“Of course.”

  “How do you live?”

  “I thought we’d cleared that one up,” he said. “I play a bit of music now and then and I’m paid for my poems. It isn’t much but we don’t require much. There’s no mortgage on the house.”

  “What about making uillean pipes?”

  “The pipes take an enormous amount of concentration. I can’t take many orders at a time. Fortunately, I’m one of a few in Ireland who makes them. Pipes are expensive. One can make a living.”

  “I see.” She avoided his eyes, looking at a spot directly above his head. “I know what you were,” she said finally. “I looked you up on the computer in the library.”

  “So, that’s what this is all about.” He knew his own computer had been tapped as well. He’d known it from the beginning. He hadn’t even bothered to change his password. Kellie Delaney was looking for something. Whatever it was, she was more than welcome. He didn’t have it and he wasn’t hiding anything. In fact, he knew more about her from the sites she pulled up. “My past isn’t a secret. Everyone in Banburren knows. I don’t talk about it much but I never intended to hide it.”

  “Are you through with it?”

  “Yes.”

  Minutes passed.

  “Is there anything else?” he asked gently.

  “No, not for now.” She sounded defeated, tired.

  He cursed under his breath, crossed the room and rested his hands on her shoulders. The words came, sincere and low, from deep within him. “This is killing both of us. I wish you would trust me.”

  She stiffened and pulled away. “I wish I could,” she whispered, and walked out of the room.

  He dropped his hands and let her go. Whatever she hid was consuming her. He felt it. She wasn’t a woman given to deception. He could see the haunted desperation in her eyes. She’d lost weight. The lies would eat at her from the inside out until she couldn’t hold them in anymore. All he had to do was wait. Somehow the thought didn’t cheer him. He heard the lock on the bathroom door click into place. He was a fool. Only a fool would feel the sting of conscience in a situation like his. She was the one with the burden. Why should he feel stirrings of guilt?

  He returned to his meal, turned down the flame, tasted the soup and added more salt. Logic told him to ask her to leave. But that wasn’t what he wanted. She was a puzzle he was curious to piece together. Besides, he’d never before run from a challenge and he didn’t think this woman was the place to start.

  * * *

  Kellie leaned her head back against the tile wall and closed her eyes. The hot spray bathed her throat and chest. Trust. What did it mean, really? He had asked her to trust him. Had she ever trusted anyone with anything so important as her life? Some did, every day. The man she’d met in the church. Did he have a wife? What did she know of his chosen profession? What of Ireland’s heroes, Hugh O’Neil, Daniel O’Connoll, Wolfe Tone, Eamon De Valera, Michael Collins? Did their women trust them? Did they trust their wives with secrets? Doubtful. Ireland was a patriarchal country. Women counted for very little, even today.

  Tom Whelan was a mystery. A man who wrote poetry, a musician, a loving father, on the surface a gentle decent man with pain in his eyes, a sharp wit and a quiet strength. This was his face, the face he showed the world. Was it also the face of a man who’d completely changed his stripes? Possibly. Quite possibly. But what did she know? How did a woman gauge a man practiced in the craft of murder and deception even if those events took place years ago? Did it really matter in the end? Did one ever recover from the decisions one makes in the beginning?

  She toweled herself dry, pulled on her clothes and looked into the mirror. What would her mother think if she saw her now, a woman with lines around eyes that took up too much of her face and hair plastered to her skull? Her mother who wore her prejudices for all to see, who stereotyped all nationalities with fierce impartiality, who condemned her oldest daughter for the immorality of marrying an Italian. The boys she left alone. Far be it for a mere woman to criticize the men in her family. What would she think of Tom and of her need to know him as he really was? The answer popped unbidden into Kellie’s mind. She would hold up her hands and glare. A man’s ways are not ours, lass. Let him be, for God’s sake. Mind your own business and do your duty.

  Kellie stifled a laugh. Perhaps it would be best if she didn’t ask advice from her mother. She combed out her hair. Feathery curls were already drying around her face. How long had it been since she’d dressed up? Impulsively, she pulled out her makeup bag, sat on the floor in front of the long mirror and dumped out its contents, picking over the shadows and blushes she’d been given what seemed a lifetime ago and never used.

  Lining up her selections, she applied them carefully, foundation first, then powder and blush along the cheekbones. Pale taupe across the eyelid, cream over the brow and a line of deep navy along the bottom ridge of the eye. The mascara tube separated with a pop. Gently, she worked it into her lashes, lengthening, thickening, separating. Only her lips were left. She chose a shiny berry color to fill in both the top and bottom. She was finished, a painted woman, done up for what purpose? To allure, perhaps, or else simply to be more interesting than she was before.

  Staring critically at her reflection, she decided she looked nothing like herself.

  “Kellie?” Heather knocked on the door. “I have to use the toilet.”

  Kellie kept her eyes on the mirror. She reached up and unlocked the door. “Come in.”

  Heather opened the door, took a cursory look at Kellie and looked again. Her thumb edged towards her mouth. “What are you doing?”

  “I’ve taken a shower and now I’m dressing for dinner.”

  “You look different.”

  “I’m wearing makeup. Do you like it?”

  The thumb was wedged tightly in her mouth now. She spoke around it. “I don’t think so.”

  Kellie turned her head to the left and then the right. “Why not?”

  “You look different.”

  Something in the child’s voice caught her attention. Heather was troubled. Reaching out, Kellie took her hand and drew the little girl into her lap. “Different isn’t always bad, is it, love?” she asked gently.

  Heather shrugged, fighting back tears.

  Kellie kissed the top of her head. “Shall I wash my face? Would that make you feel better?”

  Again the child shrugged.

  “I know what we’ll do. We’ll both be different.”

  “How?”

  “We’ll both wear makeup.”

  Despite herself, Heather looked intrigued. “Will you put it on me?”

  “If you like.”

  Heather thought a minute and then nodded.

  Keeping the little girl in her lap, Kellie nodded at the assortment of colors and pointed out the specifics. “This is color for your eyelids,” she explained, “and this is for cheeks and this for lips. Which ones would you like to wear?”

  Interested at last, Heather picked over the vials. “I want these,” she said at last, and held them up.

  Kellie smiled and selected a small sample compact and a brush. “Let’s start with this one.”

  Ten minutes later a glowing Heather, clutching Kellie’s hand, stood in front of the dinner table. “Look at me, Da,” she ordered.

  Tom turned around. “Good lord.” The words leaped from his mouth. His eyes met Kellie’s. He recovered quickly. “Don’t you look lovely, the both of you, all dressed up and ready to go out.”

  Heather beamed. “Kellie did it. She was wearing makeup and she said I could, too.”

  “Did she now?”

  “We were in a mood,” explained Kellie.

  His eyes were very bright. “Will you be expecting an evening on the town?”

  “May we?” Heather breathed.

  Tom thought a minute. This was Banburren after all. Not much was open after eight o’clock in the evening except for the pubs and that was out of the question. “Where would you like to go, love?”

  “We could go to Mrs. Reilly’s café and order a pudding.”

  Tom considered her suggestion. “What do you think, Kellie? Shall we order a pudding at the café?”

  “What a lovely idea.”

  Heather clapped her hands and Tom laughed. Kellie stared at him. It occurred to her that she rarely saw him laugh. He looked younger, more vulnerable. His eyes were very blue above the blue of his shirt.

  “Shall we eat?” he asked.

  Heather took her usual place. Kellie followed while Tom ladled out the soup, a delicious cabbage and onion variety.

  His hands were large, capable, the nails short and clipped. Masculine hands. Awareness flooded through her as if she had awakened from a long and dreamless sleep. Her senses were sharper, cleaner, the details of the kitchen, the sounds and smells, the child and the man who sat across the table from her were clearly defined for the first time. She noticed his wrists, the bony strength of them, the way he turned up his shirtsleeves below the elbow, the faint shadow of hair growth on his chin, the way his eyes, an ice-flecked blue, direct, intelligent and light-filled, rested on her face when she spoke to him.

  Horrified at the path her thoughts had taken, she looked down at her plate. What was the matter with her? Her appetite had disappeared. She left the soup and crumbled the bread on her plate. How much longer could she manage this? How had she ever believed it was possible? She had her answer although it wasn’t the one she’d come for. Tom Whelan was no more a murderer than she was. It was time to go home. Why then, did the thought of leaving turn her stomach inside out?

  The small café was cozy with flowered cloths on the tables, linen napkins and windows steamy with heat. A peat fire smoldered in the corner hearth and copper pans hung from the ceilings. Mrs. Reilly beamed as she ladled out lumberjack portions of her apple tart and cream. “Isn’t it a lovely thing to have an outing on a weeknight?” Birdlike, she cocked her head. “Is there an occasion?”

  “Heather wanted a pudding,” Tom offered.

  “The darling. Do you like the tart, love?”

  Heather nodded, too busy delving into the sweet to answer.

  “And how are you settling into our town, Miss Delaney?”

  Kellie swallowed a bit of apple before answering. “It’s a lovely town.”

  It took no more than that. “It is, isn’t it? I’ve never been away, not in sixty-two years. Not for me the bright lights of Dublin or Galway. My husband wanted to leave when he retired. He’s a Ballybofey man. But I said to him, ‘There’s nothing in Ballybofey that you can’t find in Banburren.’ So we stayed and we’re happier for it. I’m sure Tom feels that way, too, don’t you, Tom?”

  Kellie smiled, hoping she appeared interested.

  Tom spoke up. “We don’t want to be keeping you, Alice. I’m sure you’re nearly ready to close up. Perhaps a pot of tea would do with our sweets.”

  Mrs. Reilly’s face lit. “The very thing. I’m sorry I didn’t think of it myself.”

  “She’s very friendly,” Kellie observed when the woman had disappeared into the kitchen.

  “Alice Reilly was always a gossip,” Tom replied. “She’s lonely since her husband passed on. We all bear with it.”

  Kellie nodded. Her dilemma was very much on her mind. Distracted, she pushed her dessert to the edges of her plate.

  “I’ll be driving into Galway tomorrow to visit Kenny’s Bookstore,” Tom announced. “Would you care to come with me?”

  At first Kellie didn’t realize he was talking to her. He repeated the question.

  Surprised, she looked up. “Who will pick Heather up after school?”

  “My mother. She’ll stay with her until we come home. I’ll turn on the answer machine to take any bookings.”

  Tomorrow. Tomorrow. Why not? Recklessly, she agreed. The idea of a day driving through the green-and-gold bogland of Ireland appealed to her.

  Morning dawned clear and cold with no sign of rain. A milky sun filtered through silver-and-pink clouds. Breakfast was simple, oats and brown toast, tea and cocoa, a special treat for Heather.

  Tom walked his daughter to school, returning home just as Kellie had finished the last of the dishes. She lifted her coat from the peg and pulled on her gloves. She felt light and free, a brief glimmering of what she’d known before.

  He took the direct route out of town, through the roundabout, circling the one-way street around the square. Soon they were traveling at a comfortable speed down the two-lane road leading to Galway, Ireland’s cultural capital.

  Kellie had always loved Galway. Her father, a devout Nationalist, had thrilled her with stories of the violent, renegade clans that populated the west of Ireland, a land of bogs and misty mountains and cairn stones with wild, pagan markings where Irish dynastic lines were true Celt, untainted by English or Scots blood. She’d listened, wide-eyed and silent as he called up the fierce O’Flahertys, the O’Malleys and Granuille, their pirate queen, who exacted tribute from Elizabeth herself. Today, Galway’s charm lay in narrow, medieval streets, lichen-aged buildings, smoky pubs, cozy teahouses, traditional music that began at ten and continued throughout the night and plays written, directed and played out by Ireland’s most talented playwrights. Kellie had never attended its world-renowned film festival or women’s writing conference, but she’d heard of them and it was enough to be in a city that fostered such an appreciation of the arts.

  Kellie stared in amazement at the bookstore. This was not the Kenny’s of her memory. Once a dark, musty world of lost books and twisting stairways, Kenny’s Bookstore was now a famous landmark. Large windows let in the light. Books were categorized according to subject. Shelves were widely spaced for browsing and Irish art filled the walls of all three stories. Cups and saucers with the makings for tea sat out on a low table and overstaffed chairs filled the corners of the store.

  Tom spoke close to her ear. “Don’t let the trappings fool you. Kenny’s is still the finest bookstore in all of Ireland. Everything you need will be here.”

  And it was so. Normally, Kellie would have lost herself in the neoclassic section where Irish writers wrote of Ireland, evoking images of peat smoke and peat bogs, the smell of rain on the wind and wet wool and growing things, of too thin children with light, clear eyes, no shoes and bowed legs, of rich green soil and lively music, of stories that lasted for days and men who’d lived on the dole for so long they no longer cared to work. Theirs was a language rich in words of emotion tightly repressed, a storied world of women who shook hands and men who drank and swore and replayed wars in which they took no part. The Ireland of Yeats and Synge, Stephenson and Wilde was not the Ireland of Behan and Heany, Flannagan and Kilpatrick. Those who earned degrees from Trinity were not the same as those who were prevented from applying because of their religion and their heritage, men who drank themselves free of worry every night and staggered home to cold-water flats. Those were the writers whose words burned Kellie’s soul. What did William Butler Yeats know of physical suffering, he with his housekeeper and valet and butler to ease life’s discomforts?

  Casually, she wandered among the shelves, back and forth, glancing occasionally at Tom. When she was sure he was absorbed, she moved purposely to the back of the store. The history and politics section was tucked away in an alcove by itself, the books categorized by centuries. Her fingers trailed across the spines, disregarding the rising, the revolution, the early years of the troubles. A title caught her eye. She stopped, pulled the book and flipped through it to the slick photos in the center. Faces of Sinn Fein, the Nationalist party jumped out at her, men and women who’d changed the course of Irish history, Gerry Adams, Martin McGinnis, Siobhan O’Flannery. They were well-known political faces. What of the others, she wondered? Where were they? She reached for another book, turned the pages and placed it back on the shelf. She pulled out another and still another. Completely engrossed, she didn’t notice the passing time.

  “Are you looking for something in particular?”

  Startled, she dropped her book. “No,” she stammered, reaching for it. “I just wanted some information.”

  “May I?” Tom held out his hand.

  She hesitated, reluctant to have him see her choice. There was no reasonable explanation for refusing him. She handed over the book.

  He glanced at it briefly and returned it to her. “What is it that you’re looking for?”

  An idea rooted in her brain. Why not? she thought. The truth was always easiest. “I’ve been living in England for a long time. I want to know what’s happened since I left, from an Irish perspective. I want to know what the world thinks of Ireland.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m curious. Everything’s changed. People accept one another. Why now and not five years ago? What’s the difference?”

  “You won’t find that in these books.”

  “Where will I find it?”

  “Most likely in the economics and computer sections.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  He took her hand, pulled her forward and tucked it under his arm. “Let’s go for a cup of tea and I’ll explain it to you. Then you can come back and choose your reading material.”

  He chose a restaurant that served considerably more than tea. It was noon and Kellie was hungry. They ordered rare beef, boiled potatoes and a pale ale that left her warm and slightly dizzy. Over tea, he brought up the subject of politics.

  “For the first time Ireland is competitive. The European Union has helped us dramatically. We’re exporting computers, offering jobs, educating our population. Men and women are working. Many expatriates are returning. The church has lost its influence. Large families are anachronistic. Everyone has a television. We’ve been pulled into the modern era. Gunfights and pipe bombs no longer have their appeal when opportunity exists for all.”

  “What about in the Six Counties?”

  “Our universities are filled with Catholics. Educated people think differently about blowing up neighborhoods, although I don’t know if we’ll ever really be friendly with one another.”