Quinn's Deirdre (15 page)

“I adore it and I love you.”

“Good. I’m in sore need of some lovin’,”
Quinn said.
 
He stood up and offered her
his hand. “Let’s go home and share the news, tell the wanes you’re as good as
their auntie.”

“Does anyone else know you asked me to
marry you?”

“Uncle Des, that’s all.”

“I hope Eileen doesn’t mind too much.”

“She won’t, I don’t think.
 
She’ll welcome you into the family now.”

Skeptical, Deirdre wondered. “We’ll
see.”

They found the others gathered around a
table in the front dining room having the noon meal.
 
Before Quinn could make any announcement,
Deirdre held up her left hand.
 
The ring
caught the light and sparkled.
 
Desmond
beamed almost as bright as the diamonds, Neal’s mouth widened into a grin, and
even Sorcha clapped her hands.
 
Eileen
stared and then leapt to her feet.
 
For a
moment, Deidre thought Quinn’s sister meant to attack her, maybe even snatch
the heirloom ring from her finger but Eileen hugged her instead.
 
“I’m glad,” she said, voice muffled against
Deirdre’s shoulder. “I’m glad for ye and I’m glad for Quinn.
 
Ye make him happy and I can see it.
 
I’d forgive anyone anything if they brought
his smile back and his music.
 
Ye’ll be
one of us now, a Sullivan.”

Deirdre hugged her back. “Thank you,”
she said, stunned but pleased.

“When’s the wedding to be?” Des asked.

“As soon as I can get her to church,” Quinn
replied. “I’m in no mind to wait.”

“Neither am I,” Deirdre said. “We’ll
figure out a date soon.
 
Right now, I’m
hungry.”

“Then come eat,” Desmond said. “Then
after, I’ll need yer help in the kitchen.”

As she helped bake pies and learned how
to make scones, Deirdre delighted in the unfamiliar weight of the ring on her
finger.
 
With Uncle Des in charge, she
and Eileen worked until early evening under his direction.
 
By the time they stopped for what she called
supper and the others tea, the baking was done.
 
The ham sat in a pan ready for the oven.
 
So did the turkey and the goose.
 
A large pan of cornbread dressing crumbs rested on the counter and
Desmond covered it with a lid. “We’ll finish it come tomorrow and do the rest,
the ‘
taties
and all,” he said. “Quinn’s fetched in
fish and chips and chicken for tea so let’s go eat a bite.”

Deirdre sat beside Quinn, thighs
touching, hands often interlocking as they ate.
 
The family talked non-stop and laughed often.
 
She basked in their warmth and for the moment,
her fears of retaliation from organized crime were distant.
 
After supper, they cleared away the mess and
they made music.
 

Desmond and Quinn took turns with the
guitar.
 
Both men also used their tin
whistles to full effect, and everyone except Neal sang.
 
Eileen’s husband held their youngest and
grinned.
 
Although they began with
rollicking songs like
Drunken Sailor
and
Brennan on the Moor
, Quinn
shifted the mood toward love with
Bold
O’Donahue
and
Courtin’
In The
Kitchen.
 
Deirdre loved the light-hearted songs, but
the smile on her man’s face pleased her the most. This was the Quinn she’d
fallen in love with, the man who held her heart.
 
He and Des sang
Eileen
Aroon
in his sister’s honor,
then
Eileen did a fair rendition of
Jackets Green.
 
Deirdre joined
with Quinn in singing
Lord of the Dance
.

Quinn finished the evening with two
songs,
The Land I Love So Well
, a
reminder for Deirdre that he sometimes longed for his native place,
then
he brought her to tears with
Ballinderry
, one of the sweetest, most poignant love songs to ever
cross the water from Ireland.
 
The sad song about love and loss brought home Quinn’s anguish when
he thought her dead.
 
She
remembered how she’d missed him, too, and she wept.
 
When he saw her tears, he handed the guitar
to his uncle and came to her.
 
Without a
word, she went into his arms and he held her close.
 
“Let’s go to bed,” he whispered into her ear.
“Tomorrow starts early and will be long.”

She nodded.
 
Quinn swept her off her feet and up into his
arms. “Good night,” he told the others and carried her up the stairs.
 
Once there, he kissed her.
 
“Are ye happy, love?”

“Very.” Deirdre nuzzled her lips against
his, then kissed his cheek and rested her head against his shoulder. “Are you?”

“I am.”

“You look tired.”

He gave a half laugh. “I’m that as
well.”

“Then let’s get some sleep.”

“Aye, we will,” he said. “But first let
me love
ye
.”

In answer, Deirdre kissed his mouth, her
lips slow and gentle against his.
 
Beneath his shirt, his muscles rippled and she shivered in response.
“Please do.”

Quinn did.
 
With the same slow grace of a waltz, he
kissed first her lips, then cheeks, forehead and her nose.
 
His hot mouth burned a trail down her throat,
nibbling and never hurrying as he reached the valley between her breasts.
 
His hands freed her from her blouse and
caressed her skin with tender temptation.
 
Then he kissed each breast and at the same time cupped them with his
hands.
 

Deirdre twined her fingers into his
hair, her breath short and body lit with an unquenchable fire. He matched her
in his passion but never hurried.
 
Quinn
paced himself, each stroke as slow and
tanatalizing
as honey. She cried out his name when he pierced her to the deepest places of
her body; he filled her full.
 
In those
moments, they became one in body but also in spirit.

Afterward, they crawled into bed, sated
and strengthened.
 
Almost as soon as he
laid down his head, Quinn slept, but Deirdre didn’t.
 
Boneless and as contented as if she soaked in
a warm bath, she lay drowsy.
 
Her
thoughts flew in tandem, a flock of ideas and moments replayed.
 
She curled tight against Quinn, spoon
fashion, appreciating his body heat.
 
Deirdre draped her left arm over his body and lifted her hand to admire
the ring.

As a little girl, she had dreamed of
becoming a bride.
 
Deirdre remembered
playing wedding with her cousins and forcing Kevin to play the groom.
 
She’d earned a spanking, once, for draping
her aunt’s hand tatted lace tablecloth over her head for a veil.
 
As she’d grown up, she had entertained a few
fantasies about proposals delivered in rose gardens under a full moon.
 
The reality beat them all, she decided.
 

She imagined dresses, wondered about
attendants and flowers and cakes.
 
So
many details, but none of them mattered as long as she could marry Quinn and
live happily ever after, fairy tale style.
 
Although she classified herself as a modern woman, Deirdre craved the
tradition customs, the long white gown, the veil, a huge bouquet, and all of
it.

Somewhere around midnight, in the dark
reaches of the night, a sliver of fear crawled into her consciousness, a snake
into her personal Eden.
 
Every time she
began to slide into sleep, Deirdre replayed the moment in the terminal.
 
The wicked face she’d never forgotten and the
wink tormented her.
 
She ached to wake
Quinn so he could console her, maybe sing to her again but she didn’t.
 
He needed his rest, she thought and so did
she.
 
Deirdre focused on every reason she
had to be happy and tried to block out the negative.

Her stubborn will
succeeded
enough to sleep, cuddled close against Quinn.
 
His solid body and presence eased her, too, and she slept a few short
hours.
 
No dreams interrupted her slumber
and when she woke, Quinn had already risen.
 
Deirdre lay in the nest of covers, loathe
to move
from her comfort zone, but when he didn’t return, she crawled out of bed.
 

The still warm teapot rested on the
small kitchen table and she poured a cup.
 
After she sat down, she saw his scrawled note. “Come down when you’re
up, Des said to remind you there’s scones.”

She smiled.
 
She should know—she had helped bake
them.
 
A quick glance at the clock
boosted her into high gear.
 
If the
cooking wasn’t underway already, it would be soon.
 
Although she had an outfit she planned to
wear at dinner, she slid into a favorite pair of worn jeans and a sweatshirt,
then
descended.

The kitchen hummed with activity, so
busy she almost thought she could hear the buzz.
 
Delicious aromas were already wafting from
the ovens and Desmond waved. “There’s tea and scones,” he said. “Eat and then I
need
ye
.”

Deirdre plucked a scone from the platter
and poured a second cup of tea. “Where’s Quinn?”

“I sent him out to the market.
 
The whipping cream I had had gone sour, and I
was in need of more
taties
for the potato stuffing,”
Desmond told her. “Don’t
fret,
he’ll be back soon
enough. And before ye ask, he took his sister with him, thanks be to God.”

He rolled his eyes heavenward and she
laughed. “Is Eileen cross this morning?”

“Nay but difficult
just the same.
 
She thinks she knows all
there is about cooking and she wants to take over.
 
No one runs my kitchen.
It’s
help I need and not advice.”

By the time Quinn returned, Deirdre
stood chopping the vegetables for both dressings, the cornbread to compliment
the turkey and the potato stuffing for the goose.
 
A large measuring cup brimmed with the celery
she’d cut and as she diced onions, her eyes
teared
up.
 
 
She tossed them into a sizzling skillet,
directed by Des and ran water into a large pot.

“Boil the ‘taters in their jackets,
lass,” he told her. “Eileen can do the apples and make the
Bramley
sauce with them in due time.”

“The potato stuffing has to be cold
before ye cram it into the goose’s arse,” Eileen said as she put down her
shopping bags on the counter.

Des muttered something inaudible as he
turned to the sinks to scrub pots.
 
Quinn
sidled up behind Deirdre and kissed the back of her neck.
 
He put his arms around her waist.
 
His lips were warm, his hands cold. “Did ye
miss me?”

“Of course I did.”

“Happy Thanksgiving,” he said. “Of all
the things I’m thankful for, I’m most grateful ye’re back.
 
The day never mattered much to me, before,
but now it does.”

She reflected on the old days,
before.
 
On Thanksgiving, he’d kept the
pub open for any Irish ex-patriots who had nowhere else to go on a Yank
holiday.
 
Once, he’d taken her out to
dinner, but the restaurant had been busy with a few families and many lonely
people. The food had been
mediocore
anyway.

 
Living in Arkansas, she’d spent the day alone
the first year with not even a turkey frozen dinner.
 
The past two years, she had attended a
community meal at the church she’d sometimes attended, but it hadn’t cheered
her at all.
 
She’d been sad afterward,
missing Quinn more than she did her family.
 
As a child, after her mom passed away, she and her dad watched the
Macy’s parade on television.
 
Sometimes,
the best times, they’d gone to her grandmother’s in St. Joseph and later to her
aunt’s home, but it’d been a long time since Deirdre had any connection to the
holiday.

“I haven’t liked Thanksgiving in years,”
she told him. “It was another day to remind me I didn’t have a normal family,
but it’s different now.
 
I love you,
Quinn, and your family, too.”

“Even
me
sister?” His voice dropped low as he teased.

“Yes, of course.”
 
He nuzzled the side of her throat and her
bones turned to sugar.
 
His slightest
touch roused her desire and now wasn’t the time or place. “Why don’t you take
the kids and Neal upstairs to watch the Thanksgiving Day parade on TV?”