 
### An Irish Love Story

By

RUSS DURBIN

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2011 Russell L. Durbin

Cover Design: Charlene Lavinia

Smashwords Edition License Notes

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## Part 1

ONE IRISH SPRING

By Russ Durbin

## Chapter 1

LEAVING

The horsehair seats smelled musty. The steady click, click, click of the wheels on the rails was not comforting. The train was taking me away.

The day was grey and it was, of course, raining. Small streams of water made rivulets through the caked dirt on the windows. Tears. That thought flitted through my mind. Tears of good-bye. Even the clouds were crying.

So was I. Inside, of course. No hint of my roiled thoughts reached my composed face.

## Chapter 2

FIRST VISIT

It wasn't like this when I arrived three months earlier.

That day was cold and damp. A sharp wind whistled round corners and blew deep into the bones. I had never felt so cold, but I was excited. I arrived in Dublin on, of all days, St. Patrick's Day. The city was full of Americans taking over the city and celebrating being "Irish" for the day, at least in spirit, if not in reality.

Officially, I was here on business; it also was my first trip to the home of my ancestors. It was with eager anticipation that I boarded the Aer Lingus flight in New York. To hear my grandfather talk Eire was only a wee bit short of heaven on earth. Now I was going to see it for myself, starting with the St. Patrick's Day parade down O'Connell Street.

The purpose of my trip was to meet other members of the corporate team who were assembling at Jury's Hotel from the U.S. and various countries of Europe. Our goal was to find suitable sites and develop plans for building a critical and much needed manufacturing plant in the European Economic Community. We had our corporate eye on one property in particular near Cork City. But first, we needed a meeting with the Industrial Development Authority (IDA). Its offices were located across the street from the hotel. IDA representatives advise foreign companies that want to locate in Ireland on complex governmental, environmental, and tourist board regulations, among other things.

My job was communications. Design a plan that would communicate to government and business leaders and local residents what we hoped to accomplish, with their help. The main goal was to avoid or minimize potential opposition to our plans and get the plant built as soon as possible.

It was March of 1975. Times were tough in Ireland. There was a 23 percent unemployment rate. Young people were fleeing to the continent and to America to find precious jobs. Time was right to talk to the Irish about new jobs. Unfortunately, a couple of environmental disasters with foreign companies had made the Irish wary and distrustful of "blow ins" as people in the local pubs called the outsiders.

Our team had spent an intense and exhausting three weeks delving into the myriad regulations, exploring potential building sites in County Cork, negotiating rights to the piece of land ideal for our plant and devising technical plans. I listened to the experts' talk while perusing the _Irish Times_ , the _Irish Independent_ and the _Cork Examiner_ as well as listening and watching radio and television programming on RTE, the national network. To develop an effective communications plan, one needed to know what was going on in the country. The national news media were a starting point.

Time flashed by and all too quickly team members were saying our good-byes to each other. As quickly as they arrived, my colleagues scattered to their respective countries, leaving me alone to scout the countryside for the next month or so to find out what was on the minds of the average Irish worker, farmer, fisherman and housewife. To do that I needed to immerse myself in Irish culture.

## Chapter 3

THE TOURIST

The best way to learn about the Irish was to be a tourist. The Irish love to talk, especially to tourists. The streets of Dublin were a trove of information as I strolled about. Then, renting a Ford Cortina, I saw Dublin dwindle in my rear view mirror as I meandered about the green fields and villages working my way south toward County Cork, shopping occasionally, asking questions, and giving rides to rain-soaked mothers and their equally wet children walking in the rain to the nearest village to do their shopping. In doing so, I received a plethora of ideas, opinions and suggestions. Finally, I arrived in Cork City and checked into the Jury's Hotel.

One does not go to Cork as a tourist unless one visits the hallowed ground of Blarney Castle and, of course, kisses the Blarney stone. Doing so proved to be not as easy as it sounds since one must lie on one's back, lean down over the parapet and upside down kiss the ancient stone, set in the battlements facing toward the holy land from which, according to legend, it came. There was a man of indeterminate age, (Johnny O'Dell was his name), who holds one's legs so one doesn't fall. Falling would not be good for tourism.

As it happened, the day I visited Blarney Castle was dark, cloudy and wet. I was the lone visitor. After doing the expected, I inquired of Johnny whether the hotel was a good place to lunch in Blarney town.

"Ah, boy, you don't want to eat at the hotel; too expensive," he declared, grabbing me by the arm. "Come with me; I'm going to take me lunch, now," he continued, pulling me along. "I've got a widow lady who fixes me food. 'Tis good and more than I can eat. Come along and share it with me." He shivered and pulled the collar of his ancient tweed jacket close as sprinkles gradually changed to rain.

Since my job was to learn about the Irish people and how they think, I couldn't pass up this gracious offer. Across the wet grounds of Blarney Castle we went, cold rain blowing against us like a grey sheet. We hurried down a cobblestone walk and across a bit of green to a back alley. By this time, I began to wonder where old Johnny was taking me.

We wound up at the back door of a cottage where my companion opened the door, and shouted, "Halloo, there Molly. You ready for me?"

A pleasant looking woman, her cheeks flushed from cooking, appeared in the kitchen doorway and beckoned to us, pointing to two chairs at the table. "You're late, Johnny. I was wondering if you were coming."

"I had me a late visitor," he replied, nodding in my direction. "I brought him along to share some of your fine cooking," Johnny finished with a grin.

"Off with your blarney Johnny." One quick glance and Molly had sized me up as expertly as a seasoned cop on his beat. "Well then, I better put on some more eggs; the lad has a lean look about him."

"No, no Molly. I'll just share my meal; you always fix too much for me," said Johnny.

So I sat in the warm, friendly kitchen sharing old Johnny's eggs and a rasher of ham and listened to the talk. Molly poured some of Barry's black tea, put in a little hot milk for the three of us and sat down, wiping her hands on her apron.

I learned a lot about the Irish that day. Proud of their island and their heritage, they were fiercely protective of their green fields, clear brooks and grey stone cliffs. In sum, they were independent, opinionated, caring, friendly, argumentative, and ready to welcome a stranger and take him at face value. To the Irish I had met so far, you were accepted as okay unless you proved yourself otherwise.

When asked if I had come to celebrate St. Paddy's Day, I explained I had come for business meetings but was taking some time to get acquainted with the country and its people.

"My name is Pat O'Connor and my grandfather originally came from Kinsale or somewhere near there, so I'm told," I offered.

"Aye, lad, there's many an O'Connor down there," said Johnny, "and down Bandon way, as well."

"So, Yank, I guess that makes you one of our boys," Molly declared, immediately settling the matter. I took that to mean I was "in."

My little visit to Blarney turned up a wealth of information about the "blow ins" that people in the area were concerned about. "Blow ins," I learned, was the name local people had for the foreign companies wanting to move into Ireland. For that matter, anyone who wasn't Irish was one. The rough outlines of a communications plan began to form in my mind. Immediately I began making mental notes as ideas tumbled over ideas in my mind.

By the time I returned to Jury's on Western Road in Cork, my body and mind were on the verge of exhaustion. Wearily, I asked at the desk if room service was available. No, I was told, it was too late and the restaurant was closed, but I could get a sandwich in the bar.

## Chapter 4

NEW FRIENDS

As I settled on a bar stool and gave my order, I noticed a face that seemed familiar across the room. Frankly, I was too tired to try to remember and turned back to my drink.

"Say, Yank," a voice behind me said. Yank seemed to be a popular Irish term for Americans. "You probably don't remember me, but I saw you and your business associates at Jury's in Dublin a few weeks ago. I was the front desk manager."

As I turned, he held out his hand, "I'm Eddie...Eddie Murphy."

I dutifully took his hand and offered, "I'm Pat. Patrick O'Connor."

"Nice to meet you, Patrick." He pronounced it _Padraig_ in true Gaelic fashion. "I want to invite you to join my friends and me at the table over there, seeing as you're all alone." He gestured to a semi-circular booth in the corner where two women were sitting.

"Thanks very much, but I am pretty tired. I think I'll just finish my Guinness and sandwich and head back to my room."

"Oh, come on, _Padraig_. It's too early to turn in," he said with a grin, taking my arm and pulling me off the stool.

Well, since my business was getting to know the people, maybe I should accept his invite. My first invitation of the day in Blarney proved to be golden so maybe this would be too. Grabbing my sandwich and glass, I followed Eddie to the table.

Seated together on the far side of the table were a tall, slender blond with boy-cut hair and a short red head with a green knit hat jammed on her head. The upturned brim and the tassel on top gave the girl a comical look. Eddie made the introductions and gestured toward the seat next to Green Hat while he took the one opposite next to the blond.

Clear enough to me that Eddie wanted to make time with the blond and dump on me the other one, which I mentally characterized as a "tag-along" buddy of the blond.

That was okay; I didn't plan to stay long. Eddie played the congenial host and ordered a round for everyone.

"So what do you do?" asked the blond, whose name was Mary Kate. The last thing I wanted to do was talk business, but I found myself explaining. Green Hat remained silent, frowning slightly.

As I paused to sip my pint, Green Hat spoke for the first time—a low voice barely audible. "You're a Yank!" Her tone made it seem like a fungus or a socially unacceptable disease. Tempted as I was to make a sharp reply, I simply smiled and said, "Yep!"

"I suppose you're going to dirty up our beautiful rivers and poison our fields," she said somewhat belligerently. Her attitude left no doubt that she thought I was the worst kind of "blow in."

"Quite the contrary. It is to our advantage to keep the rivers clean and the countryside beautiful," I replied, giving it my best public relations spin. "Our people will live here and almost all of our employees will be Irish." There, take that Green Hat!

She slumped lower and glared. Eddie quickly jumped in, changing the subject, and explaining that Mary was a buyer for Cork City's leading women's store, _Le Femme_. I ignored Green Hat and tried to focus on Mary and Eddie as they talked.

"Sorry, kids," the barman interrupted. "Bar's closing."

"Let's head over to Good Time Charlie's," said Eddie, jumping to his feet. Mary hesitated for a moment, and then nodded in agreement. I tried to bow out, but Mary and Eddie each grabbed an arm and hauled me upright. Green Hat rolled her eyes but remained silent.

"What the hell," I thought. It had been a very long month full of meetings and hectic schedules. I just wanted to relax tonight.

"Count me in."

## Chapter 5

GOOD TIME CHARLIE'S

Good Time Charlie's, it turned out, was an underground dive in a tiny alley off St. Patrick's Street, the looping main street in Cork City. Filled with psychedelic lights, Charlie's was a discotheque for mostly teeny-boppers hopping, twisting and jerking to raucous music. The air was heavy with smoke, body odors and cheap perfume. Definitely not my scene. Being probably the only 40-year-old in the room (besides Charlie), I distinctly felt out of place and wished I had never allowed myself to get sucked into this little adventure.

Eddie and Mary immediately disappeared into that seething mass of humanity in motion. That left Green Hat and me on opposite sides of the table, trying to ignore each other.

I snagged what looked to be a waiter hardly old enough to shave and ordered drinks. Green Hat, whose name turned out to be Maggie, ordered a baby cham, non-alcoholic champagne. "I'll have a gin and tonic," I said.

"Sorry, sir, we don't serve alcohol in here," said the pimpled face. That figured. "Make it two baby chams," I said, glumly.

The noise made conversation difficult, but despite my weariness, I tried. I could see Maggie seemed tired as well and had no particular liking for the place.

"Why did we come here?" I asked.

"Eddie likes this place; he can pick up young girls," she explained.

"So what are you and your friend Mary doing with Eddie?" Although I didn't say what I thought, it was obvious to me that both Green Hat and her friend were somewhat older than most of the kids in the place.

"Oh, we've all been friends since we were kids. He's from Cork, you know." I didn't. I barely knew Eddie.

Since talking was difficult, we sat in relative silence. Maggie removed the green hat and haphazardly combed her red hair with her fingers. I saw the slight wrinkles on her forehead and around the corners of her eyes, causing me to revise upward my earlier estimate of her age. Somewhere in her mid-30s, I guessed. Her face was freckled and somewhat plain, but not unattractive. She wore no makeup. Good Time Charlie's definitely was not her place.

As the night drifted into the wee morning hours, the noise subsided somewhat. Eddie and Mary were visible from time to time as the crowd thinned. Since Maggie showed no inclination to dance and I certainly was not in the mood, I tried some polite conversation. Leaning closer so we didn't have to shout, I talked about my experiences that day, including kissing the Blarney Stone.

Maggie's green eyes flamed at the mention of Blarney. "A right shame it is," she shook her red hair. "It's so over-commercialized." Actually, I thought it quite the opposite, especially compared to tourist attractions in the United States, and I said so.

"You would, Yank," she declared. "You Americans over promote and cheapen everything you touch." With this she gave me the full impact of her angry green eyes, daring me to argue and relishing the forthcoming debate. Up close, she smelled faintly of fresh soap.

"You're right; we do over promote our treasures," I agreed, not about to be drawn into an argument. As her anger faded, I told her about my experience meeting Johnny O'Dell and his "widow lady," and sharing lunch and conversation with them at her kitchen table.

She looked at me for a long moment, her eyes unreadable. Then she said softly in her low voice, "Sure then, he must have taken to you Yank." For another long moment she stared at me, then abruptly turned away.

She sighed and leaned back against the booth. "Ah, I'm _waahed out_."

"What does that mean? I never heard that expression before."

She turned her head to look at me. "You know, flat down. Worn out."

During the girls' trip to the loo, Eddie shared the information that Maggie and her mum had run a boarding house. Since her mother died six months ago, Maggie was left with the full responsibility to do most of the washing, cooking, and housecleaning. My respect for her rose. No wonder she was _waahed out_.

When the girls returned, a young man asked Mary to dance. Eddie quickly grabbed the hand of a girl passing the table and spun her onto the dance floor.

I was left with Maggie Green Hat and her silence. Might as well give it one more try, I thought.

"I heard you telling Mary about some new beach you found this week. Do you mind telling me about it?" I prompted.

That brought her to life.

"Ah, the beaches! I love walking the miles of lonely beaches, especially near Youghal," she quickly replied, her green eyes sparkling for the first time that night. "I found one near the bog, a vast stretch of sand where you can walk for miles and see no one. I could spend hours there, picking up shells or just sitting, watching the waves roll in."

She was silent as she contemplated the scene in her mind. "And the mountains in West Cork. Oh, my beautiful mountains!" She had a way of drawing out the first syllable of the word "beautiful" that I couldn't begin to duplicate but found pleasing. And the passion with which she spoke struck a spark in me.

As I listened, suddenly I wanted to see those mountains and walk those beaches. With an idle weekend ahead and no meetings scheduled, I just wanted to see the scenes that had so captured her soul.

Impulsively, I covered her hand with mine and said, "Show me these mountains you love and the beaches you like to walk. Go with me tomorrow and be my own private tourist guide."

Again, she gave me the full impact of those green eyes, this time softer than before. Without answering, she took my hand in hers and turned it over, examining the lines as would any professional psychic reader.

"You have interesting lines," she said as she carefully traced them with her finger. I noticed her hands for the first time. They were small, strong, slightly calloused with clean but uneven nails. No manicure for this hard-working woman.

"Oh?"

"You have a long life line." Her finger traced the crease in my palm, then around the thin white gold band on my fourth finger.

"Does that bother you?" I asked. "No-o-o," she replied, "not particularly. At least, you're honest; some men aren't."

"I haven't anything to hide, Maggie. I am married and have two wonderful children, a boy and a girl, back in Pennsylvania."

A lengthy silence ensued as she continued to stroke my hand. Her touch was tender. The brash, belligerent attitude I had seen at the hotel was gone.

She looked up at me, her eyes again unreadable. "You know, Yank, you are not at all like most Americans I've met."

I wasn't sure whether that was good or bad. So I waited for her to continue.

"You really listen to what people say. I find that rare."

More silence. She toyed with her empty glass, and then sighed as if making up her mind.

"I'm not sure I can get away tomorrow. There are certain chores for Saturday; it will depend on my boarders."

"May I call you? Where do you live?" She wrote her phone number and address on a napkin and handed it to me. It turned out her boarding house was on Western Road, near Cork College and just a few blocks from Jury's Hotel.

"Don't call before nine," she warned.

At that point, Eddie and Mary returned. It seemed that even Good Time Charlie had had enough and was closing.

As we walked to Eddie's car, a slight drizzle began. Eddie, now going strong, insisted on stopping at the hotel and having coffee or tea before calling it a night, or more accurately a morning. But the front door of the hotel was locked and we had to roust out the night porter to let me in. Only residents, no visitors, he said firmly. No tea; no coffee. Good night!

While Eddie argued with the porter without success, I managed a brief whisper to Maggie, "I'll call you tomorrow." She nodded, but didn't look at me.

## Chapter 6

ON THE ROAD

Tired as I was, I kept waking in the night wondering what I was doing. This was totally unlike me. I was a married man, happily for most of our 13 years, and had two beautiful kids, a 10-year-old boy named Jonathan and a 7-year-old girl Elizabeth who was the blond image of her mother.

Of course, nothing had happened with Maggie. I hadn't kissed her; I hadn't even put my arm around her. Yet, I had made arrangements to spend the day with her. How strange was that? I was lonely and missing my family, that was all.

Maybe I should just forget it and not call. She was just a passing stranger in the night. That thought conjured up the Sinatra ballad, "Strangers in the Night," and all that song implied. Finally, I drifted off to troubled sleep.

I awoke with sun streaming in my face from a partly open drape. At breakfast, I definitely decided not to call, but to go for a drive by myself.

At 9:05 I phoned Maggie. "Pick me up at half ten," she said.

Damn! I couldn't believe how weak I was. I hadn't had a "date" with anyone but my wife since seventh grade. That was when I met Kerri. She was new in school, and one of the girls in my class invited me to a party to "meet the new girl." I went, fell in love, and that was it. We married right after high school and went to Penn State together. Since Kerri, I had never looked at another girl. Well, that was not quite true. I have to admit that I'd "looked." Hey, I'm a man, not a saint. But in our 13 years of marriage, I had never even made a pass at anyone but Kerri.

Now, I had committed to taking a girl/woman I never knew before last night on a tour of the Irish countryside.

The iron gate squeaked as I lifted the latch and pushed it open. An ancient stone wall surrounded the tiny front garden as I approached the kelly green door. Before my hand touched the knocker, the door opened and Maggie Green Hat appeared. She obviously was in good spirits. "Morning!" She carried a picnic basket.

"What's that for?"

"We might get hungry, Yank."

Stowing the basket in the "boot" or trunk of the car, she slid into the front seat on my left. Learning to drive a stick shift on the left side of the road had been one of my early learning experiences in Ireland.

Glancing at Maggie, she was a picture, all green and pink. Green hat jammed on her head, she wore a bright green turtle neck, light blue jeans and a puffy pink vest with a fluffy pink scarf about her neck. Green mittens matched the hat.

Surprising me with a quick kiss on the cheek, she declared, "We're off!"

"To where?"

"To the beach. That way." She pointed down Western Road.

The day was one of those glorious Irish days with loads of sun but a brisk wind to chill the air and rosy the cheeks. As we left Cork City, she was busy pointing out the sights that people in Cork love to show tourists.

The gold angel atop St. Finbarr Cathedral rising above the assortment of row homes seemed to be giving its daily blessing. "That's a Protestant cathedral, you know." I did now. "St. Finbarr is the patron saint of Cork. He was buried on the site of the present church."

"Your patron saint was Protestant?" I asked in surprise.

"No-o-o. He was Catholic, of course," she replied in a tone that suggested I could be a bit brighter. "He founded the city of Cork. It wasn't a city then, just a monastery, but a village grew around it and then the city. That's why he is considered the patron saint."

"Then why is the church Protestant?"

"The original buildings were destroyed by Vikings and later by the Normans. After the Reformation, the Church of Ireland rebuilt the cathedral. Although the Counter Reformation turned most of Ireland Catholic again, St. Finbarr Cathedral remained Anglican. St. Finbarr is revered by both the Catholic

Church and the Church of Ireland."

I shook my head. It was too complicated for me.

A few blocks beyond was Cork College behind the black fence with its gold tops and large golden gates. Being Saturday, the campus was all but deserted. "A beautiful walk through the campus, it is," she sighed and then brightened. "But we're off to the beach!"

A few blocks down, I pointed to my right. "What's that long grey building at the top of the hill?" I asked. It looked like an institution right out of a gothic horror movie.

"That? Oh, that's the Cork hospital." Silently I hoped I wouldn't get sick while I was in Cork.

As we rolled past a development of newer, semi-detached houses called Bishopstown, she pointed to a grey cottage, "That's where Mary Kathleen lives with her mother and sisters." I assumed that Mary Kathleen was the same from last night's Jury's and Good Time Charlie's.

Maggie cocked her head sideways and looked up at me. "She warned me not to go with you today, did you know?"

"I do now. Why?"

"You're a Yank!"

"What's that got to do with taking a ride with me?"

"You also are married..." she paused.

"And....?"

Silence. Hum-m. Quite a talk Maggie and her friend must have had between last night and now.

Approaching a divide in the highway, I asked which way. She pointed and I eased the car to the right on a typically narrow country road, barely large enough for one-and-a-half cars. The overhanging trees gave the road a dappled look as we cruised along in silence.

Black and white birds she called "crows" flew in front of us. A country crossroads appeared and this time Maggie pointed to the left. Pointing and directing our path, her silence continued for miles. To me, it seemed that we were slowly climbing.

"Are we going to the beach?"

She nodded.

"It seems that we are going up, not down."

She shrugged her shoulders, and on we went. Finally, at one crossroads, I stopped. There were no signs. She did not point nor did she speak.

"Which way?"

"I don't know."

"What?"

"I'm not sure where we are."

I did a double take, and then took a deep breath. "You don't know where we are? Great! We're lost."

"No-o-o, I know approximately where we are but I think we took a wrong turn a few miles back." She glanced at me to see if I was angry. The lost-little-girl-look she gave me caused me to burst out laughing.

"What a great tourist guide you are!"

"Sorry," she said smiling. "I was enjoying the ride in this warm car, and it's such a beautiful day. I just didn't pay as much attention as I should have." There it was again; the way she pronounced "beautiful." She drew out the first syllable of the word in a way that I found intriguing.

"So, instead of walking the beaches, we'll drive and walk the mountains of West Cork!" she declared. The matter was settled in her mind so on we went.

As the road curved high up a hillside, I pulled the car into a lay-by and stopped. Getting out, we surveyed the spectacular countryside, with its various patches of green, gray and brown haphazardly spread before us. The yellow blossoms on the gorse were vivid splashes of color on the landscape. It was the fairy tale picture I had heard my grandfather talk about.

I noticed some men working in the valley. It appeared they were cutting turf (Americans would call it peat) and putting it in a truck bed. "That's for fuel," she explained. "It's a big business here. They dry it and burn it in the fireplaces. It's a lot cheaper than wood or coal." Then she added, "And it's cleaner." She shivered a little as the wind whipped round our ribs. "Oh, there's nothing like it; a cozy turf fire in the fireplace on a windy night." She shivered as she leaned against me, and I put my arm around her.

Clouds had briefly obscured the brilliant April sun and it seemed much colder. We got back into the car and fired up the heater. As we sat there enjoying the moment, the sun again burst through the cloud cover. Coming through the window, it caught her red hair, turning it golden. As we sat close, she smelled again of soap and a subtle fragrance I couldn't identify.

As she turned her face up toward mine her lips parted slightly and her green eyes reflected deep emotions within. I kissed her. She pulled back slightly, her green eyes questioning and then reached for me and kissed me again and again.

Somewhere in the dimness of my mind, I thought this was wrong. I shouldn't be doing this. But, I couldn't make myself stop. Honestly, I didn't want to.

As we came up for air, she snuggled her head against my chest with a deep contented sigh. I stroked her hair, noticing for the first time a strand or two of silver among the red-gold.

Two hikers rounded the curve ahead, saw us and waved, grinning as they strode past. The magic of the moment was broken.

"Well, Maggie, do you know how to get us out of here?"

She returned my grin with a slightly crooked one of her own. "I do, Yank." Pointing, she said, "Forward!"

We drove on for a few miles, winding down and around the mountains until we came to a crossroads with a convenient pub. "You get the drinks, and I'll get the basket from the boot," she said, adding, "I'll have a Harps." I returned with the two beers and we sat companionably in the warm car, munching the ham sandwiches she had prepared, and finishing with juicy apples.

It was dark when we finally stopped before her house on Western Road. The silence in the car was comforting. I held her mittenless hands in mine to keep them warm. She withdrew one and traced down the side of my face. "Thank you," she said softly. "This has been the nicest and happiest day I have had in a very long time."

Taking her basket, she slid out of the car. I opened the squeaky gate and walked to the front door. In the darkness, I couldn't really see her eyes, but she reached up and kissed me lightly, breathing in my ear, "For a Yank, you're awfully nice."

As she opened the door, I caught her arm. "May I see you tomorrow? After all, we never got to the beach."

A low laugh escaped her lips. "I go to mass at St. Mary's with Mary Kathleen and her family tomorrow. Do you want to come?"

I declined, but pressed her. "May I come by later?"

"We'll see," was her reply. The door closed with a click.

## Chapter 7

THE BEACH

My mood was as gloomy as the weather. I rang several times but there was no answer. Surely mass was long over. Where was she?

I glanced out the window. Blowing rain and dark clouds. Definitely not a good day to go for a walk on the beach.

Once more I rang. No answer.

I sat at the desk in the hotel room, attempting to review the notes I had made for a corporate communications plan to present to the Board of Directors when I returned to the States. My deadline was one month from tomorrow. Gobs of time left to finish and polish the plan. I was restless. My mind was not on the notes but on the girl with red-gold hair and freckles. Where could she be? It was after 2 p.m.

Time moves so slowly when you wait. 3:00. Dialing once more, I heard the phone buzz, buzz, buzz. Just as I was about to hang up, there was a click and a breathless low voice spoke, "Halloo."

"Maggie?"

"Ah, Yank. How are you at all at all?"

"Fine," I grumbled. "I've been trying to call all afternoon."

"Mary Kate's mum invited me to dinner with them after mass. Mary dropped me off just now. When I opened the door, I heard the phone and ran up the stairs." She paused, then added, "I was hoping it was you."

"It's not a very nice day, but would you like to go for a ride?"

"I'd love it! Wear your slicker, boots, and rain hat. We'll go for a walk on the beach."

"In this weather? No way. I'll pick you up in five minutes."

We went for a walk on the beach. Fortunately, in the car I had a rain jacket with a hood, an anorak the Irish call it. It came in very handy that afternoon.

She directed me to the beach just beyond a wee place called Garrettstown. To refer to the place as a "town" was rank hyperbole. There was a combination pub and inn and two or three small cottages.

The rain lessened as we walked, the crunching of our boots on the wet sand and the crashing waves were the only sounds. But the day grew darker, the rain stopped, and fog began to form and roll in. You could watch as it dropped low over the waves and began to envelope the beach.

"How about we go back to the pub and have some hot tea and a bite to eat?" I asked.

She nodded, water dripping from her shiny red rain hat. She wrapped her arms around my arm and we turned back.

The pub at the inn was cozy, with a turf fire in the tiny fireplace close to the bar. We took a small table nearby. Two old men sat at the bar taking their time with their pints.

She looked at me, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "Well, Yank, how'd you like my beach?"

"Lonely and wet!" I grumbled, not wanting to admit I liked it despite the weather. We had seen no one else as we walked the stretch of sand between the tumbled rocks.

"And, Maggie, for the love of God stop calling me Yank! It's getting on my nerves. My name is Patrick."

She smiled her crooked smile, shrugged her shoulders and replied in her low voice, " _Padraig_ , it is."

"Liam," she said, addressing the balding man behind the bar. "Could we have a pot of tea? And do you have a bit of beef for sandwiches?"

"Aye, Maggie. Coming right up."

"Tell me," I asked her, "do you know everyone around here?"

"Oh, I come to Garrettstown all the time. I'm a regular."

I nodded in the direction of the of old men at the bar. "Know them, too?"

"One's a farmer. He raises beets. The other is a fisherman, or, at least he was once."

I just shook my head. Time slipped by as we talked. Well, she talked and I listened, fascinated not only by what she said but how she said it. She talked about growing up in County Cork and about her brothers and sisters. Finally, she spoke of her mother.

"The doctor said it was a failing heart she had." Maggie stared into her tea as she remembered. "Oh, the last two years were dreadful. She could do less and less. So I quit my job at the insurance company and took care of her and the boarders."

The green eyes were dark as she reflected on those times. "Near the last, she couldn't even climb the steps to the bedroom. So we, my brothers and I, moved her bed into the sitting room until she passed." She shook her head, and wiped a tear away.

"Isn't it difficult to live there now, knowing it is where your mother died?"

"Oh, no-o. I love that house. I grew up there. Our family had many happy times there, and that's what I remember. Now, the house is mine, since my brothers and sisters all have their own homes and families."

"How is it that you never married?" I asked, and then regretted my bluntness when I saw the hurt in her eyes. "Sorry, that's too personal a question. I withdraw it."

She gave me a small smile. "Sure, it's all right. The answer is simple. Not enough men for the number of single women," she declared, adding, "And I have had too little time and too many responsibilities the last few years."

As we talked, I learned about her likes and her pet peeves. She hated men who beat their wives or girl friends. She liked honesty in people, and hated those who lied or misrepresented themselves. She was intensely loyal to those loyal to her.

Maggie was passionate about keeping her beautiful Ireland beautiful. As she talked, her words wove a kind of music that massaged my mind and soothed my soul.

Night had shrouded the inn as the barman turned on lights and lighted candles in the windows.

Downing the last of our tea and dabbing the crumbs of the brown Irish bread with our fingers, we picked up our coats and stepped outside. The fog had intensified.

I stopped, shocked. No sign of the car. Nothing could be seen through the fog. No outline of anything. It was almost like a scene from the "Twilight Zone." Although she was right beside me, I could barely see her face. It was as if we were alone, lost in an unknown place.

"I've never seen fog this thick. Is it often like this?"

"No, _Padraig_. I have never seen anything like this fog."

"Hang onto me; I'll feel around to find the car." A few feet from the pub door, the building was no longer visible, as if it had never existed. Eerie. I shivered slightly, then turned in what I thought was the direction where I had parked the car.

"Damn!" I exploded. "Double damn."

"What, my love?"

"I cracked my shin on something." Feeling around, I realized that I had found the car. At least, I had contact with the bumper. I put her hands on the car so she could feel her way to the door and I felt my way around to the driver's side and opened the door. No light inside. I felt for my keys, inserted them and the car came to life. Turning on the lights, I found they barely penetrated the dense fog.

Cautiously, I backed the car away from the rocks that I knew lined the car park and crept from the parking area onto the road. Driving that narrow, crooked road back to Cork in that dense fog was a distinct experience I would happily forego in the future.

As we approached the outskirts of the city, the fog lessened amid the glow of the lights.

As we did the night before, we sat in companionable silence in the car in front of her home.

"Maggie?"

"Yes, _Padraig_?" Thank goodness the "Yank" was gone.

"What you said back at the pub. Did you mean that?"

"What?"

"You called me 'my love'."

"Ah, it was just an expression," she explained. I nodded, but was somehow disappointed by her answer.

She glanced up at the light in a third-floor window of her house. "My boarders are back, I see. Tomorrow will be a busy day. I do the wash on Mondays. And I must go to the market."

"May I see you again?"

"Of course," she answered, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

"Maggie, I have a number of meetings tomorrow and I may have to go to dinner with a consultant from Dublin. May I see you Tuesday evening? We can go out to dinner."

"I have a better idea," she said, turning to me. "Why don't I cook dinner for you?"

Before I could protest, she put her finger to my lips. "Shush, no arguments now. Be here at half seven."

"Yes, Ma'am." I saluted like a good soldier. She laughed and gave me a quick kiss. As she started to get out of the car, I pulled her back and kissed her hard. Her arms slid up around my neck. As we kissed, I could feel her breath quickening and my passion rising.

"No," she said, breaking away. "Too much too soon. I'll see you Tuesday." Off she flew to the door and was inside without a backward glance. I sighed.

## Chapter 8

DINNER AT MAGGIE'S

She had said "half seven" but it was more like a quarter past eight when I pulled up at her door.

"Sorry I'm late." As a peace offering, I held out a bottle of a good French red.

"Late? You're right on time, Yank!" Uh oh. Back to being a Yank again. Not a good sign. No kiss, either.

She led the way to the kitchen, source of some tantalizing smells. Um-m-m. Beef, onions, and...uh...mushrooms?

She handed me the bottle opener and gestured to a kitchen chair. I opened the wine and poured two glasses, handing one to her.

"Not bad," was her assessment, after swirling the wine about in the glass. She turned and planted a brief kiss somewhere in the vicinity of my mouth. "You're forgiven, _Padriag_."

She placed a salad bowl on the table, then carefully divided the contents of the skillet onto our plates. The menu was thinly sliced beef filets sautéed with mushrooms and onions.

"Compliments to the chef," I murmured, polishing off the last bite. She smiled her crooked smile, refilling our glasses.

"Leave the dishes," she said as she rose, taking my hand and leading me down the hall to the "sitting room." It was cold. She closed the shutters across the tall dark windows overlooking Western Road. Kneeling, she began to put bricks of turf into the fireplace on top of wadded up newspapers. Striking a match, she touched it to the paper and a satisfying flame appeared.

She turned the radio on low and, as we listened to old Irish tunes, we sat on the couch with our arms entwined and watched the flames cast shadows on the walls and high ceilings.

"What is your wife like?"

I was startled by the question. Looking at her for a long moment, I asked, "What prompted that question?"

"It's important to me to know."

"Well, Kerri is..." I paused, not sure what to say. "I guess I've been in love with Kerri ever since I met her. We were twelve. She had just moved to our neighborhood, and I met her at a party to welcome the new girl. I took one look at her sparkling blue eyes and long blond curls and that was it."

I sat quietly, remembering just how it was. I had my first dance with her; my first kiss, too. We had shared our first informal anatomy lesson. We were inseparable all through high school.

We married right after graduation, and then moved to State College where we lived in the housing for married couples at Penn State. After getting our degrees, hers in marketing and mine in English, we moved to Philadelphia after I was hired as a reporter for _The Bulletin_. Kerri got a job as a sales representative for a pharmaceutical company in the city.

When we discovered we were to be parents, we moved to our first home in the Philadelphia suburbs, and I sought a job in corporate public relations. Kerri stayed home to raise our son, Jonathan Patrick O'Connor. Then Elizabeth Ann came along. She was the image of her mother. When the children were old enough to be in school or day care, Kerri began working from home as a free-lance marketing consultant to her former company.

There were good times and some difficult times. There were tensions and arguments, mostly over money but sometimes over my travel schedule. But thinking back, we had overcome our differences, patched up our lives and had remained strong together. Overall, it had been a good life for both of us.

"Come back, _mo chara_. Come back to me." Maggie's voice broke into my reverie.

"Sorry, I was just thinking about my family."

"Go on."

"Well, Kerri is a very neat, organized person. Organization is her strong suit." I realized how impersonal that sounded. "She is a very good mother to our children. She manages the house while I am gone, and does it efficiently. Overall, we have a good life."

"And you love her and your children, I can see. Does she love you?"

"Of course! Why do you ask?"

Abruptly, she rose from the couch, pulling my hand. "Come, there's something I want to show you." She grabbed her coat from a nearby chair and handed me my anorak.

"Where are we going?

"Hush, you'll see."

Into the cold night we went. Spring nights in Ireland can be nippy, I had learned.

Hand-in-hand, we walked down Western Road several blocks, then veered onto a paved path leading to a branch of the Lee River. Ahead was a white arched footbridge over the river. As we stepped onto the wooden planks, we could feel them shake slightly. We stopped at the mid-point and watched as wind traced designs across the surface of the water, black beneath us. As we leaned our arms on the cold metal rail, we could feel the bridge shake and sway slightly as another couple walked onto the bridge from the other side. It was a pleasant sensation high above the gray-black water. The shaking stopped when the other couple stepped onto the path. We were alone.

I shivered slightly as the wind whistled round my ribs.

"Cold?"

"Yes, Maggie."

"Poor _Padraig_."

I smiled at that.

"Cold hands and cold feet?"

"Yes, Maggie."

"But not your heart?

"No, Maggie, not my heart."

As my arms circled her, I could feel her warmth and the beating of her heart.

She sighed, "I wanted to share my shaky bridge with you. It is a place where I come when I want to think. I'm all at sixes and sevens."

I waited for her to explain. "I'm _waahed out_ by the struggle between heart and head. 'Tis all so wrong and yet so beautiful."

"What?"

Her voice was low, almost a whisper. "This love I feel for you."

I was silent. What could I say? I stood there, my arms around her and thought about her declaration.

She turned, looking up into my face. "Oh, my dearest kindred spirit, I never knew. I just never knew how love would be. How beautiful and how painful it would be." She shook her head. "No, I had never really felt love until you came into my life. And it has all happened so quickly, too. Less than a week we have known each other, and already I feel you are, and forever will be, a part of me."

I just stood there, tears I couldn't control trickling down my face. Yet, I could not speak the words I knew she wanted to hear.

How long we stood on the shaky bridge, I will never know. We were both thoroughly chilled when she finally took me by the hand and led me back to her house.

It was a night I'd not soon forget.

## Chapter 9

WHAT NEXT?

The rest of the week flew by. My days were spent working as my communications plan began to take shape. By Thursday, I realized that to complete one major part of the plan I would need to spend a day or two in London with another team of consultants and people from our Brussels office.

That meant no Maggie for a few days. My phone call was met with a cool, "As you must. I must go to see about my boarders."

With an empty feeling, I booked Aer Lingus for a quick hop to London, hoping that fog would not prevent takeoff from the Cork Airport south of the city.

Two busy days of meetings in London hotels and consultants' offices left me worn out but eager to get back to Cork and Maggie. I phoned after lunch Friday, but got no answer. After dinner, I tried another call. A man answered and informed me Maggie was away at her sister's. Assuming this was one of her boarders, I asked if he would take a message. I gave the time of arrival of my plane on Saturday morning, and he said he would leave a note by the phone.

My flight on Saturday morning was delayed for two hours because of heavy fog that shut down the airport at Cork. Finally, we took off and arrived at noon. No fog, and all was bright sun, giving the green fields surrounding the airport a postcard-clear vividness.

As I headed toward the car park, a familiar voice hailed me.

'Halloo, Yank." Turning, there was Maggie with her friend, Mary Kate.

"You got my message, I see." I gave her a hug as Mary hung back.

"I did and I have plans for us today," she grinned. "The day promises to be a glorious one!" She threw her arms in the air and twirled around. Mary Kate looked amused.

"And what does my tour guide have planned?"

"I'm taking you to my special places in and around Kinsale, _Padraig_." She looked over her shoulder at me, adding, "Didn't you say your ancestors were from Kinsale?"

Nodding, I unlocked my rental and stowed my bag in the boot. Mary Kate's tiny Cooper was parked nearby.

"Thanks for bringing Maggie, Mary Kate. This was a nice surprise."

"You're welcome." Turning to Maggie, she gave her friend a raised eyebrow and said, "Don't let the Yank talk you into doing anything you'll regret." Although said in jest, I had the feeling Mary Kate meant what she said. There was a slight edge to her voice.

I sensed that Maggie's friend didn't particularly like me but I wasn't sure why. I knew that she was highly protective of Maggie. They had been best friends since childhood.

"Mary Kate, why don't you join us for the day, if Maggie agrees?" I invited. Maggie nodded enthusiastically.

"No-o-o. You two go on. Three is one too many."

"Nonsense." Taking her by the arm, I coaxed, "We'd love to have you with us."

Reluctantly, she gave in at Maggie's urging.

The day proved to be as spectacular as the weather promised. With Maggie directing, and Mary Kate correcting, the girls guided me on a tour of the countryside that ended at Innishannon Cross. Turning down a winding road above the Bandon River, we stopped briefly to examine the ruins of an old "castle" at Shipool Wood. Mary Kate, something of an amateur historian, explained that this had been not a castle but a watch tower along the river, built to alert the Irish of invaders in the ancient past.

At one high point in a curve in the road, Maggie pointed to a small lay-by. I pulled the car over and we got out. She had brought along a disposable camera and we took pictures, using as a nature-provided backdrop sparkling sun on the winding river and white sheep dotting the green fields.

The wind blowing Maggie's red-gold hair framed her face as her eyes reflected the joy of the moment. It was a moment forever imprinted in my memory.

Mary Kate hung back as I snapped the picture. Maggie grabbed her friend's hand and pulled her up to stand beside her as they surveyed the valley below. I stepped behind the girls and, without thinking, put my arms protectively around them. I felt Mary Kate grow tense and then slowly relax as we stood there in silence absorbing the scenery and enjoying the richness of the moment.

As we drove into the quaint town of Kinsale, a sailing port on the southern coast of Ireland, I was struck by the bright colors of the houses and buildings, set close together with narrow cobblestone streets that seemed hardly wide enough for a single car.

"What happens," I wondered aloud, "if another car appears at the other end of the street?"

"You back up or we all die!" Mary Kate declared. So unexpected was her answer that we all burst out laughing.

I eased the Cortina into a narrow parking space near the town center where a small beach curved around the bay. Dozens of fishing and sailing boats lined the marina. In the car, I had switched from my suit coat and tie to a heavy Irish wool sweater (the girls called it a "jumper"). As usual, Maggie wore her green knit hat snugly on her head. Mary Kate wore a blue anorak over her blue jumper that matched the color of her eyes.

It was a lazy, peaceful afternoon spent sightseeing, shopping and just enjoying each other's company. It seemed as if we had been doing this all our lives. Mary Kate proved to be a clever, witty companion. We had tea at an outdoor table at a local pub and shared funny stories from our respective work experiences.

Mary Kate had a wealth of stories from her years working in women's clothing. "One rather plump lady insisted on trying on a one-of-a-kind French designer gown we were showing from our _haute couture_ collection," she recalled. "Well, the woman managed to get into it, but she couldn't walk in it; it was too tight. She waddled out of the dressing room looking for help, but we couldn't get her out of it because the zipper was stuck on some of the fabric. I thought our store manager was going to faint when we had to cut open a $1,000 dress to free the woman. As she left, the customer said she really didn't like the color anyway."

"Well, my boarders have certainly given me my share of griefs and laughs over the years," Maggie said. "Oh-o-o, I was so embarrassed one time when I opened the door to the bath in my apartment only to find one of my boarders stepping out of the shower in his altogether. 'What, may I ask, were you doing in my bathroom?' I demanded of him. He was so startled, he started stuttering, grabbing a towel to cover himself, and trying to explain all at the same time. ' Th-th-the upstairs b-b-bath was oc-oc-occupied, and I th-th-thought you weren't h-h-home.' Then he turned and ran. All I saw was his bare bottom disappearing up the stairs!" We sat there laughing as we pictured the scene.

"I've committed my share of _faux pas_ in my life working for a major international company," I shared. "I was at a corporate cocktail party when I asked one man whom I didn't know what he did for a living. He looked me up and down so he would remember me, and then replied, 'I am the CEO of this company.' I was glad he didn't know my name. Believe me, I made myself scarce after that!"

As the fading sun cast long purple shadows down the narrow cobbled streets, I asked if the girls were hungry.

"Indeed I am," Maggie declared. "I've worked up an appetite with all this walking, talking and shopping, Yank!" I was not offended. The term Yank had a much softer sound than when she first called me that.

"You know the places. What do you suggest?"

"Well-l-l, there's the Bistro just one block over," Mary Kate offered.

"Or there is Man Friday up the hill from the town," Maggie chimed in. "Of course, it may be hard to get in there. It's very popular."

"And it's horribly expensive," added her friend.

"Man Friday it is!" I declared.

Night was deepening as our car pulled into the airport carpark for Mary to collect her Cooper.

Holding out her hand, Mary Kate said, "Thanks so much, Pat, for including me. It was a lovely day and I truly enjoyed it."

Ignoring her hand, I leaned forward and kissed her cheek. "You're welcome, Mary Kate. It was fun."

As our car topped the hill overlooking Cork City, Maggie cried out, "Oh, _Padraig_ , stop the car for a moment."

Dutifully, I eased the car to the side of the road. Spread out before us were the sparkling lights of the city looking, for all the world, like a fairy tale village.

"I love this view of the city at night," Maggie breathed.

As she stepped to the edge of the hill, I moved behind her, enveloping her in my arms. In silence we absorbed the sights and sounds before us. We could hear the deep rumble of a ship's horn somewhere on the River Lee that flowed through the far side of the city. The night was clear and becoming chill. Stars were sharply etched in the black sky, and a sliver of moon cast a slight glow as dew settled on the field before us. I felt her shiver and wrapped my arms more tightly about her. Turning her head, she kissed me. It was a slow, tantalizing kiss that left both of us feeling shaky.

"Take me home, _Padraig, mo gra_."

We spent the night in each other's arms. No words were needed. Our hearts said it all.

## Chapter 10

REALIZATION

I was sitting at the desk in the hotel room, working on the communications plan, when I glanced at my calendar. That was when it hit me with the force of a physical blow. I realized with a shock that my time in Ireland was coming to an end. In less than two weeks, I would board a plane at Dublin to return to Philadelphia.

"What am I going to do about Maggie?" I asked the silent walls but there was no answer. My mind refused to accept what I knew was the truth. I loved her. I had fallen in love with the brash Green Hat I had met only....what was it? three weeks ago?

Closing my eyes, I leaned back in the chair. Why had I let it happen? My head told me love couldn't happen that quickly, but my heart said it could and had.

Pacing about the room, I pondered the situation. I couldn't abandon my wife and family for a passing infatuation. It couldn't be real. Each beat of my heart whispered to me, "It is, it is, it is." I argued with myself, "No, no, things like this only happen in stories, not in real life."

Then I remembered my first glimpse of my wife—the soft yellow curls shaking, as she giggled, when we were introduced. I gulped and stammered and didn't know what to say. That produced the mischievous sparkle in her blue eyes. "Yes," I said to myself, "It happened just that quickly when we were kids. We fell in love with each other at first sight."

So what is this "thing" with Maggie? A mid-life fling? An early male menopause crisis?

Mentally, I started toting up the pros and cons for each woman. "Stop it!" I scolded. "That's not fair to Kerri and it's not fair to Maggie." I needed to talk to someone.

* * *

"Sean, thanks for working me into your schedule today."

"Not at all, Patrick. It's always good to see you." Sean Linehan, a native of Cork, was a consultant based in Dublin who was assisting the company in dealing with the IDA and the myriad of regulations the Republic of Ireland expects foreign companies to meet. In the two months I had been working with him, he had become a friend, almost like an older brother.

Sean poured some tea for both of us and leaned back in his chair. "Now, what can I do for you?"

"It's something of a personal and confidential nature, Sean." I paused, not sure how to begin. "If I were to move to Ireland, what would I have to do to work here and establish a residence?"

Sean pulled out his pipe, opened a canister and filled the bowl with a fragrant tobacco blend. Once the pipe was glowing and smoke circling his head, he gave me a direct look.

"And why would ye be asking me that question, now?" he asked in his best West Cork brogue, his eyes twinkling. "Would this have anything to do with Margaret Frances O'Callahan?"

"You know about her?"

"Of course," was his reply. "One has very few secrets in Ireland." Taking his pipe from his mouth, he used the stem as a pointer. "Pat, me boy, you're not thinking of leaving your wife and coming here to live with Maggie?" His cultured voice took on more of the Cork accent.

"The thought has crossed my mind."

Linehan was silent for a moment, then sighed. "Well, Maggie is a fine young woman. I have known her and her family for many years. But, Patrick, is this what you really want to do?"

I sat in silence, not looking at him. "I don't know, Sean. I know I love her." I paused, and then added, "But I love my wife and my kids, too. I can't give up my family, but...I don't want to give up Maggie either. I don't know what to do. I need some advice."

"Patrick, take some more time to think this through. If you do this, it will mean one of two things. Either you give up the life that you have always known and start over here. Or, you take Maggie back to the states with you."

Looking over the top of his glasses, he added, "That last option might be a lot tougher than you think."

"Why?"

"Well, she may not want to go. She's a strong willed woman, she is. Her roots are here, as are her brothers and sisters and their families." Pipe in mouth, Linehan puffed furiously. "Patrick, either way you choose, it won't be easy for her, for you or for your family." Linehan shook his head and pointed his pipe stem at me. "Any way you go, there is going to be a lot of heartache for everyone."

I left the office feeling more confused than ever.

* * *

Taking the train from Dublin to Cork, I reviewed in my mind all that had transpired since I met Maggie in the bar at Jury's.

Before talking to Linehan, I had talked with a local farmer near Kinsale with whom I had become acquainted. He had been telling me about his plans to develop some of his unused farm land that was ideal for building. There was one small plot of land near a tiny cove that was ideal for a cottage and the farmer was willing to sell. Land was cheap and I was intrigued by the idea of having my own little cottage in Ireland.

But what could I do if I lived there? Mulling over the possibilities, I decided I could go back to writing for a living. After leaving the _Bulletin_ , and before going corporate, I had been a free-lance writer, and a good one, I might add. Regularly, I had articles and stories appearing in _Esquire, The New Yorker_ , and _The Saturday Evening Post_. In Ireland, I knew that writers and people who made their living in the arts paid no income taxes.

As I rode the train, my mind turned over all the pros and cons of what to do. It felt as if a cold hand was squeezing my heart.

When I thought of Kerri and Jonathan and Elizabeth, I knew I could not possibly give them up. I loved them. How could I bear being separated from them? No! That was impossible! But the thought of having to leave Maggie tore at my heart.

Let's face it. I was in love with two women. I didn't want to let either of them go. But keeping both was impossible and selfish.

Growing up as I had in a middle class home in Philadelphia, I had been given decent values by my parents, who themselves had been married for more than 40 years. It was a given in our family, when you married someone, it was for...well, you know, for better or worse...forever! Oh, I know that seems old fashioned these days with many people changing partners almost as often as they change their cars. But solid family values were what I learned growing up. And even though I was not particularly religious, I had lingering thoughts that abandoning my family was wrong—evil, in fact—and that no good could come of it.

Cheating on your spouse was wrong, I had been taught. The problem for me was that my love for Maggie didn't _feel_ wrong. On the contrary, it felt very _right_!

The struggle between heart and head, as Maggie had once put it, was too much. Sighing, I leaned my head against the seat and closed my eyes. I slept.

## Chapter 11

A COOL NIGHT

Youghal was a quaint little port town that had served as the backdrop for a number of sailing movies. Anchored in the harbor was a full-sized replica of the whaling ship used in the movie _Moby Dick_. It was a picturesque scene. Maggie explained that she often came to Youghal to visit one of her sisters who lived with her family in Ballymacoda, which I assumed was near the town.

Maggie had a favorite potter in the town that she visited frequently. I had to admit that his skill was remarkable and his pottery was unique and instantly recognizable. The patterns of blue, mixed with the browns and creams, in his creations were distinctive and appealing. We bought two footed goblets, two bowls and two plates.

The sun was warm and we spent a pleasant day sight seeing and shopping, making small talk with no real substance. It was as if we were avoiding anything with serious consequences.

As we left the quaint village, we stopped for a bit of pub grub at a place called the Thatched Cottage. As the remains of the day dwindled into evening, Maggie directed me through a maze of back roads to a long empty beach.

"Over there is the bog," she waved her hand in the direction of the tall grass near a sand dune. "If it were day, I would take you on some of the paths. It is beautiful, but dangerous at night."

We walked in silence, but there was not the feeling of companionship that we earlier had enjoyed. In fact, Maggie seemed more withdrawn than usual. The only sounds were the waves rolling onto the beach and crashing on distant rocks. Moonlight made a rippling silver path on the water.

Suddenly, she stopped, looking at the quiet ocean. As I stepped near her, she waved me away. "Walk," she commanded. "I need to be alone." Puzzled, I sauntered down the beach. Looking back, I could see her sitting, facing the water. When I finally stopped, she was a small dark spot on the silver sand.

Not sure what she wanted of me, I just stood and shared her view of the endlessly rolling waves. Time seemed...slow. Somewhere behind me I could hear a night bird calling from the bog. I looked over my shoulder, but all was black and slightly forbidding.

Finally, glancing at my watch by moonlight, I was surprised to see that it had been more than an hour since we separated. I started toward her, hands in pockets and feet shuffling through the sand. At her side, I knelt and stroked her hair.

She grasped my hand and put it over her heart where I could feel the rapid beating, almost as if a bird was trying to escape its cage.

"Oh, the bog!" she exclaimed. "Oh, the moral bog we're in. We are caught between heaven and hell. You should not love me, but you do. And I should not love you, but, God help me, I do." She turned her face to me, and streams of tears caught the moonlight. "I do so much love you, _mo gra_."

Putting my arms around her, I held her for a long time. She leaned against me and sobbed as if her heart were breaking. The dampness of the night gradually seeped into our bodies and chilled us. Rising, I drew her up and kissed her forehead. Hand in hand we walked back to the car.

She was silent on the return trip to Cork. As I switched the engine off in front of her home, I reached for the door handle but she stopped me.

" _Padraig_ , my love, would it hurt you too much to leave me tonight?" The green eyes were smoky, pleading. "So much has happened so fast, I just need some time alone."

I swallowed and nodded, turning my head away so she couldn't read my feelings. She quickly kissed my cheek and fled to her house.

## Chapter 12

A SUDDEN CHANGE

Deadlines were approaching and I needed to have a plan ready to present soon. But try as I might in my hotel room, I could not concentrate on the task at hand. My thoughts kept going to the freckled, red-headed lass who had turned my carefully ordered world upside down.

What did her behavior last night mean? Would she even answer if I called? Throwing my pen and paper down, I paced the room. Then, grabbing my jacket, I dashed to the car and drove to her house.

The door opened almost before I had let go of the knocker. "I sort of expected you," she said, smiling. "But I have no time now; I must feed my boarders. Call back for me at half-seven?"

I nodded. The door closed and I was left standing on her step, feeling a bit foolish.

Promptly, at seven-thirty I knocked. Again, the door opened instantly. She gestured for me to enter. I turned as she closed the door and found her leaping into my arms and kissing me with an unexpected passion. It was as if we were celebrating a return from a long absence.

She pulled me into her sitting room, kicking the door shut and pushing me onto the couch. "Oh, my dearest, make love to me...NOW!" I hastened to obey her command.

The turf fire had all but burned itself out and the room was growing cold. We were cozily warm, bundled in a large wool blanket, but chill was beginning to seep in around the edges. I rose, barefooted quickly across the cold floor, and tossed a small bit of wood into the fireplace, stirred the embers, coaxing forth a small flame. A quick dash back to the warmth of the blanket and her arms, and we were as before. We lay in a dreamy state, neither awake nor asleep.

As we lay there, she lifted her head and began twisting the hair on my chest around her finger. Looking into my eyes, she said, "I went to confession!"

"Oh?" Odd conversation for our present situation.

"Today?"

"No, yesterday."

"Ah." That explained her behavior last night.

"Yes, and can you guess what the Father told me?"

"Let's see." I gave her my best judicial look and replied, "Well, I suspect he told you in no uncertain terms to give me up because our relationship is sinful, and that you should say three Hail Mary's."

"That's exactly what he said," she cried as she jumped up, "except that I had to say six Hail Mary's and make a novena." I was having a hard time concentrating on her words and her eyes instead of other parts of her body, now exposed as the blanket slipped away.

"So, what did you do?"

She stuck out her little chin, looking defiant and declared, "I told him that I would say the Hail Mary's but I did not feel sinful. Your love was the most wonderful thing that had ever happened to me, and I would cherish it forever." She crossed her arms over her exposed chest and dared me to disagree.

I laughed.

"Oh, you beast," she cried, pounding my chest with her little fists. "You great hairy Yank! How can you laugh at me at a time like this?"

By this time, tears were streaming down my face. "I'm not laughing AT YOU but at the thought of the scene. What did the good Father do then?"

"I don't know. I left." She slid off, and wrapped herself in the blanket, leaving me to shiver on the sofa. I grabbed at the edge of the blanket and stepped inside, wrapping it around both of us.

She grinned her crooked little grin and said, "I guess it was pretty funny." Her green eyes grew serious. "I meant every word I said, _Padraig_. Every word."

I kissed her, and could feel the fire start within us. Then, her stomach grumbled loudly and quenched the rising flame we felt. "Uh oh, sounds as if someone is hungry."

"Yes, I am, Yank! Let's eat." And she walked away with the blanket, leaving me exposed to the chill room.

We had dinner that night at Black Rock Castle, seated near the windows that overlooked the river. I'll say this for her. She could pack away the food for such a tiny person. And I didn't do too badly myself.

## Chapter 13

GROWING CLOSER

I had more or less wrapped up my communications plan, leaving only a few minor details undone. Most of my time over the next few days was spent in Maggie's company. She had arranged for Fionna, the unmarried one of her sisters, to come and care for her boarders. Fionna was sleeping in a small bedroom at the rear of Maggie's apartment.

"So, Maggie, what did you tell Fionna you were doing?" I asked.

"The truth, Yank," she answered.

Surprised, I asked, "Was she upset or shocked?"

"Why would she be now? There aren't enough men for the women here. Besides, there are few secrets in Ireland. She and my other sisters have known about you almost from the beginning."

Yes, I thought, I can believe that after my visit to Sean Linehan.

"What about your brothers?" I asked with one eyebrow raised. I knew she had two rather sizeable older brothers.

"Well, there are some things they don't need to know," she replied archly.

I laughed and concentrated on my driving as the inevitable rain began to lash the car and tax the wipers. Our plans to walk the beach at Crosshaven to watch the sailing ships were washed out, so we ended up at a small inn on the hill above the ocean.

Cozily seated on a comfortable couch near the windows overlooking the ocean, we shared tea, biscuits, and poetry.

Always prepared, Maggie had brought along a little blue book of W.B. Yeats selected poems. Yeats, I knew, was her favorite Irish poet. In her low voice, she began reading aloud, but quietly, with "The White Swans at Coole." As I listened, I stretched my legs out and laid my head against the pillows. Her voice was soothing music as she worked her way through the book, picking out all her favorites.

" _Padraig_ , you are going to sleep!" Her voice broke into my reverie as she punched my arm.

"No, my dear, just resting my eyes."

"Humph. Well, just for that, _Padraig_ , you can read this one to me."

She pointed to a page with the corner turned down. Tucking her legs beneath her on the couch, she settled against me. Glancing around and seeing no one else nearby, I cleared my throat and began.

" _I would that we were, my beloved, white birds on the foam of the sea! We tire of the flame of the meteor, before it can fade and flee; And the flame of the blue star of twilight, hung low on the rim of the sky, Has awakened in our hearts, my beloved, a sadness that may not die._ "

I paused and looked at her. Those green eyes were tightly shut, but a single tear had escaped and slowly made its way down her cheek. But she nodded her head for me to continue.

" _A weariness comes from those dreamers, dew-dabbled, the lily and rose_..."

She clasped my hand tighter as I continued to read the timeless words. Silently she mouthed the words long ago committed to memory.

".... _where Time would surely forget us, and Sorrow come near us no more_..."

As I finished, a small sigh escaped her lips and we sat in silence.

"That was lovely, _mo chara_. Thank you."

The rain had turned to solid sheets of dark grey that nearly obscured the ocean from our view.

"Would you like another pot of tea and more biscuits?" inquired the inn's hostess.

"Thanks, no," I replied. "We will be leaving soon."

Our next days were spent in similar fashion as we grew deeper in our knowledge of, and love for, each other. One warm afternoon we were walking a path she knew through the woods along the River Lee.

"Look at that beautiful swan swimming ahead," she whispered.

"I wonder why there is only one. Usually, the swans are in pairs."

I pointed to the tall reeds along the bank. "There's the other one." The swan's mate was sitting on a nest. As we came closer for a better look, we were sternly warned away by the beating wings of her threatening mate. Taking the warning seriously, we give the nest a wide berth.

Another day we spent in Cobh, watching the large ships enter the Cork harbor, followed by dinner in a small Greek restaurant down the hill from the cathedral. The nights were spent in her bed in each other's arms. It was as if we couldn't get enough of each other or know each other as well as we wanted to.

Our love-making was slow and gentle, but exquisitely intense. Somewhere in all of this a resolve began to grow in my mind.

## Chapter 14

FRIENDS

" _Padraig_ , we have an invitation to dinner tonight."

"Oh, why, how and who?" I asked, in my best reporter fashion.

"Mary Kate has invited us to her home to have dinner with her and her mother. Her sisters are going to a dance somewhere."

"Do you want to go?"

"Oh, yes. You'll love her mum!" she declared, adding, "and she is a great cook."

"Then, by all means, accept."

"I already have."

"Oh."

Not sure what to expect, I went with a small concern. After all, Mary Kate had not been exactly friendly, but had seemed to warm to me after our together day in Kinsale. The night turned out to be a pleasant surprise.

Mary Kathleen's mother was a tiny woman with her gray hair in a tight bun. She was bright, cheerful, and full of wonderful stories of Maggie and Mary Kate and their many escapades over the years. While Maggie and her friend were washing the dishes after supper, Mrs. O'Hanlan took the opportunity to get acquainted with me. I found myself sharing stories of my work, of my newspaper career, and of my family with her.

As we prepared to leave, Mary Kate's mother patted me on the cheek and made a special point of inviting us to visit anytime. Mary Kate walked to the car with me while Maggie was saying good-bye to her mother.

"My mother liked you very much, Patrick."

"Thanks, I liked her too. She is a lot of fun...and a great cook. That seafood casserole was great. And her bread pudding was tops!"

"And I want you to know that I like you, too," Mary Kate said softly, putting her hand lightly on my arm. "I was afraid when Maggie was so taken with you so quickly. I was afraid you would wind up hurting her. I couldn't bear that. She has suffered so much over the past few years."

"Thanks for saying this, Mary. I would never deliberately hurt Maggie. I love her."

"I know, _Padraig_. I know."

"Hey there, what are you doing with my Yank, Mary Kate," called Maggie. "You are not making a play for him, are you?"

"Why, what a thing to say, Margaret Frances!" Mary Kate fired back. "Of course, I am! What do you think we were doing out here, wasting all this moonlight? " Laughing, we all kissed, hugged, said good-bye and headed home.

## Chapter 15

FAST FORWARD

The day I had planned for Maggie's surprise couldn't have started more ideally. It ended in a way I had not imagined.

Maggie had made arrangements for Fionna to take care of the boarders, and we left Cork early that morning. It was one of those spectacular Irish mornings with bright sun and blue sky, no clouds in sight.

"Where are we going?"

I smiled and said nothing.

"Oh, you Yank! Tell me!"

Silence.

As the car wound through back roads west and south of Cork, she leaned back and enjoyed the fresh air through the open windows.

At Shipool Wood, she sat up and exclaimed, "We're going to Kinsale!"

"Maybe. Maybe not."

"Oh, you beast! Tell me."

I chuckled as I slowed for a farmer aboard his tractor that blocked most of the road. At a lay-by, he pulled off and waved us on.

As we drove along the winding road beside the Bandon River, I turned onto the bridge before coming into the outskirts of Kinsale.

"Where are you taking me, Yank? Are you lost?"

"Nope!"

We began climbing a gravel road that wound up and around the hills finally arriving at the summit, from which we could see the entire bay at Kinsale. We were high up, across from the old fort opposite the marina. The deep blue water was calm and the sailing boats were tacking in and out of the bay, making a picture perfect for an artist. Unfortunately, I couldn't paint or draw worth a damn.

"Is this where you were taking me?"

"Nope. I just thought we'd enjoy the view before going on."

She twirled around, her full skirt making a circle around her shapely legs. "It's lovely," she said, throwing her arms up as if to catch the sun. "I love it. I've never been here before."

I just stood and watched as she darted about, picking some early wildflowers that dotted the hill.

"Come, we still have a short way to go." I started toward the car.

Reluctantly, she followed me and, settling into the seat, sighed contentedly.

The road was narrow as it skirted the hill, curving around the next two hills to the south. As the road dipped into a small valley, I pulled to the side and stopped.

"We're here."

She looked around. "Where?"

"Here. Get out and I'll show you."

Eagerly, she hopped out and I pointed up toward the crest of the hill. As we topped the rise, there was a cliff, dropping precipitously to a small cove where the waves from the ocean curled and sprayed the grey walls surrounding the tiny harbor.

"Oh, how beautiful," she said, again drawing out the word in a way that I can't duplicate, but can never forget.

"How did you ever find this place?"

A farmer with whom I had become acquainted owned all the land over these hills, I explained.

"Come, sit with me," she motioned as she dropped to the ground. We sat for a long time, basking in the sun and listening to the waves crashing into the cove. I draped my arm about her shoulders, and she leaned her golden-red hair against me.

Finally, taking her hand and drawing her up, I kissed her lips as she rose and looked into my eyes. Turning, I drew her along as we walked toward the meadow.

"Do you like it here?"

"Oh, yes _Padraig_. Very much."

"Good, because this plot will soon be mine." I was looking away, as if surveying the property.

"What? Oh, you Yank, you're joking."

"No joke, Maggie. I plan to buy the land and build a cottage." Turning to look at her, I said softly, "I will build a cottage for us."

The color drained from her cheeks. "What? What did you say?"

"I said I would build a cottage here for you and me. We can live here when I move to Ireland."

"Oh, _Padraig_ , don't talk so! That canna be."

I nodded my head affirmatively. "It can be and will be, if you will have me. I love you Margaret Frances O'Callahan." It was the first time I had said I loved her.

The stark white of her face made her freckles stand out as she stared at me with widening eyes.

"Oh, _Padraig_." The green eyes that I had come to adore filled with tears and spilled down her face. She crumpled to the ground, covering her face with her hands. Her bowed shoulders shook with silent sobs.

As I reached out and touched her shoulder, she brushed my hand away and shook her head. She waved her hand as if to say, "Go away; leave me alone."

Confused, I stumbled away. I thought she would be ecstatic; instead she seemed destroyed by my declaration. I wandered back to the cliff, staring at the crashing waves below. What did her reaction mean?

Looking back, I saw this tiny figure, slumped and shaking, and shook my head. Who can figure a woman? I had thought this would be the happiest day of her life.

How long we were there, I know not but the sun was low in the western sky. On the horizon, dark clouds were forming. A storm coming, I thought.

Looking back, I saw a lonely figure sitting with her arms encircling her drawn-up knees and staring off into space. Should I go back? No. Give her a little more time.

The grey sheet of the fast moving storm was heading in our direction, and I guessed that we would be feeling some wind and rain in the next few minutes. Maggie was still sitting as if carved from stone as I jogged back.

"Maggie...," I began, but she cut me off.

"Take me home, _Padraig_." She wouldn't look at me as I took her hand and helped her up.

The storm caught us before we reached the car, and instantly drenched us. We tumbled into the car and started for Cork. The wipers were hard pressed to clear the windshield. Making a u-turn I pulled to a stop in front of her home and shut off the engine. We sat there with no sound but the rain beating on the car. Maggie's eyes were dry and her face composed, giving no hint of her thoughts. I wanted desperately to speak and to have her talk to me, but wisely I kept my silence.

Finally, she turned toward me, and taking my left hand in hers, she said in her low voice, " _mo gra_ , forgive me for ruining your day. You caught me totally by surprise, and I wasn't ready for it."

She paused, laying a hand tenderly on my cheek. "You, my dear old Yank, have given me a gift I had not expected. Thank you." Her green eyes were pleading now, "But, I'm all at sixes and sevens at the moment, and I need more time to think."

"Do you prefer to be alone tonight?"

She shut her eyes, a tear sliding down her cheek, and nodded.

"Very well. May I see you tomorrow?" I didn't say it but all I could think about was the short time we had left before I returned to the states.

"Oh, yes, please."

"I'll ring you before I come."

She nodded and then dashed through the pouring rain to the door. Turning, she sketched a small wave before disappearing inside.

I sat there for several minutes, rain beating down upon the car. Turning the keys, the car came to life and the wipers resumed their efforts to beat off the rain as I drove back to Jury's. It was a very long night.

## Chapter 16

THE PILGRIMAGE

Maggie was composed when I called the next morning. " _Padraig_ , I have given a great deal of thought about what to do today," she began. No mention of yesterday.

"I want us to go on a pilgrimage," she said.

"A what?"

"A pilgrimage."

"Do you mean like a religious trip?"

"Sort of."

"Where?

"To a remote place in West Cork called Gougane Barra. It is such a lovely peaceful place."

"Why?"

"I'll explain when we get there."

Puzzled and confused, I agreed, all the while wondering what emotions this trip would bring. We started off once again heading west on Western Road. This time we took the main road to Macroom. Westward from Macroom the landscape began to change from the rich deep green of the fields to rolling hills of heather. Passing through the village of Inchigeela, we skirted a series of small natural lakes as the road wound gradually upward. Arriving at the village of Ballingeary, I saw no signs in English; all were in Gaelic. In reply to my questions, Maggie informed me that we were now in the heart of the Gaelic-speaking district.

The trip was made mostly in silence and I was becoming more and more uneasy despite the magnificent scenery. This was not like Maggie. She seemed lost in her thoughts.

Much of our journey was in sight of a river, or more accurately a swift moving mountain stream, as the road continued to rise. When asked what river, Maggie replied absently, "That's the Lee."

"You mean the same river than runs through Cork and into the harbor?"

"Yes."

"But it's so small here, and the river in Cork is big and deep enough for the sea going boats to dock near downtown," I observed.

No immediate response. Finally, Maggie turned those intriguing green eyes to me and apologized. "I'm sorry, _Padraig_ , that I've been such a poor companion today. I really am very happy that we are making this trip. We're almost there."

Continuing, she explained, "The River Lee begins at the lake at Gougane Barra. That is the headwater of the Lee."

Rounding a hill covered with heather in bloom, we spotted the lake and the tiny church on a small island.

"That's our destination," Maggie cried.

I pulled into the car-park for what appeared to be a small inn or hotel. As we got out, Maggie grabbed my hand and pulled me in the direction of the lake. Connecting the island, on which the tiny chapel stood, was a small causeway suitable only for walking.

As we crossed to the island, Maggie pointed to the plaque and the openings in what appeared to be a small mound. "This is where St. Finbarr lived and built a monastery before he started his journey down the Lee to build a larger one in Cork. In fact, he built the Cork monastery where St. Finbarr Cathedral now stands."

Pausing at the red doors of the chapel, Maggie drew out a lace scarf and tied it on her head. "Let's go in."

Inside was an altar and crucifix. On the wall behind the altar were two stained glass windows, one depicting St. Finbarr and the other the Virgin Mary. Before the altar was a small kneeling rail.

"Pray with me, _Padraig_ ," said Maggie, kneeling still holding my hand. I knelt beside her as she bowed. Moving her lips, she began reciting the rosary. ' _I believe in God, the Father Almighty_...." In her other hand, a silver cross with the beads.

".... _Hail, Mary, full of grace. The Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us_....."

I bowed my head and closed my eyes as she continued with " _Our Father_...." As a child, I had gone to a protestant church with my parents and to a Catholic church with a friend, but as an adult I had not darkened the door of a church in many years. Yet, I felt sharing this moment with Maggie was special and even a bit "sacred," if I can use that word without seeming blasphemous.

We were on our knees for a long time. Outside, we could hear the birds singing. As I opened my eyes, Maggie was crossing herself.

Stepping into the sunlight from the dark chapel, we took a moment for our eyes to adjust to the sunlight sparkling on the lake. Swans were swimming peacefully nearby.

"Thank you, my darling," said Maggie. "Oh, what a glorious day!" she exclaimed. "Now, let's go to the inn where we can sit by the windows and eat our lunch. After, we will walk through the forest and talk." I could see that my Maggie was back, refreshed and alive to the moment. Her green eyes were sparkling.

"Yes, let's," I laughed, grabbing her hand and running toward the inn. Her laughter floated over the water as we raced to the door.

It turned out that we were a bit early for lunch, but the hostess pleasantly served us some hearty soup and coarse Irish bread.

"The walk through the park is lovely," said Maggie. "I was here once before with Fionna. Did you know that this was the first national forest park ever established in Ireland?"

"I do now."

Holding hands, we strolled down a path into the forest, climbing a hill that gave us a splendid view of the lake and the chapel.

As we sat on a rock outcropping, Maggie fixed me with a direct look and said, "We must talk about yesterday."

"Thank goodness. Frankly, I have been frantic wondering what was going on," I confessed. "I thought you would be happy."

"As I told you last night, you, my love, have given me the greatest gift and honor of my life. You love me enough to give up everything you have now and to come and live with me. No one could give me anything more wonderful," she exclaimed, adding, "But, don't you see, that is also the problem."

I shook my head. "What is?"

"You cannot leave your wife and family. To do so would destroy them as well as you...and me." Maggie reached for my hand. "Don't you see?

I nodded as I looked into those loving green eyes. "I do see. But, Maggie, I love you deeply."

"Oh, my dearest, I know, I know," she said as she put her hands on each side of my face. " _Is tu mo gra_ ," she said, "I love you, too!"

"Then why...." She put her fingers to my lips and shook her head.

"It's because we love each other that you must go back to your wife and family, and I must stay here," she said. "The _Padraig_ O'Connor I fell in love with is an honest and honorable man. He is too good to abandon his family."

"Maggie, you are attributing to me a goodness I don't deserve," I interrupted, shaking my head. "If I was as good as you say, I wouldn't even have looked at you."

"No one is perfect, _mo gra_ , but you are the most decent, kindest, and loving man I have ever known. To know that you love me is enough for me. And today I feel that we are as united as any married couple could be."

She paused, looking down at the island chapel. "But you must get on the plane, go back to America, and never see me again. You must never contact me."

At this, I started to rise, only to have her pull me down beside her. "Further, you can never speak of me to anyone...ever! Do you understand?" I had never seen Maggie more intense. Her words cut deep into my soul. To never see her again or even speak of her was something my mind refused to accept.

"But, Maggie, I love you. How can I...."

She cut me off with a kiss. "Oh, _mo gra_ , I know how it hurts. It hurts me deeply. But I have Mary Kate to talk to about you and about us. You can talk to no one about me and our love. That is something you must carry in your heart. If you let it be known that you fell in love—I suppose the world would call it "having an affair"— during your time in Ireland, that information made public would surely destroy your marriage, your family and eventually you," she finished.

"And, _Padraig_ ," she added, "It would destroy me to know I was the cause of tearing your family apart."

I had no answer and no argument. Her logic was impeccable. She was right, and I knew it. My mind was a whirl of jumbled thoughts as I stared at the quiet little lake and the peaceful little chapel on the tiny island. Absently, my hand sought hers. Her strong little hand gripped mine and I could almost feel her thoughts and emotions.

"What now, Maggie?" I asked.

"Let's just enjoy each other as fully as we can in the time we have left before you leave," she whispered. "When you go, know that you will be in my mind and heart forever, as I am in yours."

We sat for what seemed like hours, just holding each other, touching and sharing bittersweet kisses. As the wind picked up and clouds rolled in, we walked slowly down the hill to the car park.

Lost in our thoughts, we drove in silence until we came to the Pass of Keimaneigh.

"Oh-h-h, look, _Padraig_ , how beautiful and wild this is," Maggie suddenly exclaimed! "Legend has it that a deer trying to escape from hunters leapt from one cliff to another."

Looking up at the towering crags overhanging the highway, I thought it would take a mighty leap of an equally mighty buck to make it. "Yes, Maggie, it is a wild and beautiful spot."

As we drove around the corner of the gorge-like pass, a river valley opened before us, and the sun broke through the dark clouds, making vivid the emerald fields. We took our time on the drive back to Cork, wending our way through picturesque villages. Unlike the trip out to Gougane Barra, Maggie, having lost her somberness, was gay and cheerful. Nothing significant or particularly memorable was said but the trip was pleasant as we enjoyed each other's company, laughed and told stories, and sang Irish songs.

The sky was ablaze with spectacular reds, golds, purples, and blues as the sun gradually lost its fight with the clock and sank below the western horizon as we arrived in Cork.

Fionna greeted us at the door with "Maggie, darling, one of your boarders came back to the house drunk, fell on the stones in the garden and broke his stupid head open." As Maggie gasped and opened her mouth to ask, Fionna went on, "The medical boys packed him off to the hospital where they stitched him up. I hear he was off to his brother's house in Fermoy to recover and sober up."

Maggie's sister was matter-of-fact about the whole affair. "Other than that bit of excitement, it was a pretty dull day. So this is your Yank! Hi, I'm Fionna, Maggie's terribly exasperating and fascinating younger sister."

I held out my hand. "I'm Pat. Glad to meet you Fionna, Maggie's terribly exasperating and fascinating younger sister." At that, she laughed. "This one is all right, sis." Turning to me, she ignored my outstretched hand and gave me a great hug and kiss on the cheek.

As we settled in the sitting room, Fionna asked, "Are you two going out for dinner, or do you want me to whip up something?"

"Well," said Maggie, "I hadn't really given much thought to tonight. I'm not sure what I have on hand. Maybe I...."

I interrupted. "We are going out tonight, and you, my dear Fionna, are coming with us."

And out to the dining room at the Silver Springs Hotel we went to dine on steaks, seafood and wine until our bellies were near bursting.

Returning to the tall, red brick house on Western Road, Fionna thanked me, excused herself and disappeared into the back bedroom, leaving us standing in the entry hall.

" _Padraig_ , it was a lovely gesture, inviting Fionna to be with us tonight," Maggie said looking up at me with those smoldering green eyes. "You make me very _sasta, mo gra_."

"I'm not exactly sure what that means but I think it's good, right?"

"You make me happy, my love."

"Good!"

"Let's go up to bed. You can make a nice turf fire in the fireplace, and we'll snuggle under the downy cover."

And we did!

## Chapter 17

A LIFETIME

For our last two days, we spent almost every moment together. If we could have made time stand still, we would have done so. But, instead, it seemed that time, elusive as a hare, ran far too quickly before us. We walked, and talked, and held hands as lovers do, oblivious of the world around us until on occasion the harsh realities of Mother Nature demanded our attention.

I had come prepared this time with a plastic poncho to cover my head and my "rubbers," as Maggie called them. They were actually farmer-type pull-on boots designed to keep feet dry in wet and muddy conditions. We had driven to the Old Head of Kinsale to walk the perimeter, a distance of about two miles.

"Why is it called the Old Head of Kinsale?" I asked.

"It's the farthest land south of Kinsale and where a lighthouse stood until it was destroyed by a terrible storm," she explained. "It was just off the Old Head that the Lusitania went down. Oh-h, what a terrible tragedy. Nearly 1,200 people lost their lives when the Germans torpedoed the ship during World War I. A few of the survivors were rescued by fishermen from Garrettstown and Kinsale."

"I have heard of the Lusitania and its sinking. In fact, I believe that was one of the things that got the U.S. into the war."

As she concluded my history lesson, a priest dressed in foul weather gear walked past. "Best get your gear on," he chirped to us. "There is a storm brewing. I can smell it." And off he went, making the first of many circuits around the ruins and the herd of sheep milling about.

"Perhaps we should take the good Father's advice," said Maggie, reaching for her red rain hat and slicker. I shrugged into my poncho, pulled on my boots, and had to run to catch up with her.

Before we had completed one complete circuit of the rocky land, the storm descended in all its fury, lashing the rocks, ruins and us with soaking rain.

"Maybe we should pack it in," I shouted over the storm.

"Ah, you Yanks; can't take a bit of weather, can you?"

"Maggie! Listen to...." But she was striding away. Anyway, she couldn't hear as the wind whipped away my words.

It seemed I was always trying to catch up. For a small woman with short legs, she certainly could move fast. Finally, after a couple of turns around the Old Head, we stopped near the car. Despite the wet weather gear, we both were soaked.

"I think, my dear Yank, you may be right. It looks as if this storm is settling in for the day."

Easing the car down the now muddy path back to the main road, we drove to Kinsale where we checked into Acton's Hotel, across from the harbor. Stripping off our wet clothes, we took a long, hot shower and spent the rest of the afternoon in the comfortable bed.

It was dark when we awoke. I turned over to find Maggie staring at me.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"Why are you staring at me?

"I just love looking at you, especially when you are sleeping, _mo gra_. You look so peaceful."

Reaching for her, and feeling her slide into my arms, I whispered, "I am peaceful...when I'm with you. In fact, I cannot recall a time when I've felt more at peace."

I was going to say more, but her lips followed by her hands caused whatever I was about to say to disappear from my mind. We seemed made to fit together, as two parts of a whole.

Some time later, I roused from my dreamy state to find Maggie up and dressed, her clothes now dry from the nearby radiator.

"I'm hungry.

"What a surprise."

"Come on, Yank. Get up and feed me."

"Yes, ma'am."

It turned out that Acton's had a decent dining room and a fairly sophisticated menu. As we ate by candlelight at a small corner table, we talked about ourselves, our hopes, our dreams and strange fate that brought us together only to cause us to part.

Suddenly, we felt the urgency of making the most of our moments together, and we hurried back to our room to continue where we left off. It was as if we couldn't get enough of each other.

Brilliant sun streaming through the open window awakened us to morning. After breakfast, we took a leisurely drive back to Cork.

Fionna, like the good trooper she was, had the boarders under control with the stitched-up one back in his room, sober and quietly sedated.

'I wondered if you two had been swept away in that rippingly wild storm we had yesterday." As she shook her finger at us, she admonished, "You really should have called."

"Sorry, Fionna. But your sister was so busy attacking me that we just didn't have time."

Maggie blushed but her sister just laughed. "Oh, by the by, Mary Kate rang. She wants to talk to you, Maggie."

As Maggie left to phone, I thanked Fionna for making it possible for us to spend as much time together as we could.

"My sis deserves this, and more. She has always sort of looked after me when my other sisters and brothers married and moved away."

She had a direct way of looking at you that reminded me of Maggie, especially her green eyes. "She deserves this time with you." Dropping her voice, "I've never seen her so happy. And for making her happy, you've made me happy, too." She kissed me and ran off up the stairs.

"Mary Kate wanted to know what your plans are. Are you driving back to Dublin or taking the train?"

"I plan to turn in my rental and take the train."

"Very well. When you turn your car in, Mary Kate will pick us up and take us to the station. I want to be with you as long as I can." Both of us were dreading the moment we would have to part.

## Chapter 18

LEAVING REPRISED

"The Day" arrived appropriately with no sunshine. Dark clouds and a fine mist promised weather to match our moods.

Our last night together was a quiet one, the kind that only two people, long married and accustomed to each other's moods and feelings, can share. We talked about serious things and light things. We shared our life's experiences with each other, understanding more, and drawing ever closer. I massaged her cold feet and she rubbed my back. We held each other and stared into the fire, each lost in our thoughts.

And then, as if on cue from some unseen director, we rose and slowly walked upstairs to her bedroom where we began a ballet-like disrobing and settling into the soft feather bed. Our love-making, slow, gentle, and quietly intense, left us spent and breathless. As I dozed, I heard Maggie whisper something in Gaelic that sounded like _ta tu i mo chroi go deo_. I had no idea what she said, but the music of her words lulled me to sleep.

Later, I awoke to feel her rhythmic breathing on my chest, her head pillowed in the crook of my arm. "I love you my dearest Maggie," I whispered. She never stirred, but as I drifted off, I heard her murmur, "I love you too."

The morning drizzle became increasingly heavy as we forced ourselves out of bed and into our robes. Downstairs, we shared the breakfast-making, she frying eggs and ham and I making toast and strong black tea with hot milk. We ate in silence, unable to take our eyes off each other. In her thoughtful way, Fionna had taken herself off somewhere, and we were alone. No sign of the boarders either.

"Why don't you get your shower and shave while I clean up," suggested Maggie. "You can pack while I'm getting my bath."

I nodded and headed upstairs to prepare to leave. I had quit my room at Jury's days ago to spend all my time with Maggie.

As I finished packing, Maggie came in to the bedroom, drying her long red hair with a fluffy blue towel. I snapped the locks on the suitcase shut and moved over to put my arms around her. We shared a long, hungry kiss. As I started to undo her robe, Maggie held my hands and stopped me.

"Let's not, _mo gra_. Last night was special; let's keep it that way."

I felt empty as I let my hands fall.

She grabbed my hands. "Oh, my dear love, just hold me. Hold me until the moment you leave." Tears slid from the corners of her eyes and rolled down her face. I matched them with my own.

As we stood there, looking out the tall windows at the rain pelting Western Road, she said, "You know, some people never know the kind of love we have had in their whole lifetime. We are so blessed to have had a lifetime of love in the past month. It is something I will treasure until I die."

Just then, we saw Mary Kate's mini-Cooper pull to the curb and honk.

"Time to go," said Maggie, grabbing my briefcase while I picked up my suitcase.

I stowed the luggage in the boot of the Cortina and Maggie hopped into the passenger seat. "Mary Kate will follow us to the car hire for you to drop your car." At the rental office, I signed for the charges, and ran back to Mary Kate's car.

The Cork train station was a depressingly dark grey stone affair, made darker by the morning rain.

"Thanks, Mary Kate, for being so thoughtful." Instead of offering a handshake, I held my arms open and Mary Kate willingly walked into them. We hugged and kissed. I thought I saw a tear on her cheek, but it might have been a rain drop.

"Have a safe trip home, Yank!" Mary Kate turned away quickly and took herself off to a discrete distance from Maggie and me.

As the train eased into the station, Maggie and I looked at each other. Everything that needed to be said already had been. The pain I felt was real and cutting. Maggie's eyes showed the same pain.

"I love you Maggie, and I always will."

"Oh, my dearest Yank, I do so love you. You've made my life so beautiful." There was that word again, the first syllable drawn out in her unique way.

As I picked up my suitcase and briefcase, I turned for one last look.

"Remember, _mo gra_ , this is not good-bye. It is merely a parting." She gave a small wave as Mary Kate moved up to put an arm around Maggie.

I put the luggage in the overhead rack and bent to peer through the dirt-streaked window of the train. I could see the two of them standing there. Maggie's shoulders were shaking as she sobbed. I was sobbing inside.

The horsehair seats of the old car smelled musty. The rain made small rivulets through the caked dirt on the windows. "Tears," I thought. "Tears of good-bye. No! Not good-bye but only a parting. Will we ever see each other again?" My heart said "yes," but my mind said "no."

There was a short jerk, and the train slid out of the Cork station.

"I'm going home," I thought. "Home to Pennsylvania and to my family. But was it home? Or is this where my home is?

It was too much for me. I felt exhausted, _waahed out_. Leaning my head against the high seat back, I slept.

## Part 2

ONE IRISH CHRISTMAS

By RUSS DURBIN

## Chapter 1

THE PHONE CALL

The accusing blank screen stared back at me. This staring match between me and my computer had been going on for...I'm not sure how long. Periodically the match was interrupted by this brightly colored ball bouncing around the screen. A quick tap on a key and the blank eye was back.

Trying to work out in my head details of Murdock's next move, I was stuck, not sure which way I wanted him to go. Consequently, no words were forthcoming from fingers to keyboard. Murdock, in case you're interested, is a Gary Cooper-type marshal in my latest novel of the Old West.

Dimly in the recesses of my mind I was aware of an insistent chirping that had been going on for some time. It had stopped a couple of times and then resumed its infernal chirping. My cell phone, where was it?

I rummaged through the piles of paper on my credenza and then my desk. There! It was hiding under a candy wrapper beneath a stack of recently printed pages.

"This is Pat," I answered.

"It's about time. I thought maybe you had died and no one had found the body yet," said the voice on the other end. It was Jamie Lipchitz, my agent, calling from New York.

"Sorry, I was trying to work out some plot details. What's up?"

"Patrick, my dear, I have good news and bad news. Which do you want first?"

I thought for a moment. "Better give me the bad news first. I always like to end my stories on a happy note."

"Okay, Tom Caldwell, your editor, called today and said you are a month overdue on the next installment of your new western. He wants it on his desk yesterday!"

"Yeah, yeah. So what else is new?"

"How about some good news?"

"That would be nice."

"Remember that little love story you wrote that didn't sell too well?"

I remembered. I had sort of forced the publisher to issue _An Irish Interlude_ after the successes of my westerns. I was the new "Louis L'Amour," according to the _Times_. So I used my new-found clout, such as it was, to get the novel published. That story was a labor of love for me; I didn't care if it never made a dime. My publisher had a substantially different view, so, for a time, I was in the publisher's dog house...until my next western.

"Yes, I remember. What about it?"

"The publisher's partners in Ireland—Sheehy, Reilly, and O'Connell—are considering publishing it for an Irish and British audience. They also have BBC interested in doing a TV movie jointly with RTE. They want you to come to Dublin for a meeting."

I sat back, stunned. My memories, locked away for years in my mind and heart, came back with a rush.

"Patrick, are you there?" Jamie's voice sounded anxious. "Patrick, speak to me."

"I-I'm here. Just surprised that anyone has taken notice."

"Well, apparently the partners at SR&O, especially one Ms. Kathryn Reilly, the "R" in the firm's name, really liked your story and thinks it will be a great hit there."

"How soon do they want to meet?

"As soon as you can get there. Definitely before Christmas."

"That's great!" I feigned enthusiasm I didn't feel. I was scared. The emotions I had tightly controlled for two decades threatened to overwhelm me.

"Well, I...I don't know how soon. After all, I still have to finish _The Marshal_. So, I...."

"Buddy boy, you better get the next installment to Tom ASAP. He used language that my tender ears are not accustomed to hearing. But you need to call SR&O right away to schedule the meeting. Then let me know so I can arrange to be there."

"Will do," I said, writing down the Dublin number on my nearest post-it.

The bouncing ball was back; I let it bounce.

As I clicked my phone shut, I thought about Ireland, the home of my ancestors...and the home of my beloved Maggie. Was she still in Cork? Was she married? Did she have a family? Would she even see me if I showed up on her doorstep? It had been so long.

For a moment, it seemed as if our parting was only yesterday. It was raining when I boarded the train that took me away from her. My last glimpse of Maggie was through the dirt-streaked windows. She was standing on the platform sobbing as her friend, Mary Kate, consoled her. That was 20 years ago.

We had not seen each other since, nor had I ever spoken to or of her. She was the secret I had carried in my heart. I had left her to return home to my wife, Kerri, and our two children, Jonathan and Elizabeth whom I loved. Jon was now a successful investment banker on Wall Street and Elizabeth was a talented commercial artist with a major ad agency in New York.

And Kerri? Well, my life had turned out differently than I had thought it would.

## Chapter 2

REMEMBERING

"Dad! You're home! Mom! Dad's here." Both kids screamed as they ran to hug me when I walked in and dropped my suitcase. I hadn't seen them for almost three months and I was as starved for them as they were for me.

Kerri came around the corner of the kitchen, the phone stuck to her ear and the cord stretched almost to the breaking point. She smiled, waved and continued her conversation.

"Yes, Len, I know..." she was saying. "Yes, I got the presentation done and I am Fed-Xing to you as we speak." She obviously was talking to her boss, Leonard Sweet. Len was a corporate VP at her pharmaceutical company. "Yes, I'll be at the meeting on Monday without fail. Don't worry; everything will go smoothly. I have everything under control. Right. Good-bye."

Kerri hung up and gave me a hug and a kiss. "Glad you're home, darling. Believe me; it's been tough while you were gone. It's been gobs of homework with the kids as well getting them to and from their sports and clubs. And my boss has been bugging me almost every day on the marketing plans for the new merged company. It's been c-r-a-z-y!" she finished.

"Yeah, I know what you mean. I have been busy in Ireland, too. And I've been missing you and the kids."

Kerri stood back, giving me a long considering look. I wondered if she could see that I had come home with only part of my heart. The rest I had left in Cork.

"Well," she began, "I am just glad you're home. Believe me, managing things here while you are away is a big job. And meeting deadlines for the company on top of that was no picnic. It takes a lot of organization, a plan and a tight schedule."

"I know, but I'm home now and looking forward to the next few months of staying put and spending a lot of catch-up time with you in particular," I said as I put my arm around her and gave her my best look of lust.

"Dad, wanna see the videos of my baseball games that Mom recorded?" Jonathan was pulling on one sleeve while Elizabeth was hanging on the other. "I have done some new pictures that the teacher put up on the bulletin board at school. She said they are my best work. And...I started some new ones. Do you want me to bring them down?"

Before I could answer, Kerri interrupted, "Your father will have time for all of that later. Right now, back to your rooms troops and finish your homework. You're behind schedule. We eat at 6:30 sharp!" And with that, she sent them scrambling up the stairs with much grumbling and stomping of feet. Kerri was nothing if not organized.

"If it's all right with you, I'll just put some pizza in the oven and make a salad. Could you cut up some fruit for dinner?" said Kerri.

"That's fine. I just...."

"After we eat, I need to get back to work on Monday's presentation."

"I thought you told Len that it was done."

"I did, and it is. I just want to tweak it a little. This is a big one for me. I get to present it to the company executives on Monday. Len is as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. And there could be a promotion for me at the end of all this, if the merger goes through."

"Oh, I see. Aren't you a bit anxious?

"Of course. But I have it under control. That's my thing, you know, control. Len is too much of a nervous Nelly," said Kerri. "Frankly, I could do his job better that he; I'm more organized, calmer," she paused, "and I have more creative ideas."

I laughed. "That I can believe! Well, I guess we both have important presentations coming up next week, so let's enjoy what is left of the weekend. I'll run upstairs and unpack. Then, I'll come down and fix the fruit for dinner."

Home, I thought. Nothing has changed. Maggie was right. I had to come home to my family. This was where I belonged.

* * *

The bouncing ball on the computer screen continued to bounce as I sat lost in my thoughts.

## Chapter 3

CHANGES

I had been wrong. Everything had changed, but I was too dense to see it right away. Or maybe I didn't want to admit that things were different. The relationship between Kerri and me had subtly changed. At first, I was feeling guilty and thought the changes were my fault. After all, I had been away for more than two months with only an occasional phone call home. And for the first time in my life, I was keeping a secret from her. Throughout our marriage, we had talked out the things that troubled us...or so I had thought.

As it turned out, Kerri's big presentation to the company execs was a hit and she was excited. She had been named as a member of the corporate merger team to see the project through to completion and to oversee the marketing. That meant numerous trips for her to New York, Boston and to Los Angeles over the next few months.

For me, things went equally well. The Board of Directors at my company gave the go-ahead for the plan to build the new ECC manufacturing plant in Ireland. Along with it, the board approved my communications plan. Everything was moving fast now. In early 1976, I would go back to Ireland with the corporate team to execute it. Hopefully, all would go smoothly and we would get the approvals we needed to build the critically needed facility.

Most of my spare time at home over the next few weeks was spent with the kids' school and sports activities and keeping things under control – more or less – at home. I loved every minute of the time I spent with Jon and Beth. Despite all their homework as they approached the end of the school year, and all the sports activities, the kids and I managed to take in a couple of the Phillies' games. The Phillies won, and we had fun eating hot dogs at the Vet and watching future Hall of Famers Steve Carlton pitch and Mike Schmidt hit home runs.

I didn't see much of Kerri. It seemed as if she was constantly traveling or going to dinner meetings or staying late at the office to finish projects. Now, at least, I could better understand her earlier irritation with me and my travel schedule while she stayed at home with the children. When she was home, Kerri's talk was filled with references to Len, her boss, and Marc and Todd, both vice presidents of her company, working on separate parts of the merger. I walked into the bedroom one evening. Kerri had been home less than 90 minutes and she was changing to a cocktail dress and adding pearl earrings and a necklace. She turned to me and said, "Could you zip me up? I'm running late."

"What's up? I thought you were planning to be home tonight."

"Oh, Len and I have to meet Mr. Winthrope and Mr. Levin. There is a cocktail party at _Le Bec Fin_. It appears that the merger will be completed on time and I was invited to be part of the victory celebration."

"I see. Well, I guess I'll order a pizza and watch the movie I rented. What time should I expect you?"

"Be sure the kids get to bed before too late, Pat," said Kerri. "And don't wait up. You know how these things go. It'll probably be late. I'll try not to wake you when I come in."

"Right. That's thoughtful of you." My sarcasm went unnoticed.

Slipping her pashmina around her bare shoulders, Kerri left me standing at the front door as the limo arrived to pick her up. I couldn't see who, if anyone, was in the car besides the driver who held the car door for her.

I was up until after 2 a.m. watching the old Hitchcock movie "Psycho" on "Nick at Nite" and Kerri had not returned. She was in bed at 7 the next morning when I awoke. I was downstairs having coffee when she finally came down.

"Kinda late, weren't you?"

She yawned. "Yes. The party went on forever, it seemed. I must say, Mr. Winthorpe was terribly boring. He kept patting me on the knee and saying what a good job I had done. It's nice to hear the praise, but to be stuck with him for much of the night was a real drag. And if he had patted my knee one more time, I would have slugged him." Looking around, she asked, "Where are the kids?"

"Jonathan was staying with his buddy, Jeff, and Elizabeth had a pajama birthday party at Suzie's."

"Oh, that's right, I forgot."

"You've been forgetting a lot lately."

"Yes, I've had a lot on my mind.'

"Well, I hope you will put on your rather crowded calendar that you will need to be home with the children next week. I have to go back to Ireland with the team to introduce our plans. I'll be gone at least a week, possibly a bit longer, depending on how things go."

"Oh, wow. That is a problem. Len and I are supposed to go to Boston Thursday for picture taking and the press conference on the merger. Maybe I can get Margie to come and stay with the children." Margie was the maid who came to clean our house every other week. "I'll give her a call right now."

* * *

Forcing my memories to recede, I clicked the computer and the blank eye returned.

Somewhere in the midst of my personal musings, a solution to my problem with Murdock, _The Marshal_ , had percolated and I began writing. In my mind, I could see Murdock picking up the star that Billy had dropped in the dust and becoming the town marshal again. Eventually, it would all lead to a big shootout and the good guy would win. I liked happy endings to my stories. Tom, my editor, didn't really care whether the ending was happy or sad; he just wanted the damned thing finished. He would get his wish.

## Chapter 4

EIRE REVISITED

Flying Aer Lingus to Dublin to meet with my Irish publisher brought back all the memories I had tried to suppress for the last 20 years. Reclining my first class seat, I tried to sleep. But no sleep would come. I kept reliving my past.

* * *

Early in 1976, the corporate team descended on Ireland to kick off announcement of our plans to build a manufacturing plant in County Cork. We met first with the IDA. Advisers there were not keen about my plans to announce our project to officials, media and local residents before we had applied for the needed permits. The IDA had advised us to keep everything under wraps until we had our government, environmental, and tourist board permits.

"If you announce your plans early, you'll bring every nut case and every tree-hugger out of the woodwork," said Gerry Maloney, one of the IDA reps assigned to our company. "They'll file so many complaints, they will delay your company for years. That has happened to a couple of other companies." He shook his head when we insisted in sticking to our approved communications plan.

The reasoning behind my plan was simple. We needed to earn the trust of the local residents, many of whom would be candidates for employment at the new facility, in order to succeed. With the sensitivity of the Irish to "blow ins," foreign companies wanting to build in Ireland, wouldn't it be better to be up front with the people, I argued, and let them ask their questions and voice their concerns before we actually did anything? Transparency was the key, I thought. That way, we might minimize or neutralize opposition to our plans.

Business details occupied almost 100 per cent of my time. But underlying everything were the constant thoughts and questions about Maggie. Surely, once the information was made public she would see the stories and maybe even photos of the team, me included. Should I call her? Should I try to see her? Would she be happy? Would she be upset?

Our parting last June was painful for both of us. If I were to see her, would we just relive the pain when we had to part again? What was the right thing to do?

Meanwhile, our meetings in Dublin with the national media, and again in Cork with officials and local residents went far better than I could have hoped for. Our plans were warmly received and, while some were skeptical, local residents were generally supportive. IDA representatives just shook their collective heads and congratulated us.

Unresolved was the Maggie issue. In the end, I did not call or attempt to see her. I convinced myself that we would both be better off to leave things as they were.

## Chapter 5

DUBLIN—A HAPPENING PLACE

As my plane rolled to the terminal, I took my coat from the trim young stewardess and picked up my briefcase. As I rode the taxi to my hotel, I gawked like any tourist at the city of Dublin. It was decorated with greens in preparation for Christmas.

What a change! Two decades ago, the city was interesting but a bit depressing. Now, large cranes dominated the skyline as construction was going on over virtually the entire city. Young professionals from throughout Europe were beginning to flock to the city. And tourists from Eastern European countries were starting to make Eire a favorite spot for their holidays. No longer was Dublin the sleepy capital of a poor country.

I could sense the bustling energy and excitement of the city. As the taxi pulled into the narrow street leading to the new hotel, the Westbury, on Grafton Street, I again marveled at the change. Grafton was now developing as one exclusive walking and shopping mall. And there was talk that cars would be prohibited on that street in the near future. While not all the stores were open, it was clear that Grafton was shaping up to be the "the happening spot" for Dublin.

After checking in, I rang the offices of Sheehy, Reilly, and O'Connell. When I had identified myself, the receptionist said, "Oh, yes, Mr. O'Connor, we've been expecting your call. Ms. Reilly and Mr. Sheehy are in the conference room. One moment, please."

"Patrick, my boy, welcome. Did you have a good flight and was your hotel satisfactory?" The man's voice was cultured, smooth, definitely Irish but with an overlay that hinted at possibly an Eton education.

"The answer to both questions is yes."

"Good, why don't you get some rest, and we'll meet you for dinner in the hotel dining room about half-seven."

Malcolm Sheehy in person looked like his voice sounded. Polished from his nails to his Gucci shoes, he brought his wavy silver hair and his carefully tailored Burberry suit into the dining room promptly at seven-thirty. With him was a well-put-together redhead that I assumed, correctly it turned out, to be Ms. Kathryn Reilly. Sheehy's handshake was a bit limp, but hers was quite the opposite.

"We're excited to meet you, Mr. O'Connor," Ms. Reilly began. "And I am very enthusiastic about this project."

"Please call me Pat. Mister is too much of a reminder of my age."

She laughed, "Pat it is."

"Shall we order drinks before we settle down to dinner and some business after? Sheehey inquired.

"I'll have a gin and tonic."

"And for you, Kathryn?"

"My usual, Malcolm."

As we took our drinks into the lounge and sat down to wait for our table, I glanced around. No agent in sight.

"Before we talk business, I have a question. Shouldn't my agent, Jamie Lipchitz, be here? She was supposed to take an earlier plane; she usually handles all business arrangements and contracts."

"Oh, sorry, I forgot," said Ms. Reilly. "She phoned and said she was hung up in New York with another client. Some fuss about a breach of contract, or something like that. She said to tell you to go ahead without her. She apparently has great trust in your judgment."

I smiled and sat back, waiting.

It was clear to me that Ms. Reilly was taking the lead in this negotiation. Sheehy was present to carry the company colors.

Dinner was leisurely with talk mostly of Ireland and my earlier experiences on behalf of the company for which I had worked. Sheehy was a native of Belfast, with the slightly anglicized accent of Northern Ireland overlayed with the refinements of his education, which in fact had been Eton. Ms. Reilly had the earthier Munster accents of County Cork. She was a graduate of Trinity College in Dublin.

After dinner, we retired to the lounge to order more drinks and get down to business.

"Pat, my boy, how about a nice Armagnac before we begin?" said Malcolm as we settled into comfortable chairs in one corner. While I never drink alcohol when I am writing, I will on occasion, have a drink socially. This wasn't strictly speaking a social occasion, but I accepted out of politeness. After sniffing the long aged brandy and warming it in my hands, I had to admit with the first sip that this was something special.

Malcolm, watching me with experienced eyes, smiled, "I thought you'd like it. I keep a small supply here for occasions such as this." He pulled out a gold case from an inside pocket and offered me a cigar.

"Thanks, Malcolm, but I don't smoke. And at the risk of seeming ungrateful after the really excellent brandy, I would appreciate your not lighting up. The smoke really gets to me."

"Of course, dear boy," Malcolm said with just a faint trace of regret. The case snapped and disappeared into his coat.

I opened the ball game. "Just what prompted you to want to publish _An Irish Interlude_? It didn't sell well in the U.S. when it was released. And I am known as a writer of westerns, not love stories."

Kathryn Reilly smoothly cut off whatever Sheehey started to say. "I think it's a great love story. And we Irish love a good tale of love won and love lost. We delight in tragedies, great and small."

"Yes, but...."

"Further," the indomitable Ms. Reilly went on, "next summer a duplicate of your wonderful LOVE sculpture from Philadelphia will be coming to Dublin, where it will be displayed on St. Stephens Green for a year. The government is planning a national advertising campaign around it to make Ireland the "land of lovers," targeting couples young and old in Europe and the states."

Ms. Reilly was in earnest now, leaning forward and pressing her point. "If we can come to an acceptable arrangement before Christmas, we could get your book on the spring list in advance of the arrival of the sculpture. It's a perfect tie-in."

She sat back, sipping her brandy. "In addition, if we can get an agreement done between RTE and BBC, a movie based on the book could be ready before the LOVE sculpture leaves the following year, giving us another shot at increasing book sales."

"Well, it's certainly an attractive prospect," I began, "and the way you have described it, everything seems to fit nicely. Your proposal is almost too good to be true. I don't suppose you just happen to have a contract already prepared, do you?"

Kathryn Reilly laughed, turning to her partner, "What did I tell you, Malcolm? These Americans get right to the point."

"As a matter of fact, Patrick, we did take the liberty of having our solicitors prepare a contract," said Malcolm, smoothly producing a thick document bound in blue paper from his Coach briefcase.

Taking the proffered contract, I thanked them and said I would look over it and get back to them in the next day or two.

"Oh, and Patrick, we've faxed a copy to your agent so she can review it as well," said Kathryn. "I'm sure the two of you will want to talk."

"Thanks," I said, slipping the contract into my battered briefcase.

"I'm just curious," said Kathryn, leaning forward with a hint of mischief in her blue eyes. "How is it that you chose to write a love story—-and, of all things, set in Ireland—in the midst of your writing of western sagas?"

She looked at me with a trace of a smile. "You certainly have captured the Irish culture, particularly the experience of Irish women. It has an authentic feel. Aren't you suggesting, in your own way, of course, that your story is a bit autobiographical?" In her teasing way, she was fishing.

I smiled to cover my uneasiness at this line of questioning. "Ms. Reilly – Kathryn – please. You're talking to a writer of fiction. The story is fictional; it's meant to be read and enjoyed as a good story, nothing more. Of course, I tried to make the people and places as authentic as possible. Otherwise, no one would read it." After a pause, I added, "Very few have, I'm afraid, so I would say your publishing company is taking a very big risk on my book."

"You sell yourself short, Mr. O'Connor. I believe we'll do just fine," Ms. Reilly said as she rose and held out her hand. "We look forward to hearing from you soon." Malcolm Sheehy mixed his "dear boys" with his "good-byes" and took himself off with Ms. Reilly on his arm.

It had been a long day, but I wasn't sleepy. A fast scan of the hefty contract gave me a good idea of what SR&O was proposing. It wouldn't make me rich, but it was better than I had expected. Talking to Jamie Lipchitz would have to wait until tomorrow afternoon because of the time difference.

## Chapter 6

STRANGE TWISTS

I lay on the bed, thinking back to what strange turns my life had taken since my first trip to Ireland in the mid-70s. I had fallen in love with an Irish woman on that first trip, only to leave her to return to my family in Philadelphia. We agreed never to see each other again. Although my wife never knew about Maggie, there were things going on with my wife as she climbed the corporate ladder in her company that I never knew either. Over the next four years, clues to what was happening began to accumulate.

* * *

"Dad, phone's for you. It's Mom!" With those words, my 14-year-old son dropped the phone on the hall table and bounded up the stairs three at a time.

"Hi, Kerri. What's up?"

"Pat, I missed the plane because of an extra long conference so I am staying over in Chicago. I'll be home tomorrow." Kerri paused and then asked, "Is everything all right? Are Jon and Beth okay?

"They are fine," I said, answering her second question first. "And no, things are not all right. Missing planes and staying over has become a habit. You haven't been home much in the last six months."

"I'm sorry, Honey, but you know what it's like," she said contritely. "Now that I am an Executive Director of Marketing for the anti-inflammatory drugs, I am not exactly in control of my time." Thanks to her personal drive to succeed and her substantial organizational skills, over the last four years Kerri had moved steadily up the corporate ladder at her company after she successfully developed and executed the marketing plan for the merger of the two pharmaceutical companies. "We'll talk about it when I get home. I have to run; we have a dinner reservation."

"We?"

"Yes, Len is here, too. We both missed the plane. See you tomorrow. Bye."

* * *

I sighed. My life had changed in three major ways in the past 20 years.

One, my wife divorced me. Our breakup occurred to start the 80s. Shortly after the divorce was final, Kerri had married (Len) and had moved to New York with my kids.

She got custody for two reasons. First, she was their mother and the courts generally favor the mother over the father for child custody. Second, she made more money than I and was "better able to provide for their well-being," according to the courts. It made no difference that I loved them dearly. Jon and Beth cried and hung onto me before they left. I cried too. Another piece of my heart was torn from me in those moments. I wanted to fight Kerri for them, but my attorney told me I was wasting my time and money. The outcome would be the same.

Two, my company was bought out by an international conglomerate that, in its corporate wisdom, thought it could operate much better with one-third fewer worker bees. So, I got the pink slip along with hundreds of others. Suddenly, the judge in my divorce case looked like a genius. Although I got a nice settlement package from the company, it didn't last long when everything was "outgo" and there was no "income." Financially, Kerri was far better able to support Jon and Beth than I. I took Amtrak to New York to see them every chance I got. They got to spend a week with me each summer.

With two strikes against me (no wife and no job), it was the last of the ninth and hope was running out when I hit a home run.

With few prospects for a 45-year-old-guy at large, I turned to my earlier love—writing. I had been a damn good writer for _The Bulletin_ and had made a decent living as a free-lancer for a time before I went corporate.

My first novel was _The Day Jessie Died_. It was historical fiction about the day Mr. John Howard (aka Jessie James) was assassinated. After being ignored and/or turned down by nearly 40 literary agents, Jamie Lipchitz called from New York. She was relatively new at the business of representing writers but she was a shark at the negotiating table and just as stubborn as one.

"You got any more where that ( _Jessie_ ) came from?"

"I have."

"Good, fax me a couple of pages each from three other stories you've written. I might have a publisher who may be interested. But all publishers are scared that a writer will run dry after one novel. So, we gotta show you have more in the pipeline."

"Does that mean you'll represent me?

"Stop wasting my time and money on this call and get those pages to me ASAP." With Jamie, I quickly learned, everything was ASAP! I had the fax machine going almost before I hung up the phone. Hathaway, Herrington, and Heywood bought and published it. And, as they say in books, the rest was history.

It was a hit; the first western novel in years to be a best seller. Because it was based on an historical event, it actually got a fair review in the _Times_. That was followed by _The Last Stage from Yuma; Tin Pan Annie, the Gold Rush Queen; The Seed of Abraham_ (a post-Civil War saga of the west), and _The Westerner_ , the first of a series featuring Rig Mahony, a two-gun son of the West. It was after _The Westerner_ that critics started calling me the new "L'Amour" or the new "Zane Gray." I wasn't in their league, I knew, but it was nice to read those comments about my books. HH&H was pleased that its maiden venture into the western genre had paid off and I was now an "established writer."

## Chapter 7

A DEPARTURE

I smiled at the ceiling as I lay there thinking about the events that led me to this return trip to Ireland.

* * *

For months after _Jessie_ I was nagged by this idea for a totally different type of novel, a love story in an Irish setting. It could have been an American woman falling in love with an Irishman, but it wasn't. No, I had to write about my beloved Maggie. Of course, the names were changed, the characters were fictitious, and most of the actions in the book didn't really happen. But I managed to capture the essence of the love that Maggie and I shared with my words and, thus, _An Irish Interlude_ was born. I remembered the argument with Jamie and subsequently with my editor.

"Are you crazy? Why are you writing a love story when your westerns are selling as well as the cold war thrillers?" Jamie shook her head.

"Look at my westerns, Jamie," I said. "Have you ever really read them? Every one is basically a love story, just done up in western garb. Anyway, I have done it and I want it published."

In the end, HH&H published it, but only after much grumbling and a lot of "You will owe us big time for this, Pat" admonishments. The fact that the book didn't sell well merely added to the publisher's irritation.

## Chapter 8

MOVING FAST

Sometime during my musings, I drifted off. I awakened with a bad taste in my mouth and my clothes wrinkled. A quick cold shower, teeth brushing and a hot shave, I felt refreshed and went to the dining room for breakfast, taking the contract with me. Breakfast was a leisurely affair while I carefully read the thick document, making notes and question marks to discuss with Jamie later. Knowing my agent, she would already have gone over it in minute detail. As I was finishing my coffee and scribbling the last note or two, a waiter came to the table.

"Mr. O'Connor, you have a phone call. Do you want to take it at your table (this was a really nice hotel) or in your room?"

Looking around and seeing no one nearby, I said here would be fine.

"Hello, Patrick, I hope I didn't ring too early." The honeyed voice was none other than one Ms. Kathryn Reilly.

"No, I was just finishing breakfast. What can I do for you?"

"I know you haven't had time to talk to your agent yet, but I wanted to let you know that BBC would like to meet in London next week. I really think you should plan to stay over and take the meeting. We will be there of course along with a producer for RTE, and I know you'll want Jamie there as well."

"Wow! You certainly move fast. Are you sure RTE will go?"

"That's no problem. Malcolm and the head of RTE are golfing buddies and members of the same country club. That is a done deal. I just wanted to give you a 'heads up' on the meeting so you could discuss it when you talk to Jamie. Please ring me when you decide." She gave me her private extension and her home phone numbers before disconnecting.

I didn't have to call; Jamie rang me early afternoon.

"You didn't sign anything, did you Pat?" was her greeting to begin the call.

"No, Jamie, relax. I did go over the contract. It looks good to me. By the way, you were right; Ms. Reilly is the driver on this project."

"I've been through it line by line." So what else is new, I wondered. "It IS a good contract, better than I would have anticipated. However, there are a few items that we need to clarify before we execute. I had Henry Winslow check it for any legal loopholes." Henry was one of the attorneys for HH&H.

I was surprised. She either got Henry up awfully early or kept him up very late last night.

"You're moving almost as fast as Kathryn Reilly. She phoned today to say that BBC wants to meet in London next week."

Jamie whistled. "I'll say she's moving fast. We should take the meeting. You arrange it with Kathryn and let me know. I'll be there. Meanwhile, let's go over my notes for the agreement."

Kathryn Reilly was delighted when I called and asked her to make the arrangements with BBC. A quick exchange of phone calls and the meeting was set at BBC offices in London at 11 on the following Wednesday.

As she finished filling me in on plans for the meeting, Kathryn said, "Patrick, I'm having a quiet little dinner party at my home Saturday night. I'd like you to come and meet some of my friends. It would give you a chance to relax and we could get better acquainted."

I was silent, thinking about someone other than the voluptuous Ms. Reilly. "Kathryn, that is really nice of you to invite me, but I hope you'll let me take a rain check. I have some old friends I would like to look up this weekend, so I'll be out of the city for a couple of days. But thanks anyway. It's very thoughtful of you." She was gracious, but sounded disappointed.

## Chapter 9

CORK REVISITED

Renting a Ford Granada the next morning, I drove south from Dublin on the first section of a new four-lane highway that hadn't been there when I was in Ireland 20 years ago. The country's new-found prosperity was helping improve the nation's infrastructure. En route to Cork, I encountered many "traffic calming" and "loose chippings" signs as road crews worked to improve the highways.

However, by the time I reached Mallow in the heart of the agricultural Blackwater Valley, I was back to the narrow cobbled streets I remembered. Driving down the main street, dead ahead was the old Mallow Castle. It appeared to block the south end of the street. Actually, the road curved sharply to the right of the castle and continued toward Cork City.

As I pulled into Jury's Hotel on Western Road in Cork, I noticed that it had a new portico and had been substantially remodeled and upgraded since I last stayed there. Once in my room, I sat on the bed and wondered if Maggie still lived in the tall red brick house just a few blocks down the street.

As I considered whether to try to see her, the butterflies in my stomach started doing rolls and loops, giving me an uneasiness that had been growing since I left Dublin.

What if? What if she were...married? What would I do? No! No! She couldn't be married, my heart told me. My mind said otherwise. Yes, she very well could be married, have a family, and have no wish to see me again. I was past history. Long past.

I was driving myself crazy, so I snatched my jacket or anorak as she once called it and dashed to the car to drive by the house at least to see if there was a light.

The house was still there, but all the windows were dark. The stone walls around the tiny front garden were in good repair and the garden and house looked well tended.

Turning around in the entrance to Cork College, now the University of Cork, I drove back to the hotel. It would never do to simply arrive on her doorstep unannounced. I would ring her.

Searching through the phone book, I looked for Maggie's name—Margaret Frances O'Callahan. My God! Did I just overlook it in my haste to find the number? Line by line I went through the thick book. There were lots of O'Callahans but no Margaret and none on Western Road. Then I searched for M.F. O'Callahan. There was one M. O'Callahan, but at a different address in Cork. This one was in Blackrock. I phoned.

"Halloo," a woman's voice answered. It wasn't Maggie, but the voice sounded young. A daughter, maybe?

"Is this the residence of M. O'Callahan?"

"Yes, just one moment. Michael, it's for you."

"Hello, this is Mike O'Callahan. Who is this?" a man's voice asked.

"Sorry, I think I may have a wrong number. Do you happen to know a Margaret Frances O'Callahan?"

"No-o-o, sorry. There's no one here by that name."

"Thanks. Sorry to have bothered you."

Discouraged, I pondered my options. I didn't see Fionna's name in the directory, either. And I didn't know the names of Maggie's brothers or other sisters.

Finally, I tried the telephone company operator. No luck. No such listing in Cork.

Throwing the phone book across the room, I flopped on the bed. Maybe my trip to Cork was in vain. Maybe Maggie—my Maggie—was gone forever.

Wait! I sat up. There was another option, Mary Kate, her best friend. Mary Kathleen O'Hanlan. "Let's see," I thought as I retrieved the phone book, "She worked at a women's dress shop. What was the name? _Le Femme_! That's it." I turned to the yellow pages and thumbed through the women's clothing section. No such listing.

Maybe I should check out the stores on St. Patrick's Street. It might be there under a different name. It was raining, of course, and the wind was sharp as I walked downtown Cork. No _Le Femme_. The store I remembered was gone. Like Dublin, Cork City had undergone a makeover. In place of the woman's shop was a sparkling new Marks & Spencer department store.

Feeling a bit foolish, I walked in and asked for women's clothing. Directed to an elegant salon at the rear of the store, I inquired if a Ms. Kathleen O'Hanlan worked there.

"Oh, yes. Ms. O'Hanlan works here. In fact, she is the department head for fine women's clothing."

"May I see her, please?"

"I'm so sorry. Ms. O'Hanlan is away at a buyer's meeting in London. She'll be back next week. Do you have a card?"

"No, I'm just an old friend. I'll check back later."

Bitterly disappointed, I left the store and headed back to Jury's. The hotel was bright, warm and a lively combo was playing in the lounge when I returned, but I didn't feel much like listening.

Going back to my room, I made one more try. Mary Kate's name was listed in the book at the Bishopstown address I had remembered. I phoned; it rang and rang but no one answered. Finally, a recorded voice announced that "No one is available to answer your call. Please leave a message." With the beep, I explained I was in Ireland on business and staying at Jury's. I asked her to call when she got home.

## Chapter 10

LONDON

Although Saturday morning dawned brightly with no rain in the forecast, my mood was black. I resolved to try Mary Kate's phone one more time. If there was no answer, I would book a flight from Cork to London. The BBC meeting wasn't until Wednesday, but I could use a couple of days to shop; after all, Christmas was only a couple of weeks away.

I phoned the Cadogan Hotel on Sloane Street in London to make a reservation. It was one of those small British hotels with great personal service and gourmet dining. It was within walking distance to Harrods and a lot of exclusive shops in Knightsbridge. In my corporate days, a colleague from the Brussels office had put me onto this hotel, the one-time home of Lillie Langtry, the famed British actress.

After a late breakfast, I tried Mary Kate again with the same result, lots of ringing and then voicemail. I hung up without leaving a message this time. I sighed; it looked as if my efforts to find Maggie were at an end...at least for this trip.

An afternoon flight to Gatwick and an hour's taxi ride got me to the hotel late afternoon.

"Good afternoon, Mr. O'Connor. Nice to have you back," greeted the young woman at the front desk. "I see it has been quite a while since you last visited."

"Thanks, yes it has been."

"How long will you be with us this trip?"

"At least five nights. After that, I'm not sure."

"Very good. Your room is ready. I'll have the porter take up your luggage."

After unpacking and settling into the room, I phoned Jamie in New York.

"When are you planning to arrive in London?" I asked. "I was hoping you could take a Monday night flight so we could have Tuesday here at the hotel to go over the contract again and set our strategy for the BBC meeting Wednesday."

"Sounds good to me. I'm usually wiped out by these long flights so I need time to get over the jet lag and be on top of my game," Jamie replied. "Where are you staying?"

"At the Cadogan on Sloane Street. I'll make a reservation for you."

"Great! My guess is that Ms. Reilly and her partners will want to meet before going to the BBC offices. They probably will want to get the contract with you signed and sealed before negotiating with the network. I'll handle arrangements for the meeting with SR&O and let you know."

Jamie paused, then continued, "You know, if your Irish love story is a hit over there and we get a good TV movie, it could be an opportunity for HH&H to capitalize on the book's foreign success and re-issue the book here in connection with a U.S. broadcast of the show. Then, there could be all sorts of interviews, personal appearances and a book tour."

"Whoa, you're way ahead of me, Jamie. Let's just get this deal done and hope for the best." I thought Jamie was letting her imagination run wild, but who knows? Remembering Kathryn Reilly's teasing question, I wasn't sure I wanted to do personal interviews regarding the book.

Jamie and I met Malcolm Sheehy and Kathryn Reilly at the Dorchester. They had reserved a small meeting room for us to work on the contract prior to dinner. He explained that the RTE producer would meet us at BBC the next day.

It was a profitable two hours spent going over the contract in detail, discussing issues and possibilities, making changes here and there and occasionally compromising on sticking points. The work session ended with me signing the contract, agreeing to a fair percentage of any profits but agreeing to share some risk should the joint venture tank. To celebrate, Malcolm withdrew from his ample case a bottle of the Armagnac we had sampled in Dublin.

Jamie rolled her eyes and said, "How about a beer? You don't have a cold one in that case of yours, do you?"

Malcolm laughed. "No, sorry, but we can get room service to bring one up." So while Jamie had her beer the rest of us toasted our success with the aged brandy.

Then Malcolm surprised all of us. He somehow had managed to obtain dinner reservations for us at Alain Ducasse; normally it takes weeks to get in that exclusive French restaurant. Our celebration continued through the long evening.

The next morning, however, we were all fresh, crisp, and business-like as we entered the British Broadcasting Corporation offices on Marylebone High Street. Awaiting us in the outer offices was the RTE producer.

Negotiations went better than I had expected, mainly because I had already signed the contract with Sheehy, Reilly, and O'Connell. BBC, it turned out, already had a script writer in mind to do the adaptation of the book. The only real sticking point was my insistence that I be involved in the entire process from start to finish.

"Mr. O'Connor, you are not a professional script writer. We simply cannot risk financially putting this project in the hands of...forgive me but...an amateur which it comes to screenplays."

"I appreciate your point of view, and, if I were in the same position as you, I would feel the same way," I said. "I am not suggesting that I write the script; I just want to make sure that the finished script and the movie are consistent with my intent in writing the book in the first place. BBC usually does a superb job with its features, but I also have seen TV movies that barely resembled the books on which they were based. I just want to make sure that doesn't happen to my story."

In the end, we compromised on what level of involvement I would have. I would review the finished script and offer my suggestions. BBC and RTE would have the final say before any casting or shooting began. I would then have the opportunity to visit the set during shooting and provide the producers with any thoughts or suggestions. They would not be bound to accept them if they felt they would in some way harm the final show.

We left with the suits at BBC and RTE working out the details of their roles and financing arrangements for the project and the lawyers to write up the agreements for everyone's reviews and approvals. Kathryn Reilly was enthusiastic and Malcolm was positively beaming when we left the offices.

We parted with handshakes all around and Kathryn reminding me of her earlier offer to visit her estate in Dublin.

As Jamie and I took a taxi back to the Cadogan, Jamie asked, "So, what are your plans, Pat? Are you heading straight back to the states with me or are you going to take Ms. Reilly up on her offer?" Jamie looked at me out of the corner of her eye.

"I'll take a rain check on Ms. Reilly's offer. But I think I will go back to Ireland. I'm trying to locate an old friend."

"Um-m." Jamie absorbed that information. Whatever she was thinking, she kept to herself. "Well, it's too late to catch a plane today. I'll book the earliest flight I can get tomorrow. Give me a call when you are back. We have a lot of work to do. Oh, and by the way, did you get your overdue installment of _The Marshal_ to Tom Caldwell yet?"

"Jamie, stop worrying. Yes, he not only has the 'overdue' section, he has the entire novel. I finished and Fed-Xed it to him before I left. Do you know when it will hit the lists?"

"Should hit the spring list, barring some production problem."

"Great! I actually think this novel is my best yet."

"I hope you're right, buddy boy. I surely do." She gave me a pat on the back and left me standing in the hotel lobby.

## Chapter 11

CHRISTMAS HOLIDAYS

I stood there uncertainly, not sure what I wanted to do. My best option for tracking Maggie down was to contact Mary Kate. Of course, two decades is a long time and Mary Kate and Maggie might no longer be friends or have remained in touch. Still, if I were a betting man (and I am not a gambler), I would put my money on both remaining fast friends. Mary Kate was my best bet.

"Edmund," I said, addressing the long time and long suffering concierge. "Could you please book a flight to Cork tomorrow morning and arrange for a rental car at the airport?"

"Certainly, Mr. O'Connor. Consider it done. I'll send the itinerary up to your room."

"Thanks. I think I'll walk over to Harrods and do a little Christmas shopping."

"Very good, Sir. Oh, and you may be interested to know that Burberry's is having its annual suit sale this week."

"Thanks, I'll consider it," I said as I headed for the door. Harrods was full of shoppers getting into the Christmas shopping season. I joined the throng, found a few gifts I thought my children would like, and arranged to have Harrods ship them to Jon and his wife, Adriana, and to Beth. No long-term boyfriend to consider in Elizabeth's case. She was enjoying playing the field. I smiled at that thought; they were still little kids to me. I also wanted to pick up a couple of special gifts for them at the Waterford glass plant in Ireland before I went back to the states.

That thought started me thinking about where I wanted to spend the Christmas holidays. Jon and his wife were spending the holidays in Naples, Florida with her parents. Beth was flying off to Cancun with a group of her friends. So there was no particular pressure to return home to Philadelphia. Our traditional Christmas meals as a family ended with the divorce.

Maybe I would spend a few more days in London and take in a few shows. _The Phantom of the Opera_ was still playing, and a new show, _Fame the Musical_ , had opened at the Cambridge Theatre earlier in the year.

I might also go back to Ireland and spend Christmas there. I could pursue my search for Maggie, spend a little time with Mary Kate, and, perhaps, even drop in on the delectable Ms. Reilly in Dublin if all else failed.

Uh oh, I thought, as I entered the Cadogan, better have Edmund change the flight to Cork and see if he can get the theatre tickets I wanted. Regardless of what he thought, Edmund took the change of plans with the weariness of one to whom the request was not unique. Guess I had better give Edmund an extra special tip before I leave. After all, it was almost Christmas and he bore my flip flopping with good grace and a smile.

My days in London went quickly. Between the stage shows, I walked the streets, and visited neighborhood pubs, absorbing a bit of the Dickensian Christmas feeling that still clings to the old city.

## Chapter 12

SEARCH RESUMES

My flight to Cork left on time for a change. Although it was unusual for this time of year, there was no fog at the Cork airport. I picked up my bag and walked to the car hire counter to pick up my rental, another Ford Granada.

As I drove into Cork, I couldn't resist going by Maggie's house, if it still belonged to her. Tempted as I was to stop, race to the door and bang on it until someone answered, I resisted the urge and drove back to Jury's Hotel.

In the lounge, I ordered a drink and a sandwich as I contemplated my next moves. As the bartender slid the pint across the bar, I asked, "You wouldn't happen to know a woman named Maggie O'Callahan, would you? She used to come in her with her friends. She's a red head and kinda short. She has a friend, Eddie Murphy, who used to be a desk manager at the Jury's in Dublin."

"Sorry, Sir, but I'm pretty new here. I don't believe I know anyone by those names. I don't think we have anyone by the name of Eddie Murphy in Dublin."

"Thanks. It was just a shot in the dark."

Back in the room, I pulled out the piece of paper with Mary Kate's number on it. I rang but there was no answer. Of course there would be no answer, I reminded myself. She would be at work at the new M&S store, especially with Christmas so near. I dialed the store and asked for fine women's clothing.

"May I help you?" The woman's voice had a strong Kerry accent. Definitely not Mary Kate.

"May I speak to Ms. Mary Kathleen O'Hanlan?"

"I'll see if she is available to take your call. One moment, please."

After a considerable pause, a woman's voice said, "Yes, this is Ms. O'Hanlan. How may I help you?''

"Mary Kate, this is Pat O'Connor."

I heard a sharp intake of breath. "Oh, Patrick, I got your message on my answering system at home, and I tried to ring you at the hotel but you had checked out. The hotel didn't know how to reach you."

"Yes, I had to go to London for a few days on business. I just returned."

There was a pause, and then she spoke, "It's been a very long time. Are you well?"

"Yes, Mary Kate, I am well. And you?" I was beside myself, impatient to hear about Maggie.

"I am fine," she said, then laughed. "Oh, Pat, this all sounds so formal and polite. She's fine. That's really what you wanted to know, isn't it?"

After a long sigh, I said, "Yes, Mary Kate. That is exactly what I wanted to know."

"Pat, I'm sorry, but I am in a terrible hurry and don't have time to talk now. I have an important customer in the salon and I need to get back to her. Could we meet for a drink after I get off work?

"I'd love to. In fact, I was going to suggest that we have dinner. How about here at Jury's?"

"That's fine."

"Mary Kate, before you go just one question; I looked for Maggie's name in the phone directory, but it wasn't there. Has she moved?'

"The reason you couldn't find her is that her name was changed. She married a man named Sean Boyle. See you later. Bye."

I sat stunned, the phone buzzing in my hand. Finally, I hung up and slowly turned the information over in my mind. My beloved Maggie married! I felt cold and empty inside.

I shouldn't have been surprised. After all it had been 20 years since we parted. It was only logical that if given the opportunity Maggie would marry, since we had agreed never to see or talk to each other.

Why would I think that she would still be waiting for me? I guess that somewhere in the back of my mind I had thought we might have a life together after all since I was no longer married. My mind was having trouble adjusting to the fact that Maggie was no longer "mine." She belonged to some other man. More than likely, she had a family as well. There was no way I could see her. My quest was at an end. My search could go no further.

Lying on the bed, I let fresh tears flow for my lost love. Some time later, I awakened to the dark room and thought it was appropriate to match my mood. Still, I would see Mary Kate soon. At least I could learn about Maggie and her life after I left. Being with Mary was as close as I could get to my Maggie.

A quick shower and a change of clothes and I was ready to face Mary Kate. As I waited in the hotel lobby, the porter brought a note to me.

" _Dear Pat, so sorry I cannot see you tonight. Marks & Spencer executives from London arrived unexpectedly, and requested all department heads to meet with them. Can we meet tomorrow? Ring me at home and leave a message. M.K_."

I crumpled the note and tossed it into the trash can nearby. Pulling out my pocket notepad, I found Mary Kate's number.

"Where is the nearest phone I can use for an outside call?" I inquired of a passing waiter.

"Over there, Sir, in the corner. Is the call local?"

"Yes."

I dialed and left a message, saying I would pick up at her home at half-six the next evening. Then I headed back to the lounge to drink my dinner. My disappointment was overwhelming. Nothing seemed to be going right.

The next day, I woke up wondering what lorry had hit me. I remembered someone saying "That Yank is sure knocking 'em down." It seemed in my hazy recollection that some people were taking bets as to when I would fall off the bar stool. I don't know who won the bet. The next thing I remembered was my head splitting open when I opened my eyes. Blasted curtains didn't keep that infernal sun from blazing into the room. I managed to crawl to the bathroom where I tried to empty an already empty stomach.

Fumbling in my shaving kit, I found a tin of aspirin, took a handful and downed the lot with a glass of water. Back to bed! Whatever possessed me to do such a foolish thing? Totally unlike Patrick Eugene O'Connor. I hadn't been that drunk since one college summer break at Ft. Lauderdale.

I wobbled back to the bed where I covered my head and hoped I would die. I didn't.

In the late afternoon, I arose to face what appeared to be a reasonable facsimile of Frankenstein's monster in the mirror.

"This will never do," I thought. "I have to be reasonably sober for Mary Kate tonight." Staggering into the shower, I turned it on and felt the bracing shock of the cold water smacking my face. "God, that's cold!" But I endured long minutes before switching to a hot shower. By the time I emerged, I was tolerably sober and beginning to believe I would live.

## Chapter 13

MARY KATE

"Oh, Patrick, it is so good to see you!" Mary Kate came forward with arms outstretched, a warmer welcome than I had expected. I hoped my excesses of the night before didn't show.

I hugged her and stood back, admiring the chic woman before me. "I am happy to see you, Mary Kate. You look wonderful. You've let your hair grow since I saw you."

"Don't look too closely or you'll see the gray hair mixed with the blond." We stood there gazing at each other. It had been so long and we both showed the evidence of passing time.

"Shall we go?"

"Yes, where?" was her question.

"It's a surprise."

She laughed, took my arm and said, "Lead on, my handsome Yank escort."

We drove to Kinsale where I had dinner reservations at Man Friday. As we were seated at a corner table, we looked at each other across the small candle lamp and remembered another time long ago when there were three of us.

"Oh, Patrick, it is good to see you again. I have often thought of you and our wonderful day together in Kinsale. Also, my mother often asked about you."

"Oh and how is your mother, Mary Kate?"

"She passed away almost 10 years ago."

"I'm sorry to hear that. I really liked her."

"And she liked you, Patrick." Mary Kate paused for a long minute before she continued, "And she gave me a message for you."

"What? What message?"

"She told me that if I ever saw you again or talked to you, I was to tell you that everything would work out the way it is supposed to."

How strange to receive an encouraging message from an old lady that I had met only once twenty years ago.

"Thank you, Mary Kate. I hope she is right."

Over the excellent meal and a bottle of a truly fine French Bordeaux, we gradually caught up with what had happened in our lives since last we saw each other.

"Oh, Pat, I'm so sorry about your wife leaving you. How devastating, and to lose custody of your children, too. I knew how much you loved them and how proud of them you were."

"Well, I'm still proud of Beth and Jon. They have survived a very difficult time in our lives and have done well. And Jon's wife, Adriana, is truly a delight. I'm a very fortunate man."

"Do you mind my asking what happened with your marriage? Or is that too painful to talk about?

"Not now. It was at one time. But it has been a long time since Kerri left me.

"For one thing, she had been having an affair for nearly a year before I met you. She was incredibly discreet, and I simply had no clue. Len was her boss and she finally married him, although I understand they now are divorced. She has gone on to her third husband who, incidentally, holds an even higher position in her company than Len did.

"Second, Kerri was nothing if not motivated to succeed, even when she played sports in high school and in her academics in college. So when she got the opportunity to move up in her company, she was driven to be 'the best' and to be with the best."

"But at what cost?" Mary Kate asked.

I nodded, remember the heartache, the tears, and the angry shouting matches we had. Caught in the middle were Jon and Beth. We got counseling for them. To Kerri's credit, despite her driving ambition, she was a good and loving mother during this difficult time. Both of us made as sure as we could that the kids understood they were not to blame and that we both loved them very much.

"Anyway, they are now well adjusted adults and have moved on with their lives."

"Tell me how you became a writer. As I remembered, you worked for a chemical company that was building a plant here in County Cork. What happened?"

"Like a lot of companies during the late '80s and early '90s, our company was acquired by another firm. Oh, officially, it was called a merger but those of us inside knew who was taking over. In their corporate wisdom, they – meaning the board of directors – decided that the company would be more profitable if they let 30% of their workforce go. I was just one of those gobs of middle management people they thought they could do without."

"What did you do?

"Well, I had been a good journalist for _The Bulletin_ , a very good evening newspaper in Philadelphia before it went out of business. And I had done some free lancing as a writer. I had always loved writing. So I decided to take control of my future and turn to writing again, this time fiction."

"And just like that you become a successful author, right?" We both laughed.

"Well, yes...after a godawful number of rejections by literary agents. I couldn't even get to publishers. Then, out of the blue, a woman named Jamie Lipchitz called me and _voila_! As they say in movies, the rest is history and we – my agent and I —lived happily ever after on my novels and short stories of the old West."

Mary Kate clapped and said, "That's wonderful! But how did you happen to come back to Ireland?"

I looked somewhere over her head, reluctant to meet her gaze and answer her question. We sat silent for a few moments, listening to the clink of silverware and glasses from the other diners.

"I wrote a love story set in Ireland. It was published – mainly because I kind of forced the publisher to issue it – but it didn't sell well in the U.S. Then Jamie called and said she had an Irish publisher who was interested and that there could be a movie possibility as well."

"What prompted you to switch from writing westerns to writing a love sto...." She stopped in mid-sentence. Realization dawned in her eyes. "You wrote about you and Maggie didn't you? It's your love story."

Finally, I looked into her very blue and accusing eyes and nodded.

"Yes." This was the first time that Maggie's name was mentioned since our phone conversation that so shocked me the other day.

"How could you?" Mary Kate was angry. "How could you tell the world about the love you and Maggie shared? She loved you so much; I think she would have gone crazy if I hadn't been there. But no one but me – and, perhaps, Fionna – ever knew how much she loved you." She shook her head. "Your story almost seems like a betrayal."

I took Mary Kate's hands in mine. "It was the story I had to write. Oh, much of it was fiction, but it was the only way I could keep the love Maggie and I had alive. Frankly, I never cared if even one copy of the book sold. It was my way of keeping her close to me. I have never loved anyone the way I have loved Maggie."

"Then, you are still in love with her."

"Yes!"

We both sat silently looking at each other. Mary Kate reached across the table and patted my hand. Her accusing tone was gone. "Pat, if it is any comfort, Maggie has always loved you and still does."

"But you said she is married. Someone named Boyle, I think. How did they meet?"

"Oh, Sean had been an engineer for Ford when it built its first manufacturing plant in Ireland," Mary Kate explained. "After his wife died, he retired from Ford and started farming a small plot west of Cork. Maggie and I used to go to his farm to get fresh vegetables. He noticed how sad Maggie was and tried to cheer her up. He used to stop by her house and bring her fresh flowers. He was kind and thoughtful; I guess he was attracted to her and offered to marry her."

"And he has been a good husband to her?"

"Oh, yes. Sean was wonderful to her and she took loving care of him. He finally sold his farm and moved to her house on Western Road. That's why you couldn't find her in the directory. The phone is still listed in his name."

"I see!" Now, more than ever I realized that Maggie was not mine and could never be. Sad as I felt at that moment, I also was grateful that Maggie had found a man who loved her and who took good care of her.

Our table had been cleared and our coffee had grown cold. It was time to leave. It was time for me to leave Ireland and go home to the United States.

Our return to Cork was in silence. Even the twinkle of the city lights as we topped the hill failed to raise my low spirits. I let the car coast to a silent stop in front of Mary Kate's home.

"Do your sisters still live with you?" I asked. "No. They moved away and are scattered in Ireland and England. Would you like to come in?"

"Thanks, no, Mary Kate." I pleaded a bit of indigestion and said I needed to go to the hotel to lie down.

As we stood at her front door, I had to ask one more question.

"Did they have any children?"

"Maggie has a son, Dennis. He is away at college. He is a very bright young man. He'll be coming home soon for Christmas."

"Thanks, Mary Kate. It was been wonderful seeing you. And thanks for..." I paused. "...for bringing me up to date on Maggie." I started for the car, then turned and said, "Could you do me one favor? Would you tell her that I still love her and will for the rest of my life?"

"Why don't you tell her yourself? She'll be back from a visit to her sister who lives near Youghal. Her sister has been sick, and Maggie has been helping with the household for a few days. I expect her tomorrow or the next day."

"Sorry, no. Not now. It wouldn't serve any purpose for me to see her. Good-bye." I almost ran to the car.

At the hotel, I packed, paid my bill and headed for the carpark to drive through the night to Shannon Airport. I would stay at a hotel near Limerick and return the rental at the airport. I could book the first flight out for the states tomorrow morning. I couldn't leave Ireland soon enough.

## Chapter 14

A FORTUNATE DELAY

But plans sometimes go awry. In my case, I started to back out of the parking space and realized that something was wrong with one tire. Getting out, I saw that the tire was virtually flat. At the desk, I phoned the car rental company to report the flat.

"I'm very sorry, Sir, but our roadside service is not available until nine tomorrow morning. We will be happy to send someone then to fix your tire."

"But I need to catch a plane at Shannon in the morning. Can't you do something? Bring me another car?"

"Sorry, but it's too late at night," the voice on the phone repeated, this time more firmly. "Just stay the night at Jury's, and we'll have someone on the job first thing tomorrow. Good night, Sir."

So much for my plans. One more night in Cork and then I would be gone. I re-booked my room for the night and collapsed on the bed. I felt exhausted, but couldn't sleep.

As I thought about my conversation with Mary Kate I began to wonder about something she said. If Maggie's son was in college, he must be at least 17, 18, or 19. That means that she married this Sean Boyle very soon after I left. That thought made me angry. She hadn't waited long after I was gone, had she? Maybe she hadn't really loved me as much as I loved her. Maybe it was all a glorious dream in my mind that bore little reality.

I laced my fingers behind my head and remembered the time we made "a pilgrimage," as she called it, to Gougane Barra where we knelt and she said the rosary before the little altar. I remembered the other times, walking around the Old Head of Kinsale in a driving gale and getting soaked; fumbling our way through the dense fog at Garrettstown; and reading the poetry of Yeats to each other at Crosshaven. And vividly in my mind was the image of intense love-making in her bed.

No, I was not wrong. She had loved me every bit as much as I had loved – and still loved – her. She deserved to have someone to love her and care for her. She deserved to have her family, too. I hoped that her son loved his mother as much I loved her.

Somewhere in my musings, I drifted off. I awoke to an insistent banging on the door of my room.

Sleepily, I opened the door to find...Maggie! Behind her was a smiling Mary Kate. Maggie rushed into my arms and began smothering me with kisses. All the while, she murmured, "Oh, my sweet, sweet love, you've come back to me. My prayers have been answered."

I was flabbergasted. Here was my Maggie, in my arms, kissing me as if we had never parted.

Finally, holding her off for a moment, I asked, "How did you get here? I thought you were at your sister's. And how did you get in? I thought the hotel was locked up for the night."

Oh, _mo gra_ , I couldn't stay away once I knew you were here. I had to come right away; I even lied to the night porter to let me in and tell me your room number. I told him I was your sister and that our older sister was dying. He was very kind...," she said with her crooked little smile, "...and very gullible."

"But how did you know I was here?"

"Mary Kate. She phoned my sister's house and told me you were here. She also said you still loved me, but she was afraid you were going to leave without seeing me. So she drove to Youghal and brought me here."

We heard the click of the door closing; Mary Kate had done her job and was quietly disappearing, leaving us to sort things out.

Maggie kissed me again and then continued. "'When the porter said you had checked out, I thought I would die. I insisted he check the records again, poor man. He did and said you had checked out but had checked back in for the night. I...I couldn't wait; I had to see you!"

"Oh, Maggie, my love, I am so glad you did." I held her as tightly as I dared. She was whispering to me in Gaelic, but I couldn't understand the words, only the meanings. We both felt the old stirrings of passion as we shared one long kiss.

Suddenly, I pushed her away. "Wait, this isn't right."

"What isn't, _mo gra_?"

"You're married; what about your husband Sean? This isn't fair to him."

"Didn't Mary Kate tell you?"

"Tell me what?

"Sean died almost ten years ago, shortly after Mary Kate's mother died. The pneumonia together with his bad heart and his lung problems from years of smoking were too much for him."

"I'm sorry, Maggie. Mary Kate left out those details. It must have been awful for you, especially with a young boy to raise."

"She told you about Dennis?"

"Yes, she said he was attending college in Dublin and would be home soon for Christmas."

"You must meet him, _Padraig_. You must stay for Christmas. Yes, it was a sad time. Sean was a good, kindly man."

"And you loved him?"

"Yes...as a daughter would love her father or a sister her older brother. You see, he was much older than I. Our marriage was something like a...." she hesitated as she sought the right words, "...a business arrangement. He would take care of me and my son if I would agree to care for him when he became sick. And I did. It brought back all the memories of caring for my Mum when she was sick."

A thought was beginning to take hold in my mind. "You mean that Dennis isn't his son?"

Maggie turned those mesmerizing green eyes I loved to me and said in a low voice, "No, _mo gra_. There is only one man I have ever loved, and he is the son of that man."

I sat down in the chair, stunned by the knowledge that Dennis was MY son.

She nodded. "Yes, Dennis _Padraig_ O'Connor is yours. I named him for you. I prayed that one day he might know his real father, but I never really thought that would happen."

She smoothed my hair back from my forehead and kissed me. Putting her hand under my chin, she raised my face so I could look into those wonderfully expressive eyes.

"When I realized I was pregnant, I couldn't let you know; you had your family in the States. I was in a panic and didn't know where to turn or what to do. Of course, Mary Kate knew about my being pregnant with your baby, but she couldn't really help. Then Sean Boyle, the wise and kind man that he was, guessed what was wrong and why I was sad. He said he would take care of me and my baby if I would marry him and take care of him when he needed me. I didn't realize it at the time, but he had a bad heart. He was really a good man and a very good father to Dennis. We owe him a lot, _Padraig_."

"Yes," I agreed. "Yes we do."

I pulled her onto my lap and kissed her mouth, her nose, her neck and moved lower. At that, she stopped me and breathed into my ear, "Let's go home, _Padraig_. Let's go to my bed and find ourselves again."

She felt my hesitation. "You, my love, are the only man who has ever been in my bed. You are the only man who has ever made love to me. You are the only man I have ever loved or ever will."

The rest of the night was one of sheer delight and quiet passion for both of us. It was a homecoming literally and figuratively. As she slept quietly in my arms, I couldn't take my eyes off of her face. She was so relaxed and so peaceful. I could hardly believe that less than 12 hours earlier I was ready to fly off to the U.S. without ever seeing her again. Thank God for that flat tire! Was it fate or was it God? At this point, it didn't matter. We were together again. And I resolved that we would never again be separated until one of us died.

I smiled into the darkness, remembering that we had to walk from the hotel to her house because of the flat. That reminded me that I needed to do something about my room at the hotel. Should I cancel it and move in with Maggie? Or should I maintain some discreet distance? Her son might not like to arrive home for Christmas only to find some stranger living in the house. I guess I should get used to saying "our son."

There were lots of new things to get accustomed to. Maybe I was assuming too much. Would Maggie marry me when I asked? I definitely would ask. Would our son be upset to learn he was conceived before she was married? Should we be married by a priest? Maybe she would prefer a judge or whoever did that sort of thing in Ireland. And what would Jon and Beth think when they found out they had a brother in Ireland? I felt excited, just thinking about the future when all of my family in the states and in Ireland would be together.

" _mo gra_ , what are you thinking?"

I hadn't realized she was awake and watching me with those wonderfully expressive eyes. Her hair in the light of morning was the same golden red that I remembered with just a bit more of silver mixed in.

"I was just thinking about us."

"And what, may I ask, about us?"

"Will you marry me?"

"Yes!" No hesitation on her part. "That was easy. What else?"

I couldn't answer because she was kissing me. When we finally came up for air, I said, "I was thinking about Dennis when he comes home. How do you think he will take the news that he is not Sean Boyle's son, and that his real father had suddenly turned up and, of all things, in his mother's bed?"

She sat up, the covers falling to her waist. "He's going to be fine with the news. You see, when he was born, I took the liberty of giving your name as the father; Sean was fine with that. So our baby was officially registered as Dennis Patrick O'Connor. He already knows that Sean was not his real father. He knows nothing more. Sean was the father you couldn't be when he was growing up."

She jumped out of the bed, taking the blanket with her and leaving me uncovered as she once had a habit of doing. "Oh, _Padraig_ , I can't wait for the two of you to meet. You'll like him; he's a beautiful young man and a loving son. When I couldn't have you, he was my constant reminder of my true love."

## Chapter 15

CHRISTMAS PLANS

I moved in with her that morning. Our next few days were happy ones as together we decorated Maggie's house for Christmas. Keeping with Irish traditions, we spread holly and ornaments on all the fireplace mantelpieces.

Particular attention was given to placing mistletoe above each doorway; it was a wonder we got anything else done as we observed the tradition of kissing under each sprig.

"We must get a red candle to place in the front window." She explained that the light of the candle shows the way for Mary and Joseph and the Christ Child on Christmas Eve. "They will know they are welcome in our home as are any weary travelers in the night."

"Uh, Maggie, does that mean we are likely to have unexpected guests during the night?"

"No-o-o, of course not, you silly Yank. It's just what we say; it's tradition."

The candle was easy; decorating the Christmas tree was a bit more involved. You see, I had always liked Christmas and had made a big thing of decorating the tree when my Jonathan and Elizabeth were small. The kids and I would string popcorn and cranberries and add the ornaments carefully preserved from year to year while my wife (now ex) made cookies. Each year, the kids would insist on a tree that was bigger than last year's.

So when I arrived at Maggie's door with the tree, she was speechless. Finding her voice, she cried, " _Padraig_ , where on earth did you get such a big tree? And what are we to decorate it with? We haven't enough ornaments."

"The sitting room," was my reply to her first question. "We'll buy more things to put on the tree." And we did.

The last thing was the star for the top. Since the tree reached almost to the tall ceiling in the sitting room, I brought in the ladder from the shed in the back garden. With both of us standing on the wooden ladder, we placed the star on top.

"Oh, it looks perfect! Dennis will be so surprised."

As we folded the ladder, Maggie said, "I have one more thing to do. I must hang Dennis' stocking on his bed."

"Don't you hang it on the mantel?"

"No, it's an old Irish tradition to hang a stocking on the foot of a child's bed. Then, Santa slips in during the night and fills it with fruit and candy coins." She took a faded red knit stocking from a drawer in the kitchen and hung it with loving care on the bed in the back bedroom that now belonged to Dennis. "It's silly, I suppose, but Dennis still likes the tradition even though he is a man grown."

I slipped my arms around Maggie, kissed her neck and said, "I love your old Irish traditions, and I especially love you."

Maggie laughed her crooked smile and, giving me a swat on the behind, said, "Now put the ladder back where you found it."

"Yes, ma'am."

The rest of the day was busy with trips to the meat market for the turkey and ham, and to the bakery shop for the breads and cakes for the holidays. I made one stop on my own for a special present for Maggie.

That night as frost began to paint its intricate designs on the windows, we sat on the couch, watching the turf fire cast dancing shadows around the room. The single red candle glowed in the window. On the radio, RTE was playing traditional Christmas music.

Reaching in the pocket of my cardigan, I drew out a small box, wrapped in green paper with a small red bow on top.

"What's this?"

"It's an early present. Open it and see."

Maggie's hands shook as she carefully removed the bow and the paper. Opening the blue velvet box, Maggie caught her breath. Sparkling in the glow of the fire and the Christmas lights was a gold circle with evenly matched diamonds around the ring.

"Oh, _Padraig_! What have you done? It's so beautiful." She always had a way of drawing out the first syllable of the word in a way I loved but could never duplicate.

"Since you agreed to marry me, I thought you should have a ring to show for our engagement." I took the ring and slipped it on her finger; it fit perfectly. "Merry Christmas."

Maggie's eyes were glistening as she looked at the ring and then up into my eyes. " _Nollaig Shona Duit, gra mo chroi_ ," she breathed. Putting her hands behind my neck, she drew my face down to hers and our lips met.

"You are too good to me, _mo gra_." Maggie whispered as she gazed at the ring on her finger. Once again, those magnificent eyes turned to me.

"There is one more special Christmas gift I would like, _Padraig_ ," she said earnestly.

"Name it and it's yours."

"I want all of us – you, me and Dennis – to go to Midnight Mass at St. Mary's on Christmas Eve."

"Um-m, is this like the request to go on our pilgrimage to Gouganne Barra that we did one spring so long ago?"

"Yes, but this is different. Then we knew we were going to say good-bye to each other. Or least I did. This is to give thanks to God for bringing us together finally as a family."

"How do you think Dennis will see it? Will he see me as family or as an intruder? Or will he accept me despite the fact that I have been absent from his life while he was going up?"

Maggie laughed. "It will be your joy to find out. You see, I know my – our – son. And he is...a kind, loving man...like his father."

## Chapter 16

HOMECOMING

All was in readiness for Dennis' homecoming and our first meeting. The house on Western Road was decorated and the presents were wrapped and piled beneath the tree.

Our initial meeting, however, didn't turn out the way any of us expected. Maggie and I agreed we would meet the train when it arrived at the station from Dublin. Our plan was for her to introduce us and then for all of us to go to dinner. There, we would start the process of getting to know each other.

Someone once said, "If you want to make God laugh, tell him your plans."

As the train pulled into the station, I began feeling unwell. I said nothing to Maggie, thinking it was only a bit of indigestion. But the uncomfortable feeling, a kind of burning sensation, seemed to spread across my chest and up my left arm to my neck and jaw. I was in pain and it was growing. The train eased into the station and people of all ages from students to businessmen and women began pouring from the train.

As I watched a tall young man with dark red hair stepped off the train, a backpack in his hand. At that moment, I felt the pain become unbearable and I felt myself growing faint. "Oh, no," I thought irrelevantly, "this is like 'Dr. Zhivago' when he finds his lost love only to die before they could be together."

My scene faded to black with my final thought that I was dying.

I didn't. Die, that is. Instead, I woke up in a bed in Mercy University Hospital. Not the grim old stone gothic building that I remembered from the 1970s but a shiny new white tile and glass affair.

"Well, you gave us a bit of a fright, laddie." The man bending over me was a kindly looking grey haired man in a white coat and a fairly thick Scottish accent. "Glad you're back with us."

"What happened? Did I have a heart attack?"

"We don't know, but we don't think so. Your ECG didn't show anything unusual. Your blood pressure was elevated. You just rest, laddie, while we do some more tests to find out what caused you to collapse."

"Doc, I thought I was having a heart attack."

"We haven't ruled anything out yet. We just need to complete our workup on you." The doctor beckoned to the doorway. "In the meantime, here is someone who is very worried and wants to see you."

Maggie burst into the room, followed by the young man I assumed was Dennis.

"Oh, _Padraig, mo gra_. I have been so worried. How are you at all at all?" I couldn't answer for her kisses as she clutched my hand.

"I feel okay now," I replied. "At the train station, I thought I was having a heart attack. But I'm not sure the doctor agrees."

Switching my gaze to the confused looking young man standing quietly behind her, I said, "I suppose you are Dennis. Is that correct?"

"Yes, Sir. I had just stepped off the train and saw my mother when you collapsed beside her."

"Bit of a mess I made, I'm afraid. Not a good way to meet you and not a very nice homecoming with your mother."

"I'm just glad you're all right, Sir." Hum-m, very polite. I liked that about him.

Turning to his mother, Dennis asked, "Mom, would you please explain how you know this man?"

Maggie looked up at her son, smiled and said, "He is _mo charra_ , my friend from long ago. Twenty years ago, in fact, we became very good friends. He just returned to Cork yesterday."

She appeared ready to proceed with an explanation of who I really was when we were interrupted by an orderly who said, "I'm sorry, but you'll have to go to the waiting room. I need to take Mr. O'Connor for more tests." He wheeled me out, but not before I saw comprehension dawn on Dennis' face.

After seemingly endless tests, I waited impatiently for the results, and thought about the drama probably being played out in the waiting room between Dennis and his mother.

Finally, Dr. "Scotsman" appeared. "Well, laddie, we have figured out your problem. The good news is that you didn't have a heart attack. You had an unusually severe attack of gastroesophageal reflux disease."

"What's that?"

Bringing out his visual aids, he explained, "You have what is called the lower esophageal sphincter at the bottom of your esophagus. This is a little flap that closes at the proper time so the acid in the stomach can't go back up into the esophagus. When the flap doesn't work right, acid backs up and causes severe burning of the esophagus and creates an ulcer in the esophagus. In a severe case, it can cause the symptoms that mimic a heart attack. In your case, you have a hiatal hernia that prevents the sphincter from closing properly."

"So, Doc, what can I do about it?"

"Well, you can have surgery, but we suggest that only as a last resort. Best bet is to use medicines that we now have to control the acid and heal the ulcer. I'll give you a prescription you can get filled at a chemist shop. Then you can go home with your wife and son."

I didn't bother to correct him. Anyway, he was right about the son.

As I walked into the waiting room, Maggie jumped up and ran to me. Dennis followed slowly.

"Oh, _Padraig_ , I was so worried. Did they find out what was wrong?

"Yes, and it is nothing to get alarmed about. I feel fine now; I have a prescription to get filled at a chemist shop and that will take care of the problem. Just relax. I'm okay."

Dennis approached. "I'm glad you're feeling well again, Sir." He paused, "You're my father, aren't you?"

"Yes, Son, I am."

"But how could you....?"

I held up my hand and said, "Dennis, I would rather go somewhere besides the hospital waiting room to have this conversation. Why don't we go ahead with our plans to go out to eat? Then, your mother and I will be happy to answer all your questions. We will tell you the truth. No evasions. Is that agreeable?"

"Yes, Sir."

We asked for a quiet corner of the dining room at the Silver Springs Hotel. Over dinner, Maggie and I told him everything from the beginning and why we parted. I explained that I didn't know he existed until two days ago. He absorbed all we told him calmly and with only a few questions. He was surprised and pleased to learn that he had a brother and sister in the states, and said he would look forward to meeting them.

"I always wondered about my name. My mother told me honestly that it was my real father's name but refused to talk about you except to say that she loved you with all her heart and that she always would. I had to be satisfied with that while I was growing up." He added, "But I have always been curious about you."

Dennis glanced at his mother a bit guiltily, and continued, "I had made up my mind that, as soon as I could, I would search for my father and arrange to meet him...er, ah, you. Of course, I thought you were one of the O'Connors in Ireland."

Looking at him, I felt proud of the handsome young man sitting across from me. Maggie had done a wonderful job raising him to be the man he was beginning to be.

"I'm glad you're my son, Dennis. I barely know you but already I feel proud of you."

I paused for a moment or two, and then said, "Dennis, before you came home, I asked your mother to marry me and she said yes. But I feel I must ask for your blessing. You see, I want us to be a real family. I want to get to know you and you to know me."

Dennis looked surprised. He swallowed hard and his eyes, green of course, glistened with tears. "Yes, Sir, I want that too. I want whatever will make my mother happy. And I want us to be a family," he said, then paused and added, "Dad."

Had the waiter come to our table at that moment, he would have seen three smiling adults with tears in their eyes. That was one Irish Christmas we all would remember.

Like I told my agent, I like happy endings to my stories.

* * *
