Whiskey Island
Praise for the novels of
EMILIE RICHARDS
“Well-written, intricately plotted novel….”
—
Library Journal
on
Whiskey Island
“A flat-out page turner…reminiscent of the early Sidney Sheldon.”
—
Cleveland Plain Dealer
on
Whiskey Island
“(A) heartfelt paean to love and loyalty.”
—
Publishers Weekly
on
The Parting Glass
“[Emilie Richards] adds to the territory staked out by such authors as Barbara Delinsky and Kristin Hannah with her hardcover debut, an engrossing novel…. Richards’s writing is unpretentious and effective.”
—
Publishers Weekly
on
Prospect Street
“Richards pieces together each woman’s story as artfully as a quilter creates a quilt, with equally satisfying results, and her characterizations are transcendent, endowed with warmth and compassion.”
—
Booklist
on
Wedding Ring
“(A) heartwarming, richly layered story.”
—
Library Journal
on
Endless Chain
“Richards stitches together the mystery of a family’s past with the difficulties and moral dilemmas of the present for a story as intriguing as the quilt itself.”
—
Publishers Weekly
on
Lover’s Knot
Also by
EMILIE RICHARDS
LOVER’S KNOT
ENDLESS CHAIN
WEDDING RING
THE PARTING GLASS
PROSPECT STREET
FOX RIVER
BEAUTIFUL LIES
RISING TIDES
IRON LACE
Watch for Emilie Richards’s next novel
TOUCHING STARS
EMILIE RICHARDS
Whiskey
ISLAND
For the Kelleys of County Cork, with regret that
I never had the chance to get to know you.
ACKNOWLEDGMENT
The author would like to thank the staff of the White Door Saloon in Lakewood, Ohio, for their patience, enthusiasm and information, not to mention the best Cobb salad in northeast Ohio. Thanks to Annie, Laurie, Barb, Antoinette and Gina. You really should have let me wash some dishes.
Contents
January 18, 1880
S
uch a thing, to be a priest sworn to poverty, yet daily to witness among my flock more poverty and degradation than I shall ever encounter myself. And yet the families I serve come to me with cheerful smiles, with gifts and shy tokens of their respect. The women bring bread freshly baked on their simple hearths or wildflowers culled from soil putrid with factory ash. The men bring stories and sometimes a wee drop of the “creature” that dulls the sharp blade of despair piercing them to their very souls.
There are those who rail against the Whiskey Island saloons, of which there are far too many. I have shed tears over these places myself, yet how well I understand the temporary joys they bring. If heaven is the reward for the misery inflicted on so many of the men and women I serve, then sometimes I fear strong drink is the tonic that makes the heavenly journey possible.
I have been to the Whiskey Island saloons myself, to encourage men to return to their families. To stand between brothers who, on the morrow, will forget they quarreled. While there, I have seen the warmth of friends, heard tales and ditties from our ancient past, dreamed dreams of a future when the Irishman comes into his own.
If St. Brigid’s is the haven of our soul, then perhaps the saloons of Whiskey Island are the havens of our heart. And even if the heart is a capricious master, we sometimes would do well, all of us, to listen to its call.
From the journal of Father Patrick McSweeney—St. Brigid’s Church, Cleveland, Ohio.
1
Cleveland, Ohio
January, 2000
N
iccolo Andreani did not frequent bars. When he drank, he preferred a classic Chianti over dinner with friends, a dry marsala on a solitary evening, his Tuscan grandfather’s own
vino santo
lifted in a toast at family gatherings. He did not frequent bars, but he frequently walked past this one on his restless nightly prowls. Whiskey Island Saloon bedecked Lookout Avenue the way a faux ruby bedecked a rhinestone choker. It was the centerpiece of the street, a ramshackle, cheerfully rowdy establishment with a steady stream of patrons and a generous sidewalk that made it easy to avoid them.
Unfortunately, on this particular night, the whim to turn down Lookout and walk past the saloon had changed his life forever.
Niccolo registered this thought as he came to an abrupt halt, the leather soles of his hiking boots squealing against the asphalt leading into the saloon’s narrow parking lot. A question followed. If he silently retraced his steps, could he find help before the situation confronting him exploded?
A shout from the back of the lot and a woman’s terrified scream were his answers. The street was empty, and the saloon was sealed tightly against winter. A carjacking was in progress, and the only help available was one Niccolo Andreani.
With a grim sense of finality, he entered the lot, raising his hands shoulder high to show he was unarmed. One of two men flanking a car at the back of the lot whirled and pointed a handgun directly at Niccolo’s chest. “Where the fuck’d you come from?”
Niccolo raised his hands a little higher and stood perfectly still. “I was just cutting through,” he lied.
“Bad choice.” The man with the gun trained at Niccolo’s sternum was dark-skinned, with a face like a jigsaw puzzle that had been inexpertly assembled. As if they had carefully discussed racial quotas and partnered accordingly, the other gunman was an anemic blond.
“Look,” Niccolo said, feeling for words. “Why don’t you two just get out of here? I’ll count slowly to five hundred, and I’ll keep them here, too,” he said, nodding toward the people trapped helplessly inside the wine-colored Mazda. “But somebody inside that bar’s going to hear the shouting and call the cops.”
“You’d better hope they’re deaf.” The man leered at Niccolo, then motioned him closer to the Mazda. “That’s
my
car now, and I’m gonna drive it out of here.”
As if to punctuate his partner’s words, the blonde banged his gun barrel against the driver’s window. Niccolo heard a second muffled scream from inside.
Closer now, under the glow of a streetlamp, he could see that there were two young women in the front seats of the car and a child in the back. Both women looked to be more or less in their twenties. The driver had a waving mass of copper-colored hair, while the passenger’s was dark and straight to her shoulders. He would have had to move closer to get a good look at the child, but he didn’t have to move anywhere to know that all three of them must be terrified.
“I’ll shoot right through it,” the blond carjacker shouted at the driver.
Niccolo could feel himself sweating under protective layers of wool and Thermolite. His voice seemed to echo in the frostbitten air. “The driver’s probably scared to move. Why don’t you step back and give her some room? And give the other woman a moment to get the child out.”
“You giving orders?” The blonde leaned his elbows on the top of the car and sighted over it, taking aim at Niccolo. “Like you’re somebody?”
“Just a stranger.” Niccolo raised his hands higher. “Who doesn’t want to see anybody get hurt. Why don’t you let me talk them out of there?”
“Go on. Step back,” the black man shouted to his partner. “He’s right. Let’m out.”
The blond carjacker had worn an inappropriate grin since Niccolo’s first glimpse of him. It broadened farther as he waved the gun from side to side, weighing alternatives.
At last he stepped back a few inches. Niccolo could feel his heart making up for beats suppressed. He raised his voice so the women would hear him. “I think you’d better come out right now. He’s going to give you the room you need. But he doesn’t have a lot of time.”
“Shit, man!” The blonde took one more step backward, colliding with an old Chevy wedged tightly beside the Mazda. “Get out!” he shouted at the driver. “Now. Right now!”
The parking lot was small and narrow, with two rows of cars and a middle aisle. A streetlamp at each end, crumbling asphalt, a Dumpster hiding what was probably a kitchen entrance into the Whiskey Island Saloon. It was a Tuesday night, just weeks into a new millennium, bitter cold and growing icy, too late for dinner, too early for a quick round before closing. The lot was only half-full, and the street was still quiet.
Niccolo prayed silently.
Let the women do what they’re told. Let no one come by to upset the balance. Let the gunmen drive away with no one harmed.
For a moment he was afraid his prayers had gone unheard. Then the car door opened, and the driver, a tall woman whose pale coppery hair glowed in the lamplight, stepped out.
“You can’t have her.” She lifted her chin. “You’ll have to kill me first.”
“You’re threatening me?” The blonde was incredulous. “You think you got some special pull? I got a gun!”
“You can’t have her.”
The dark-skinned man turned his head. “Lady, it’s just a car. You gonna trade your life for a hunk of metal? He’ll shoot you, you don’t give him those keys.”
She hesitated. “Just the car? You just want the car?”
“Lady—”
“Please,” she said, just loudly enough that Niccolo could hear. “Don’t hurt anybody.”
“Gimme the keys.”
The driver stubbornly folded her arms over her chest to protect the key ring. “Not until everybody’s out. Peggy, get Ashley.”
The blond gunman leaped forward and pinned her against the side of the car, the gun nestled against the hollow of her throat.
The passenger door opened and the dark-haired woman—obviously Peggy—jumped to the ground. She was younger than Niccolo has guessed at first sight, slight, with dark chestnut hair and an oval, almost surreally beautiful face, which was understandably contorted with fear. “Just let me get Ashley out of her seat,” she pleaded.
The carjacker holding the gun on Niccolo answered. “Get her and shut up!”
Peggy, who was a full head shorter than the driver, scurried sideways and flipped up the front seat, reaching for the little girl in the back. “Ashley, quick.”