He smiled. “Stay as long as you like or as long as you can stand it. Banburren isn’t Dublin. It isn’t even Oxford. You might find yourself with too much time on your hands.”

  She ignored his comment and drank the last of her tea. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to rest for a bit. It’s been a long drive.”

  He stood. “I’ll take you up. The water runs hottest in the morning, just to let you know.”

  “Thank you.”

  He led her up the stairs and down a long hall. Dropping her bag inside the door of her room, he stepped back to allow her inside. “If you need anything else, let me know.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  Tom hesitated. There was no polite way of asking. “Why did you choose Banburren?”

  “I’d nowhere else to go,” she said matter-of-factly. He was more than a little intrigued. Her resemblance to Claire was truly remarkable. Perhaps they were related and the woman had come to find her roots. People were always looking up their lost Irish families. Deliberately, Tom suppressed all thoughts of his wife. He didn’t want to think about her now, or ever. “Surely that isn’t true,” he said instead.

  She shrugged. “It doesn’t matter.”

  She stood behind the door and stared at him. Tom knew she wanted him to leave. He would never have believed another woman could have eyes like that, with the same shape, color and clarity. He opened his mouth but the words froze in his throat. Christ, years had passed. What was the matter with him?

  “Is something wrong?” she asked.

  Outside on the road, he heard the sound of a horn. In the warm, peat-scented kitchen the stew he’d started earlier in the day bubbled in its pot. Rain tapped against the windows misting the panes, cocooning them in a world of silence and memories and awkwardness. In the distance, the bells of Saint Isadora’s tolled the hour. Seven o’clock and all of the night to get through.

  “No,” he said, mentally shaking himself. “I’m off to take the dog for a walk. Good night.” Suddenly Tom was in a hurry to be away from her, but his feet wouldn’t move. He didn’t want this stranger in his house, this woman with his wife’s voice taking up space, asking questions, prying into his life.

  “Have a pleasant walk.” She closed the door in his face.

  It was a dismissal, subtle but firm, and he was more than pleased to take her up on it.

  With renewed energy, Tom ran down the stairs, shrugged into his jacket and let himself out. The woman was odd. Perhaps she was hiding something. He recognized paranoia when he saw it. More than likely it was her upbringing. She was from the North and of the Catholic persuasion or she wouldn’t have used the term the Six Counties. He would have known without her telling him. Her accent placed her, even if it was an educated one. He’d never heard anyone duplicate it successfully. One either was or wasn’t from the North. If so, it couldn’t be denied or escaped.

  He shook his head. She was very like Claire.

  Kellie waited at her window, watching until he disappeared around the corner with the dog. Then she opened the door and walked back down the stairs to explore. Walking through the house she ran the tips of her fingers across the polished wood, the runner on the table, the buttery, half-smoked candles on the mantel, the pictures framed in wood on the shelves. There was only one subject in all of them, a little girl with lovely eyes and fawn-colored hair, posing at various stages of her life. This must be Tom’s daughter. Kellie’s heart skipped a beat. Would she ever be able to look at a child and not think of Danny? She closed her eyes and practiced the meditation ritual that had seen her through the last few weeks. This time it helped.

  Kellie loved looking at photographs, but time was slipping away. How long did it take to walk a dog, ten minutes? An hour? Quickly, she walked down the hall, peering into the various rooms. Most were bedrooms, starkly decorated, but clean and well maintained. She would find nothing here. Proceeding to the end of the hall, Kellie found a small room with a desk, a comfortable chair, a reading lamp, shelves filled with books, filing cabinets and a computer. Tom’s study. A gold mine.

  Kellie checked her watch. The computer would have to wait until she was sure of how long he would be gone. She opened the top drawer of the desk and found nothing but office supplies. The next one was empty except for a stack of white paper. The bottom drawer looked more promising. Scraps of paper with names and dates in no particular order. Kellie sorted through a handful. Tom’s handwriting, although legible enough made no sense to her. The words looked like some sort of code.

  The front door clicked. She heard steps on the wood floor. Quickly she closed the drawer, switched off the light and stepped back into the hall. She was outside the first guest room before he saw her.

  His eyebrows rose. “Did you need something?” he asked.

  “The house is lovely.” Her voice sounded breathless, quivery. “I wanted to see the other rooms.”

  It seemed as if an eternity passed before he answered. “You’ve got the best one, but you’re welcome to change if you like.”

  “My room is fine. Thank you.” She went on the offensive. “You’re back soon.”

  “I came for Lexi’s leash. She runs after everything that moves when I take her across the bog.”

  “Do you have anything to read? I’m not sleepy after all.”

  He walked past her to the door of his study and flicked on the light. “Feel free to choose anything you like from here,” he said, gesturing toward his well-stocked bookshelves.

  It was too much to hope for, this carte blanche into his personal study. “Thank you,” she managed to reply.

  “Good night, Kellie.”

  She was tempted to take up where she left off, examining the contents of his bottom desk drawer, but she wasn’t stupid. Selecting a book of Yeats’s poems from the shelf, she turned off the light and left the room. If he came home again, he would find her in the sitting room reading his book.

  Ten minutes later she hadn’t yet turned a page. Her anxiety had returned in full force. It was always with her. At best it was an anxious fluttery feeling in her stomach. She could manage that. It was the gripping terror she couldn’t face, the hideous screaming, the searing heat and melting flesh and then the emptiness and an ache so deep and bottomless and complete that it loosened her bones, caved in her chest and dry- sucked her heart. In the first few days after the funeral, the only help for it was a Xanax, two pills at once, washed down with one ounce of Irish Mist, straight up, no ice. Relief was immediate, followed by a twelve-hour stupor that left her weary and brain- dead and blissfully imagination-free. Thankfully, that part, the helpless desolation, so severe she needed drugs, was behind her. Now, it was manageable. Now she had a goal.

  Tom Whelan didn’t look like a murderer, but then what did one look like? Perhaps like this man— priestly, a clean-cut boy scout with fine, sharp features, dark hair that fell over his forehead and clear blue-green eyes. He was just above average height and quite thin, rather like Connor. Kellie knew the type. She came from a long line of chain-smoking, hard-drinking Irish men who consumed their food whole because their bodies demanded fuel, but took little pleasure in the process.

  She bothered him. She could see it in the tense line of his upper lip and the set of his shoulders when he looked directly at her. She traced the final picture on the mantel, a small snapshot of a man, a little girl and a dog, a red-boned Irish setter with a sweet face and dark eyes. The child was two, maybe three.

  The phone rang. She tensed and waited through three full double rings before she realized there was no answering machine. What if it was Tom? Quickly, she walked into the kitchen and picked up the receiver. Her stomach fluttered.

  “Hello?”

  A woman’s voice spoke. “Who is this?”

  “Who is this?” Kellie returned.

  “I’m Susan Whelan, Tom’s mother.”

  Kellie’s cheeks flamed. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have answered the phone. I’m a guest. My name is Kellie Delaney.”

  “Tom wouldn’t mind,” the woman said. “Is he around?”

  “He’s out for a walk.”

  “Isn’t that a man for you? Shame on him. I raised him better than that, I did. Do you need anything, love? I can run over if you do. I’ve a hot stew bubbling on the stove and apple crisp in the oven.”

  Good lord, these people were friendly. “No, thank you, I’ve eaten.”

  “Where are you from, lass? You sound a bit different from those of us from the country.”

  She couldn’t afford to like this woman. “Originally, from Belfast, but I’ve lived in England for quite some time.”

  “That’s where it comes from, that crispness. I’ve a good ear. Tom gets it from me. That’s why he’s so clever at the pipes. Get him to play them for you. He’s not at all bashful when it comes to his music.”

  “He isn’t bashful at all.”

  “Really, now. I thought he was. How old are you, Kellie, lass?”

  “Thirty-five,” Kellie replied without thinking. Susan reminded her of her own mother. It never occurred to her to hold anything back.

  “Thirty-five, you say, a mere babe in arms.” She laughed. “Tell Tom that Heather’s had her supper and she’s nearly asleep. She’ll be home bright and early in the morning.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  “Don’t be too hard on Tom. He’s been alone now for seven years and isn’t always the best company. What he needs is a good woman to take Claire’s place although he wouldn’t admit it You’ve a lovely, clear voice. Are you married, Kellie?”

  “No,” Kellie stammered.

  “Why not?”

  “I’m not sure exactly. It never worked out.”

  “I’m sorry, love. It must be hard to be on your own when you’re so young. Well, perhaps you won’t be alone for long,” said Susan. “I won’t keep you any more tonight. Give Tom my message and tell him we’ll be over in the morning. I’ve enjoyed our chat and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Kellie replaced the receiver and leaned weakly against the wall. How could this be? She had no backup strategy, no alternative plan to accommodate goodness. Who was Tom Whelan? Surely not a man involved in a murderous plot. A man who was raising a seven-year-old daughter, a man who walked his dog and wrote poetry and answered to the likes of Susan Whelan couldn’t possibly know anything about murder. And yet Connor had carried his number in his coat pocket. There was a connection somewhere, if only she could sort it out. More than ever she was grateful for her instincts to keep her plans to herself.

  Crawling between the soft, clean sheets, Kellie pulled the comforter over her head. God, she missed Connor and Danny. The evenings were harder than anything. Gillian had buffered her at first but she had her own life. In a way maybe it hadn’t been a good idea to wallow in the security of their friendship. Weeks later the ache was as fresh and raw as if it had happened yesterday. Kellie was unprepared for the magnitude of her pain. The overwhelming feelings of tenderness and delight she’d experienced every time she’d looked at her nephew, the glow that lit her from within whenever she thought of him, the miracle of his gurgling laugh, the softness of his cheeks, was gone from her forever.

  A harsh, primitive sob rose in her throat. She was a coward. She didn’t really want to do this. She wanted her life back, the pleasant easy days when Connor and Danny were alive and they’d lived in Oxford together. She wanted long walks amid falling leaves, bread and cheese by the river, tea and scones in the mornings and the indescribable joy of Danny shrieking with delight when she picked him up from the child care center. That life was over. Now she wanted answers, reasons for such a brutal tragedy. A start would be an explanation for Tom’s phone number in her brother’s suit pocket.

  Pushing away the pain, blanking her mind, had become nearly physical. The grit of her teeth, the wrinkling of her forehead, the cold water on her temples, had become a nightly ritual. Eventually it worked and she came close to relaxing.

  Her feeling was that her presence in Banburren was more than likely an error in judgment, that Connor’s relationship with Tom Whelan, whatever it was, was a misguided shot in the dark. Still, she was here. Maybe, in this peaceful village close to the sea, she would find her answers and begin to heal.

  She must have dreamed it, a sound from her youth, the sweet, aching notes of the uillean pipes, the sigh of the drones, the quick fingers on the notes. She recognized the tune, “A Brown-Haired Lass.” Her father had favored the pipes. Only true musicians could play such an instrument. She hadn’t heard them in years. She smiled and turned over. It was a lovely welcome to Ireland even if it was only her imagination.

  Four

  The child was beautiful in the fey, flame-lit way the ancient bards had immortalized in songs only the clever and very skilled could still play. At her feet sat a sweet-faced dog with a shiny red coat, the dog in the photograph. There was no sign of Susan Whelan. Kellie stifled her disappointment. She very much wanted to place a face with the voice on the phone last night.

  Heather pulled away from her father and walked across the room to Kellie. The dog didn’t move.

  “Hello.” Kellie held out her hand.

  “Hello,” the little girl replied politely. “Will you be with us for long?”

  Kellie swallowed. Would children always be difficult for her? If so, her job was going to be a problem. “Not too long,” she replied.

  “Will you stay for the festival?”

  “I’m not sure,” said Kellie. “When is the festival?”

  “Not for a few weeks,” said Tom.

  “I might be here that long.”

  “It’s a wedding festival,” Heather announced.

  Kelly was intrigued. “What’s that?”

  Tom raised his eyebrows. “I thought everyone in Ireland knew about our wedding festival.”

  “I don’t.”

  Tom explained. “Men and women from all over the world come to Banburren looking for a happy-ever-after ending.”

  “Do they find it?”

  “I imagine some have. No one I know.”

  Heather’s eyes shone. “Everyone makes puddings and we have a carnival.”

  Kellie laughed. It felt strange. How long had it been since she’d really laughed? “I can see where her priorities are.”

  Tom’s eyes were on her face, narrowed, considering. “You’re a teacher but you didn’t say what level.”

  “Second grade,” Kellie said. “I teach children Heather’s age.”

  Heather slipped her hand inside Kellie’s. “I hope you stay,” she said honestly. “I like ladies. The washroom always smells lovely after they leave it.”

  Again, Kellie laughed. “I’ll keep that in mind.” She sat down on the couch. Reaching out, she drew the little girl to her. “What do you do when you’re not in school?”

  The child tilted her head. Her soft straight hair, the color of deerskin, swung across her cheek. How Kellie envied that hair, the straight lovely swing of it.

  “I play with my friends or watch the telly. Sometimes Da and I walk Lexi. I like visiting my friends,” she confided. “They all have mothers who make bread and jam sandwiches and they sweep the stairs and hang the sheets to dry.”

  “Do they?”

  Heather nodded. “Da does all that now. I don’t know what he’d do if we had a mother.”

  “He would do what fathers do, whatever that is.” Kellie’s memories of her father were restricted, most of them reduced to helping him to stagger home from various pubs.

  Heather thought a moment. “They eat food, I think.”

  Kellie chuckled. The little girl was lovely, warm and unspoiled. “What do you like to eat?”

  “Puddings,” she said promptly. “I like those the best. Da won’t let me eat them first.” The little girl brightened. “Do you have a little girl?”

  “No,” said Kellie. The darkness began to close in on her again.

  Instinctively, with a sensitivity beyond her age, Heather seemed to understand Kellie’s distress. She rested her hand on Kellie’s knee. “I like you,” she pronounced. She turned to her father. “I like her, Da. I want her to stay with us.”

  Tom separated himself from the wall and walked toward them. “That was already decided, Heather, but it’s grand that you approve. It makes everything much easier.” He transferred his attention to Kellie. “I don’t know how you’re fixed for cash, but if you think you’ll be here for a while, perhaps we could work something out.”

  Kellie frowned. “I don’t understand.”

  “You said you weren’t working. I’m dreadful in the kitchen and right now I’m in the middle of something. There isn’t much time for houseguests. I could use the help if you think you might be staying awhile.”

  “You said you weren’t booked.”

  “Not now,” said Tom. “But I’ve a pipe order and the wait for a set is long enough. If you wouldn’t mind doing the meals and your own laundry, I could discount your rate.”

  He’d captured her interest. “A pipe order?”

  “I make uillean pipes. My father did before me and his before him. We’re one of the original families. There aren’t many of us left.”

  “Do you play as well?”

  “I’m fair at it.”

  “I’d like to hear you. My father played the pipes.”

  “I wouldn’t mind striking up a tune or two if you’re interested. What about my offer?”

  “Is it a job you’re offering?”

  “In a manner of speaking. I can’t pay you, of course.”

  She couldn’t decide if his suggestion was a golden opportunity or a roadblock. She decided to go for it. “How about instead of a discount you make my meals complimentary?”

  He thought a minute. “I can do that.”

  “What exactly would my duties be?”

  “I haven’t given it much thought,” he said. “The idea just occurred to me.”

  “Why don’t I look around and do whatever I think needs to be done?”

  “All right as long as I can make a suggestion now and then.”