the critical mistake of acknowledging them. It had been rather like letting a hungry stray dog look one in the eye. Bonding was instantaneous and irrevocable. They’d stood on the curb, bandying about theories, each less likely than the last. Disgusted, Liam had retreated to breakfast and the telephone. A call to the
Gardaí
asking for help had yielded little, as no actual trespass was taking place.

Liam walked away from the window before his entourage could take his regard as a sign of welcome. If it were just him, he’d have been gone yesterday and missed this scene. He had Meggie to consider, and God knew he loved her, but she had a way of making matters involved.

His mother had invoked saints he was sure didn’t exist when he’d announced his intention to leave. According to Mam, there was Meghan’s washing to be done, firm arrangements regarding lodging to be made, and Beth in Saudi Arabia to be consulted. And though his mam had never mentioned directly Vi, she’d denounced Ballymuir as a wild and heathen place, and surely unsuitable for a child.

Liam had had no patience for Mam’s subtext. He’d told her that he’d always favored exotic places and had no intention of changing. That had earned him Mam’s silence, though he was sure his da was getting an earful on the topic. Liam planned to be well on the road before Mam could gather her resources for another attack.

“Hey Dad, if I threw a bucket of water from the window, I bet I could hit at least ten of ’em,” Meggie called from upstairs.

That would nearly be a sight worth suffering for. “Then we’d have the
Gardaí
after me instead of them,” he called back. “Just come downstairs, love. It’s time for us to be off.”

Without a glance in his followers’ direction, he shuttled Meghan to the relative sanity of his mam’s care, and took what subtle barbs Mam could send his way before escaping. After that, he was off to Nan Kilbride’s for one last look about, his procession trailing behind him. Cullen, who was to be watching the place for Vi, let the lot of them enter. Liam watched as his shadows climbed out of their cars and began to band together.

“Could you not have stopped them?” he called to Cullen, who was lazing about near Nan’s painted boulder, his smug expression looking very much like another reason for Liam to be gone.

“They’d just create a distraction on the roadside,” Cullen replied as Liam neared. “What do you think of charging them three euros each as a car park fee?”

“And you’d be giving the money to Vi?” Liam asked, knowing far better. Even lazy Cullen had enough Rafferty opportunist in him to turn a money-making opportunity to his own benefit.

“I…ah…hadn’t thought that far ahead.”

“You just hadn’t thought beyond your own pocket,” Liam replied, then started a bit when the cell phone in his own began to ring. He extracted it, turned away from his brother and his followers, and then answered.