EILEEN

DECEMBER 1967

 The Christmas holidays are quiet. I miss Mo, but I don't miss the endless, pointless parties we were dragged to by our parents before they left us to jet to some exotic location to ring in the new year. We go to mass in the village, and Granddad has a Wren Day party for all the help on the farm the following day. It's nothing like the holiday in America. It's truly a time for family and friends. The decorations are low-key and homemade and the gifts personal. I had hand-embroidered for Bridey a beautiful apron with wildflowers in my Home Economics class. She promptly declares she will never use it because it is too beautiful. I managed to find a W.B. Yeats collection for Brendan and wrapped it in paper I made myself. As he opens it, he murmurs, "What voice more sweet than hers—When, young and beautiful, She rode to harriers?" I inwardly swoon. He still thinks of me. It also doesn't escape me that Granddad keeps shooting looks between the two of us as if he were waiting for something to happen.

As for Granddad, I give him a story. I created a fairytale of my very own about the spirit of the spring and how she was the Guardian of the Village. I copied it by hand into a beautiful, leather-bound journal, and Bridget illustrated it with beautiful watercolors based on the stories I shared with her late at night about the spring. He declares it his very favorite manuscript in the whole library.

 

During my time at home, I spend quite a bit of time with Sidhe, riding on the farm. Granddad is busy with men coming and going and meeting with people in his estate office at all hours.

A few days before the new year, I overhear Bridey mention to Granddad that she is worried about Brendan spending his evenings at the pub since he's been home. Granddad tells her not to worry, since he’s now a young man at university and no harm ever came to a young man from having a few pints and exchanging ideas at the local pub. And with that, my plan comes together. I'll sneak out and walk to the village. I'll bump into him at the pub and flirt with some of the other boys. Then he'll get jealous and have no choice but to talk to me. There's no way this plan can fail.

Luckily, that night, Granddad is behind closed doors, in one of his unending meetings. After supper, I root through my bag and dig out a mint green miniskirt and turtleneck that Colleen had lent me for Christmas break. She was all in on this plan to get Brendan back, and she wanted to make sure I had the appropriate wardrobe to do it in.

So after spending an inordinately long time trying to straighten my unruly red hair and somehow hide my freckles—I was unsuccessful on both counts—I sneak out the back door and down to the village. Luckily, it isn't especially cold and the village pub is on the outskirts closest to the farm. The walk is just long enough for me to not lose my nerve. Before I know it, I find myself standing in the doorway of the pub, not sure what to do next. I drift in as a part of a group, order a beer, and settle into the darkish corner closest to the door, where I can watch what is going on.

I scan the smoky, homey atmosphere, wood floors worn smooth and sculpted by the traffic of a hundred years, and whitewashed walls mellowed by the smoky fire in the enormous fireplace. A duo is setting up in the corner—a fiddle player and singer. It only takes a minute before my eyes land on a figure that's unmistakably Brendan—the broad shoulders and wavy black hair a dead giveaway. He is with a hard-looking blonde I recognize from church—Maeve, I think. She is standing far too close for my liking. I sip the beer, not really liking the taste but desperate to blend in, and watch.

The next thing I know, Brendan and the blonde are kissing in the corner, her hands wrapped possessively in his hair, like mine had been just a few short months ago. She looks over his shoulder, straight at me, triumph blazing in her eyes, and it slowly dawns on me. He was kissing her back. My hands shake and I down the beer, hoping that it will somehow stop the tremors. I'm so stunned, I can't move. I want to flee, but I'm paralyzed.

As Brendan makes his way to the loo, the blonde locks eyes with me and makes a beeline to my perch. She gets up in my face, her eyes glittering with malice. "I know you want him, little girl. I saw you watching us. You better keep your hands to yourself and not get any ideas. Brendan's mine. He knows his place is here. He'll be proposing soon enough. Why don't you just go home?"

I’m dumbstruck by her pronouncement—my mind is spinning as I try to process that bit of news. Proposing? She spins on her heel and goes back to her corner. My eyes sting as I take a deep breath, drink down the last of my beer, and make a beeline for the door, hoping to get outside before the tears spill out. The last thing I need to do is prove to the world that I'm not only a fool but a child crying in public because some boy lied to me.

I rip open the door, bolting like a rabbit, and slam into a wall of navy wool. I look up into blue-green eyes the color of the Caribbean. A lean, strong, copper-haired young man who looks vaguely familiar blocks my way. His smile dims as he grabs my forearms, trying to break my fall.

"Are you all right? Who made you cry? Do I have to go in there and—" His voice. He is American.

I struggle unsuccessfully to break loose from his grip and his searching gaze. "It's nothing. Please just let me go. I need to leave. Please. Please. Don't make me stay."

My pleas grow more incoherent as the tears stream down my face. He pulls me to his solid chest and into the shadows just outside the door, tucking my head into his neck as he holds me close, rubbing my back and preserving my dignity. He lets me cry silently for what must be only a few moments but feels like an eternity as he murmurs reassurances.

As my tears slow, I grow self-conscious about standing in the shadows in the arms of a strange man. He tips my chin up as he lets me go, and he gently brushes away my last tears with his thumb, his glittering eyes searching mine. "Better?"

After a deep breath, I nod, and whisper, "I think so. Thank you for being so kind. I'm sorry I interrupted your evening. "

"Wasn't an interruption at all. Damsels in distress are my specialty." He extends his hand with great formality, his blue-green eyes twinkling and a dimple threatening an appearance as he smiles. "Declan Drazen at your service."

"I'm Eileen." I return the smile and grasp his extended hand as my governess taught me, lingering as I notice for the first time that a man's hands could be beautiful. "Thank you again. I should let you get on with your evening. I'm sure your friends are waiting for you."

"The only friend I'm worried about at the moment is the one I just made. Now that she's done with my shoulder, I'd like to lend her my ear and see if we can't fix her problem. Come back in and let's get to know each other properly." He sweeps me back into the scene of my emotional ambush—and somehow, it doesn't seem so bad. He guides me to a table tucked in the back and grabs us two lagers.

"Your accent. You're American. What's an American doing in this sleepy little village?" I ask.

"My family is from Ennis in County Clare, despite the Norman-sounding name. But you're right. I was born in California—Los Angeles, to be specific. Though I must say your accent doesn't quite fit in here either." He winks, and I blush.

"Boston. I'm visiting relatives for the holidays. I'm finishing up high school at Laurel Hill in Limerick." I decide in that moment that I'm going take this opportunity for a fresh start as far as I can, without all the baggage that is my family. With that, I decide to keep Granddad’s name a secret. "Are you here to meet up with some friends from university? You've already ruled out family."

He looks close to Brendan's age, but any boyishness is hidden by his sophisticated manner and polish. "No. I'm here on behalf of my family's import-export business. We have interests in Galway and Dublin, and one of our regional contacts is based near here. My father wants me to learn the business from the ground up, so I've been in Ireland since late summer. My business school agreed to treat it as a work-study internship."

He looks like the copper-haired man I saw leaving Grandad's office just before I left for Laurel Hill. I wonder just what kind of business they have?

He asks me about school, and we talk about my A-levels and writing projects. He tells me all about his adventures in Ireland, including how he came to be in Ireland and learning the shipping business, which means doing everything from unloading cargo to dealing with customers and customs officers to keeping the books.

He's in the middle of a ridiculous story about having to coax some baron's herd of rare, heirloom sheep out of the hold of a ship when he thrusts his hands into my unruly curls, pulls my face to his, and kisses me thoroughly. Once I get over the shock, I sense someone pause behind me, but Declan doesn't break the dizzying kiss until whoever it is has moved on.

When Declan pulls back, he looks into me, his hand at the back of my neck as though it always belonged there. "I think we just taught that boy who made you cry a lesson."

I gulp. Brendan was the one behind me? The way he just stormed out of the pub left no question in my mind.

"Behane is doubly the fool for breaking your heart over Maeve Kilkenny. She’s a slut and nothing good ever came from trifling with the likes of her."

"How did you know it was him? And how is it that you're from America and know more about the who and what of this village than I do?" The depth of his knowledge of the village goings-on, seemingly under my nose, is unsettling.

"Your family may be from this village, but I'll bet my last dollar that this is the first time you've been in this pub. A pub is the first place you go to get the lay of the land, in a manner of speaking. It's the best place to learn all the gossip of any new town. That's something my grandfather taught me. The Drazens made their first bit of money running bars and pubs when we first came to America."

School's in session and I'm finally learning something useful.

Declan ignores the rest of my question, focusing his attention on tracing the path of one of my unruly curls, and I decide I really don't care how he knew that Brendan had hurt me. All I care about in that second is the warm spot on the back of my neck where Declan's hand had rested a second ago. I'm done dwelling on what Brendan is thinking or feeling or doing. It's time to expand my horizons—with a nice American man who is actually interested in me. Brendan is totally wrong if he thinks he can play with the emotions of the lonely, naïve American girl and treat her like a toy he is losing interest in but isn't willing to share.

"I'm a little confused. Didn't you say you’re doing import-export?" I ask.

"Well, we do a lot of things now. Shipping. Real estate. Hotels and bars. My father wanted me to learn the shipping portion of our business and spend some time here in mother Ireland. I'm glad he did. Otherwise I never would've met you." He gives my curl a tug, reluctantly letting go with a wink.

"I'm nothing special." I feel my cheeks heating. The thought that someone might find me worth crossing an ocean for flatters and bewilders me.

"I would beg to differ." He brushes the backs of his finger against my heated cheek, my blush intensifying in its wake.

"Thank you." My voice barely breaks a whisper.

"For what?"

"For making me feel better. When I first ran into you, I thought I had a catastrophe on my hands. That I'd made a fool of myself, and a mess of my life, and that it was all my fault. But here you are, like a knight in shining armor helping me realize it may not be my fault."

"Well, I'm glad to be of service. Miss Eileen…?"

"McInerney. Eileen McInerney." I extend my hand. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Declan Drazen."

He looks at me sharply but doesn't press me about my connections to the village. I look at my watch and realize I need to get back. I get up to put on my coat and excuse myself.

He grabs my hand. "No, you're not going home by yourself. Let me take you home."

I really don't want him to find out where home is. I want to spend a little more time getting to know him, and I don't think that will happen if he finds out I'm Carraig McGilbride's granddaughter.

"That's all right. I’m just a short walk away. I'll be fine." It may be late, but the moon is out and no one would dare bother Carraig's granddaughter. I've been roaming the countryside for months. Not knowing the village gossip doesn't change the fact that I know this place like the back of my hand.

"No, you won't be fine. You're not walking home this late at night. I don't care if it's a totally crime-free village in the middle of Ireland; I couldn't forgive myself for letting you walk home by yourself. Besides, how else could I hope to get a good night kiss?" He winks as the hot thrill of embarrassment creeps across my cheeks again.

He helps me into my coat, his arms wrapping around me in a lingering embrace, before he settles up with the barkeep and ushers me out to a little roadster.

"Madame, your chariot awaits." He opens the door with a silly flourish and gets me settled in before hopping in and expertly navigating out of the jam-packed parking area. "So where we going?"

I direct him toward the O'Donnell farm and ask him to drop me at the gate. He’s out and around to open the door before I even have a chance to find the door handle. He offers his hand and pulls me up into an embrace.

"So much gallantry. Your mother would be proud." I tug the lapels of his coat, pulling him closer, craving the heat and the strength of his body.

"I meant it about that kiss." He searches my eyes for an answer.

My hand creeps into his soft hair, which shimmers in the moonlight like a new penny, and I bring his lips to mine. I kiss him once, then twice before he answers gently but insistently. He isn't hungry or out of control. His kiss is curious and, at first, soothing and reassuring, then more commanding and insistent. After being left to flutter in the wind like so much trash thanks to Brendan's indifference, Declan and his velvety soft lips makes me feel treasured and worthy. It seems like an eternity and a split second all at once before we finally break apart.

"Can I see you tomorrow?" In the half light, his eyes are more royal than sea blue, full of promise and something more. More than eagerness, but kinder than obsession.

"I don't know. Can you? Pick me up here at nine p.m. Hopefully I can get away. My family is kind of strict." Popping up on my toes, I kiss him one last time. "Good night, Dec." I like the way his name feels on my tongue.

"Good night, my Ellie."

Gah. The way he says it makes me swoony. I turn on my heel and feel his eyes on me as I make my way into the shadows, up and around the O'Donnell farmhouse. I make my way along the fence line and walk up to the back of Granddad's house before cutting through the kitchen garden. I’m almost inside when Hector sidles up to me with a chuff before he realizes it is me. A pat and ear rub later, he lets me slide in the kitchen door and up the stairs.

As Sister Joseph is fond of saying, "Men plan. God laughs." I’d learned the truth of that tonight. All in all, it was an unexpected night, but in some ways, it was a good night. Declan Drazen made sure it was, and not just because he was a good kisser. Because of him, I decide I won’t cry myself to sleep over Brendan. No man is worth it. Especially one who is planning on marrying the likes of Maeve Kilkenny.

But a man who would spend his evening out drying a strange girl's tears? He may be worth getting to know. I think I'm going to have to sleep on that before I decide.

Besides, I have a date tomorrow.