The Crow of Connemara by Stephen Leigh Page A

causing Tom and Harris to glance back at them. She waved them on. “The same way I’d react if you suddenly informed me that you wanted to be just like your father, may God take his soul.” She wagged a finger in Colin’s direction. “But I’ll deny ever having said that if you tell anyone.”

    Dinner was another memory made solid. Colin could recall dozens of dinners much like this one around the same table, with only the menu and the ages of the diners changing. Even the absence of his father was normal. During his childhood, dinner had always been his mother’s affair, his father only making cameo appearances. Tom Sr. would often be working late: preparing a case, at a community meeting, or out of town entirely in Springfield after he’d been elected to the State Senate and the legislature was in session.
    It was Mom who prepared dinner, who set the table, who made certain that everyone was seated, that any guests were properly introduced around, that the blessing was intoned before the first bite of food was eaten (and woe betide anyone but a guest trying to filch a roll or take a bite beforehand), and who directed the conversation around the table from her chair nearest the kitchen as if she were a conductor in front of an orchestra, wielding a fork rather than a baton. Colin had often wondered how she managed to get everything on the table and hot at the same time; but she always had. When Colin was still a young child, with the law firm’s continued success and both state and national politics taking on more of a role, the Doyles had retained the services of Beth, the housemaid who put in a half-day’s work every weekday, but the kitchen was still largely his mother’s domain, even if Beth helped set the table before leaving for the day.
    â€œSo, Colin,” his mother began after grace had been said and the first dishes passed around, “now that you’re back, I’ve had Beth make up your room for you until you go back to the university.”
    Thanks, Mom
, Colin wanted to say.
But I don’t want to stay here.
“Mom,” Jen broke in before Colin could answer, “Colin and I haven’t had much chance to talk yet. I thought he could stay at least a few more days at my place.”
    â€œActually, Mom, that sounds good to me,” Colin added quickly. “Jen’s place is right on the ‘L’ so I could get around pretty easily. I don’t mind staying there, since it’s no bother to her, and she has the extra room.”
    â€œOh.” The single, flat interjection contained entire decades of commentary. His mother drew in a long breath through her nose. “I’m just rattling around in a whole empty house with far too many extra rooms, but I suppose that’s fine, then. After all, you’ll be going back to Seattle soon enough, I suppose. You’ve that dissertation and defense to get ready, I’m sure. Another Dr. Doyle in the family; your father would be so proud.”
    He ignored that.
It’s not the time to tell them. Not here.
The others around the table were carefully not watching him, paying too much attention to their plates. Confusion drowned him under a roiling tsunami of doubt.
    â€œYou know, I’d love to hear you play music again, Colin,” Aunt Patty cut in. “It’s been a long time since I last heard you, and you had such a gift for music. Do you still play gigs in Seattle?”
    â€œNot as much as I’d like, but yeah, I still play,” Colin told her. He turned to her, thankful for the change of subject, but uneasy with the shift to his music. “There’s a strong Celtic music scene there, and I’ve learned some old songs and variations on them that I’d never heard, and new ways to approach the material that I’d never considered.”
    â€œImmersion in another culture can change the way you think.” That was Tommy, and when Colin