Night Of The Blackbird by Heather Graham Read Free Book Online

was always construction; the freeway was as often as not a stop-and-go place. Once they were out of the tunnel and off the highway, the streets were narrow and one-way. And then there were the traffic circles…. The old character and ultra-thin roadways were part of the charm of the city—and the bane of it, as well.
    The young man kept his right hand solidly on the steering wheel and slipped her a card with his left hand.
    â€œHey, I’m Irish, too.”
    â€œYour name is Tom Gambetti.”
    He grinned at her in the rearview mirror. “My mom is Irish, Dad is Italian. Hey, this is Boston. There are lots of us living on pasta and potatoes! Both your folks are Irish?”
    â€œOh, Lord, yes!” Moira laughed.
    â€œRight off the old potato boat, eh?”
    â€œSomething like that,” she said, then leaned forward, pointing. “There it is—Kelly’s Pub.”
    The street was narrow. Though both corners held large new office buildings, the rest of the block still had a lot of old character. The building that housed the pub was two stories, with a basement and an attic. It dated from Colonial days, as did many of its nudged-in neighbors. An old iron tethering pole remained in front, from the days when the country’s forefathers had come to knock back a pint or two. Kelly’s Pub was lettered on an attractive board above the door, and there were soft friendly lights issuing from lamps on either side. When the weather was warm, tables spilled onto the narrow enclosed patio in front. There were two windows in the front, as well; they were closed now, in deference to the winter, but within the pub, the lace-edged curtains were drawn back so that passersby could see the welcoming coziness to be found inside.
    â€œWant your suitcase right in the pub?” Tom asked.
    â€œNo, thanks, just on the sidewalk. I’m going upstairs first.”
    â€œI’ll be happy to take it up for you,” he suggested.
    She shook her head. “No, thanks. I appreciate it, but—”
    â€œBut a homecoming is best alone,” he said.
    She paid him as he set her bag down. “Thanks. And I will call you if we need transportation.”
    â€œYou may not have to call me. It looks like a great pub.”
    â€œIt is,” she murmured, listening to the laughter and music coming from within. “It’s everything a pub is supposed to be. Céad mile fáilte. ”
    â€œWhat does that mean?”
    She looked at him, smiling wryly. “A hundred thousand welcomes.”
    â€œNice. Well, good luck. I’ll be seeing you.”
    â€œThanks.”
    He got in his car and drove away, it seemed regretfully. Nice kid, she thought. Then she hefted her suitcase and started up the outside stairs that led to the family living quarters above the thriving business.
    Her mother was a model of domesticity. The porch beside the front door of the home area was set with white wicker café tables, and the canvas overhang was clean as a whistle, even in the dying days of winter. Moira set her case down by the door and knocked, her fingers colder than she had realized inside her gloves. Knocking was easier than trying to find her key.
    The door opened. Her mother was there, taking one look at her face and giving her the kind of smile that would have made a trek halfway around the world worthwhile. “Moira Kathleen!” And then, though Katy Kelly was thin as a reed and two inches shorter than Moira’s five feet eight, she enveloped her daughter in a fierce hug with the strength of a grizzly.
    â€œMoira Kathleen, you’re home!” Katy said, stepping back at last, hands on her hips as she surveyed her daughter.
    â€œMum, of course I’m home. You knew I was coming.”
    â€œSeems so long, Moira,” Katy said, shaking her head. “And you look like a million.”
    Moira laughed. “Thanks, Mum. Good genes,” she said affectionately. Her mother