Night Of The Blackbird by Heather Graham

laughed.
    â€œNight, Auntie Mo,” Brian said. “Come on, girls.” He led them toward the bedrooms.
    Molly tugged on his hand and stopped him. “Granny Jon,” she said seriously. “There aren’t really any banshees around tonight, are there?”
    â€œNot a one,” Granny Jon said.
    â€œNo monsters at all!” Brian said firmly.
    â€œNot in this house! I’ll see to it. I’m as mean as any old banshee,” Granny Jon said, her eyes alight.
    The kids called good-night again and went traipsing off down the hall. Moira rose and stared at her grandmother sternly. “Now, have you been telling tales again?”
    â€œNot on your life! They spent the day watching ‘Darby O’Gill and the Little People.’ I’m entirely innocent,” her grandmother protested with a laugh. “And you, young lady, you’d best get downstairs to the pub. Your father will be heartbroken if he hears you’ve been here all this time and haven’t been to give him a hug.”
    â€œPatrick, Siobhan and Colleen are down there?” Moira asked.
    â€œSiobhan’s off to see her folks, but your brother and sister are both downstairs,” Katy said. “Get along with you.”
    â€œWait, wait, let her have a sip of her tea before they ply her with alcohol,” Granny Jon protested, bringing a cup to Moira. Moira thanked her with a quick smile. No one made tea like Granny Jon. Not cold, not scalding. A touch of sugar. Never like syrup, and never bitter.
    â€œIt’s delicious, Granny Jon,” Moira said.
    â€œThen swallow it down and be gone with you,” her mother said.
    She gulped the tea—grateful that it wasn’t scalding.
    â€œI’ll put your bag in your room—give me your coat, Moira Kathleen,” Katy said. “Take the inside stairs down. You know your father will be behind the bar.”
    â€œI’ll be rescuing the teacup,” Granny Jon said dryly.
    Moira slid obediently out of her coat and handed it to her mother. “I’ll take my bag, Mum. It’s heavy.”
    â€œAway with you, I can handle a mite of luggage.”
    â€œAll right, all right, I’m going. ‘So happy you’re here, now get out,”’ she teased her mother.
    â€œâ€™Tis just your father, girl,” Katy protested.
    â€œHow is he?” she asked anxiously.
    Her mother’s smile was the best answer she could have received. “His tests came out well, but he was told that he must come in without fail for a checkup every six months.”
    â€œHe’s working too hard,” Moira murmured.
    â€œWell, now, that was my thought, but the doctors say that work is good for a man, and sitting around and getting no exercise is not. So he got all the permission he needed to keep right on running his pub, though the Lord knows, he has able help.”
    â€œI’m going down right now to see him.”
    Her mother nodded, pleased.
    Moira gave both her mother and grandmother another kiss, then started through the foyer to the left; there was a little sitting room there, and a spiral staircase that led down to a door at the foot of the stairs that opened to the office and storage space behind the polished oak expanse of the bar, where she would find the rest of her family—and all the mixed emotions that coming home entailed.

3
    A s soon as she opened the door, Moira could hear the chatter in the bar and the sounds of the band. She groaned inwardly. Blackbird was doing a speeded up number from the Brendan Behan play The Hostage.
    â€œGreat,” she muttered aloud. “They’re all toasting the Republic already.”
    She slipped in, walked through the office and the swinging doors, and saw her father’s back. Eamon Kelly was a tall, broad-shouldered man with graying hair that had once been close to a true, luxurious black. Though he was pouring a draft, she sneaked up behind him, winding her