Born in Fire Page 13

  meticulously, turning her sketch of an Apache breastplate into her own vision. It was sweaty work, and viciously exacting. Bleeding color into color, shape into shape as she wanted required hundreds of trips to the glory hole. But here, at least, she could be patient.

  White-hot flames licked through open furnace doors, blasting out heat. The exhaust fan hummed like an engine to keep the fumes coating the glass— and not her lungs—to an iridescent hue. For two days she worked with chemicals, mixing and experimenting like a mad scientist until she'd perfected the colors she desired. Copper for the deep turquoise, iron for the rich golden yellow, manganese for a royal, bluish purple. The red, the true ruby she wanted, had given her trouble, as it did any glass artist. She was working with that now, sandwiching that section between two layers of clear glass. She'd used copper again, with reducing agents in the melt to ensure a pure color. Though it was poisonous, and potentially dangerous even under controlled conditions, she'd chosen sodium cyanide. Even with this the casing was necessary to prevent the red from going livery.

  The first gather of the new section was blown, rotated, then carefully trailed from the iron. She used long tweezers to draw the molten, taffylike glass into a subtly feathery shape. Sweat dripped down onto the cotton bandanna she'd tied around her brow as she worked the second gather, repeated the procedure. Again and again, she went to the glory hole to reheat, not only to keep the glass hot, but to ensure against thermal strains that could break any vessel— and the heart of the artist.

  To prevent searing her hands, she dripped water over the pipe. Only the tip needed to be kept hot. She wanted the wall of the breastplate thin enough so that light could seep and be refracted through it. This required additional trips for heating and careful patient work with tools for flattening and for adding the slight curve she envisioned. Hours after she'd blown the first gather, she placed the vessel in the annealing oven and struck the pontil. It wasn't until she'd set both temperature and time that she felt the cramps in her hands, the knots in her shoulders and neck. And the emptiness in her belly. No scraping out of a can tonight, she decided. She would celebrate with a meal and a pint at the pub.

  Maggie didn't ask herself why, after pining for solitude, she now hurried toward company. She'd been home for three days and had spoken to no one but Brianna. And then only briefly and angrily. Maggie was sorry for it now, sorry that she hadn't tried harder to understand Brianna's position. Her sister was always in the middle, the unlucky second child of a flawed marriage. Instead of leaping for her sister's throat, she should have taken her oversolicitousness toward their mother in stride. And she should have told Brianna what she'd learned from Christine Sweeney. It would be interesting to gauge Brianna's reaction to the news of their mother's past. But that would have to wait. She wanted an undemanding hour with people she knew, over a hotmeal and a cold beer. It would take her mind off the work that had been driving her for days, and off the fact that she'd yet to hear from Rogan.

  Because the evening was fine and she wanted to work out the worst of her kinks, she straddled her bicycle and began the three-mile trek into the village. The long days of summer had begun. The sun was brilliant and pleasantly warm, keeping many of the farmers out in their fields long after their supper was over. The curving narrow road was flanked on both sides by high hedgerows that provided no shoulder and gave Maggie the impression of riding down a long, sweet-smelling tunnel. She passed a car, gave the driver a wave and felt the breeze of its passing flutter her jeans. Pedaling hard, more for the fun than because she was in a hurry, she burst out of the tunnel of hedges into the sheer breathless beauty of the valley.

  The sun dashed off the tin roof of a hay barn and dazzled her eyes. The road was smoother now, if no wider, but she slowed, simply to enjoy the evening breeze and the lingering sunlight. She caught the scent of honeysuckle, of hay, of sweet mown grass. Her mood, which had been manic and restless since her return, began to mellow. She passed houses with clothes drying on the line and children playing in the yard, and the ruins of Castles, majestic still with their gray stones and legends of ghostly inhabitants, a testament to a way of life that still lingered.

  She took a curve, caught the bright flash that was Hhe river flowing through high grass and turned away from it toward the village. The houses were more plentiful now and stood closer together. Some of the newer ones made her sigh with disappointment. They were blocky and plain to her artist's eye, and usually drab in color. Only the gardens, lush and vivid, saved them from Ugliness. The long last curve took her into the village proper. She passed the butcher's, the chemist's, '0'Ryan's little food store and the tiny, neat hotel that had once belonged to her grandfather. Maggie paused to study the building a moment, trying to imagine her mother living there as a girl. A lovely girl, according to Christine Sweeney's report, with the voice of an angel. If it were true, why had there been so little music in the house? And why, Maggie wondered, had there never been a mention, a hint of Maeve's talent? She would ask, Maggie decided. And there was likely no place better than O'Malley's.

  As she pulled her bike to the curb Maggie noticed a family of tourists wandering on foot, shooting videos and looking enormously pleased with themselves to be committing a quaint Irish village onto tape. The woman held the small, clever little camera and laughed as she focused on her husband and two children. Maggie must have stepped into the frame, for the woman lifted her hand and waved.

  "Good evening, miss."

  "And to you."

  To her credit, Maggie didn't even snicker when the woman whispered to her husband, "Isn't her accent wonderful? Ask her about food, John. I'm dying to get more of her on tape."

  "Ah . . . excuse me."

  Tourism couldn't hurt the village, Maggie decided, and turned back to play the game.

  "Can I help you with something this evening?"

  "If you wouldn't mind. We were wondering about a place to eat in town. If you could recommend something."

  "And sure I could do that." Because they looked so delighted with her, she layered a bit more west county into her speech. "Now, if you're after wanting something fancy, you couldn't do better but to drive along this road another, oh, fifteen minutes, and you could have the very king of meals at Dromoland Castle. It'll be hard on your wallet, but your taste ' buds will be in heaven."

  "We're not dressed for a fancy meal," the woman put in.

  "Actually, we were hoping for something simple right here in the village."

  "If you're in the mood for a bit of pub grub"—she winked at the two children, who were eyeing her as if she'd stepped off a light-flashing UFO—"you'll find O'Malley's to your liking, I'm sure. His chips are as good as anyone's."

  "That's means french fries," the woman translated. "We just arrived this morning, from America," she told Maggie. "I'm afraid we don't know much about the local customs. Are children permitted in the bars—pubs?"

  This is Ireland. Children are welcome anywhere, anywhere a'tall. That's O'Malley's there." She gestured toward the low plastered block building with dark trim. "I'm going there meself. They'd be pleased to have you and your family for a meal."

  "Thank you." The man beamed at her, the children stared and the woman had yet to take the camera from in front of her face. "We'll give it a try."

  "Enjoy your meal, then, and the rest of your stay."

  Maggie turned and sauntered down the sidewalk and into O'Malley's. It was dim, smoky and smelled of frying onions and beer.

  "And how are you, Tim?" Maggie asked as she settled herself at the bar.

  "And look who's dragged herself in." Tim grinned at her as he built a pint of Guinness.

  "And how are you, Maggie?"

  "I'm fit and hungry as a bear." She exchanged greetings with a couple at a postage-stamp-sized table behind her and at the two men who nursed pints at the bar. "Will you fix me one of your steak sandwiches, Tim, with a pile of chips, and I'll have a pint of Harp while I'm waiting."

  The proprietor
stuck his head around the back of the bar and shouted out Maggie's order. "Well now, how was Dublin City?" he asked while he drew her a pint.

  "I'll tell you." She propped her elbows on the bar and began to describe her trip for the patrons of the bar. While she talked the American family came in and settled at a table.

  "Champagne and goose liver?" Tim shook his head. "Isn't that a wonder? And all those people come to see your glass. Your father'd be proud of you, Maggie girl. Proud as a peacock."

  "I hope so." She sniffed deeply when Tim slid her plate in front other.

  "But the truth is, I'd rather have your steak sandwich than a pound of goose liver."

  He laughed heartily. "That's our girl."

  "It turns out that the grandmother of the man who's managing things for me was a friend of my gran, Gran O'Reilly."

  "You don't mean it?" With a sigh, Tim rubbed his belly. "Sure and it's a small world."

  "It is," Maggie agreed, making it casual. "She's from Galway and knew Gran when they were girls. They wrote letters for years after Gran moved here, keeping up, you know?"

  "That's fine. No friend like an old friend."

  "Gran wrote her about the hotel and such, the family. Mentioned how it was my mother used to sing."

  "Oh, that was a time ago." Remembering, Tim picked up a glass to polish. "Before you were born, to be sure. Fact is, now that I think of it, she sang here in this very pub one of the last times before she gave it up."

  "Here? You had her sing here?"

  "I did, yes. She had a sweet voice, did Maeve. Traveled all over the country. Hardly saw a bit of her for, oh, more than ten years, I'd say, then she came back to stay a time. It seems to me Missus O'Reilly was ailing. So I asked Maeve if maybe she'd like to sing an evening or two, not that we've as grand a place as some in Dublin and Cork and Donnegal where she'd performed."

  "She performed? For ten years?"

  "Oh well, I don't know as she made much of it at first. Anxious to be off and away was Maeve, as long as I remember. She wasn't happy making beds in a hotel in a village like ours, and let us know it." He winked to take the sting out of his words. "But she was doing well by the time she came back and sang here. Then she and Tom . . . well, they only had eyes for each other the moment he walked in and heard her singing."

  "And after they married," Maggie said carefully, "she didn't sing any longer?"

  "Didn't care to. Wouldn't talk of it. Fact is, it's been so long, till you brought it up, I'd nearly forgotten."

  Maggie doubted her mother had forgotten, or could forget. How would she herself feel if some twist in her life demanded that she give up her art? she wondered. Angry, sad, resentful. She looked down at her hands, thought of how it would be if she couldn't use them again. What would she become if suddenly, just as she was about to make her mark, it was all taken away? If relinquishing her career wasn't an excuse for the bitter years that had passed with her mother, at least it was a reason. Maggie needed time to shift through it, to talk to Brianna. She toyed with her beer and began to put the pieces of the woman her mother had been together with the personality of the woman she'd become. How much of both, Maggie wondered, had Maeve passed on to her daughter?

  "You're to eat that sandwich," Tim ordered as he slid another pint down the bar. "Not study it."

  "I am." To prove her point, Maggie took a healthy bite. The pub was warm and comforting. Time enough tomorrow, she decided, to wipe the film off old dreams. "Will you get me another pint, Tim?"

  "That I'll do," he said, then lifted a hand when the pub door opened again. "Well, it's a night for strangers. Where've you been, Murphy?"

  "Why missing you, boy-o." Spotting Maggie, Murphy grinned and joined her at the bar. "I'm hoping I can sit by the celebrity."

  "I suppose I can allow it," she returned. "This once, at any rate. So, Murphy, when are you going to court my sister?"

  It was an old joke, but still made the pub patrons chuckle. Murphy sipped from Maggie's glass and sighed. "Now, darling, you know there's only room in my heart for you."

  "I know you're a scoundrel." She took back her beer.

  He was a wildly handsome man, trim and strong and weathered like an oak from the sun and wind. His dark hair curled around his collar, over his ears, and his eyes were as blue as the cobalt bottle in her shop. Not polished like Rogan, she thought. Rough as a Gypsy was Murphy, but with a heart as wide and sweet as the valley he loved. Maggie had never had a brother, but Murphy was the nearest to it.

  "I'd marry you tomorrow," he claimed, sending the pub, except for the Americans who looked on avidly, into whoops of laughter. "If you'd have me."

  "You can rest easy, then, for I won't be having the likes of you. But I'll kiss you and make you sorry for it"

  She made good on her word, kissing him long and hard until they drew back and grinned at one another. "Have you missed me, then?" Maggie asked.

  "Not a whit. I'll have a pint of Guinness, Tim, and the same thing our celebrity's having."

  He stole one of her chips. "I heard you were back."

  "Oh." Her voice cooled a little. "You saw Brie?"

  "No, I heard you were back," he repeated. "Your furnace."

  "Ah."

  "My sister sent me some clippings, from Cork."

  "Mmm. How is Mary Ellen?"

  "Oh, she's fit. Drew and the children, too." Murphy reached in his pocket, frowned, patted another.

  "Ah, here we go." He took out two folded pieces of newspaper. "'Clarewoman triumphs in Dublin,'" he read. " 'Margaret Mary Concannon impressed the art word at a showing at Worldwide Gallery, Dublin, Sunday night.'"

  "Let me see that." Maggie snatched the clipping out of his hand. "'Miss Concannon, a free-blown-glass artist, drew praise and compliments from attendees of the show with her bold and complex gculptures and drawings. The artist herself is a diminutive'—diminutive, hah!" Maggie editorialized.

  "Give it back." Murphy tugged the clipping away; and continued to read it aloud himself. "

  'A diminutive young woman of exceptional talent and beauty.'

  Hah, yourself," Murphy added, sneering at her. " 'The green-eyed redhead of ivory complexion and considerable charm was as fascinating as her work to this art lover. Worldwide, one of the top galleries in the world, considers itself fortunate to display Miss Concannon's work.

  '"I believe she's only begun to tap her creativity," stated Rogan Sweeney, president of Worldwide.

  "Bringing Miss Concannon's work to the attention of the world is a privilege."'

  "He said that?" She reached for the clipping again, but Murphy held it out of reach.

  "He did. It's here in black and white. Now let me finish. People want to hear."

  Indeed, the pub had gone quiet. Every eye was on Murphy as he finished the review.

  "Worldwide will be touring several of Miss Concannon's pieces over the next year, and will keep

  others, personally selected by the artist and Mr. Sweeney, on permanent display in Dublin.'" Satisfied, Murphy placed the clipping on the bar, where Tim craned over to see it.

  "And there's pictures," he added, unfolding the second clipping. "Of Maggie with the ivory complexion and some of her fancy glass. Nothing to say, Maggie?"

  She let out a long breath, dragged at her hair. "I guess I'd better say 'drinks for all my friends."

  "You're quiet, Maggie Mae."

  Maggie smiled over the nickname, one her father had used for her. She was more than comfortable in Murphy's lorry, with her bike stowed in the bed and the engine purring, as did all of Murphy's machinery, like a satisfied cat.

  "I'm thinking I'm a wee bit drunk, Murphy." She stretched and sighed. "And that I like the feeling quite a lot."

  "Well, you earned it. "She was more than a wee bit drunk, which was why he'd hauled her bike into his lorry before she could think to argue. "We're all proud of you, and I for one will look upon that bottle you made me with more respect from now on."

  "Tis a weed pot, I've told
you, not a bottle. You put pretty twigs or wild flowers in it."

  Why anyone would bring twigs, pretty or otherwise, into the house was beyond him. "So are you going back to Dublin, then?"

  "I don't know—not for a time, anyway. I can't work there and work's what I want to do right now."

  She scowled at a tumble of furze, silvered now by the rising moon. "He never acted like it was a privilege, you know."

  "What's that?"

  "Oh, no, it was always that I should be privileged he'd taken a second look at me work. The great and powerful Sweeney giving the poor, struggling artist a chance for fame and fortune. Well, did I ask for fame ,and fortune, Murphy? That's what I want to know? Did I ask for it?"

  He knew the tone, the belligerent, defensive slap of it, and answered cautiously.

  "I can't say, Maggie. But don't you want it?"

  "Of course I do. Do I look like a fleabrain? But ask for it? I did not. I never once asked him for a blessed thing, except at the start to leave me alone and did he? Hah!" She folded her arms across her chest. "Not much he did. He tempted me. Murphy, and the devil himself couldn't have been more sly and persuasive. Now I'm stuck, you see, and can't go back."

  Murphy pursed his lips and pulled smoothly to a stop by her gate. "Well, are you wanting to go back?"

  "No. And that's the worst of it. I want exactly what he says I can have, and want it so it hurts my heart.

  But I don't want things to change either, that's the hell of it. I want to be left alone to work and to think, and just to be. I don't know as I can have both."

  "You can have what you want, Maggie. You're too stubborn to take less."

  She laughed at that and turned to kiss him sloppily. "Oh, I love you, Murphy. Why don't you come out into the field and dance with me in the moonlight?"

  He grinned, ruffled her hair. "Why don't I put your bike away and tuck you into bed?"

  "I'll do it meself." She climbed out of the lorry, but he was quicker. He lifted out her bike and set it on the road. 'Thank you for escorting me home, Mr. Muldoon."

  The pleasure was mine, Miss Concannon. Now get yourself to bed."

  She wheeled her bike through the gate as he began to sing. Stopping just inside the garden, she listened as his voice, a strong, sweet tenor, drifted through the night quiet and disappeared.

  "Alone all alone by the wave wash strand, all alone in a crowded hall. The hall it is gay, and the waves they are grand, but my heart is not here at all."

  She smiled a little and finished the rest in her mind. It flies far away, by night and by day, to the times and the joys that are gone.

  "Slievenamon" was the ballad, she knew. Woman the Mountain. Well, she wasn't standing on a mountain, but she thought she understood the soul of the tune. The hall in Dublin had been gay, yet her heart hadn't been there. She'd been alone. All alone.

  She wheeled her bike around the back, but instead of going inside, Maggie headed away from the liouse. It was true she was a little light-headed and none too steady on her feet, but she didn't want to waste such a night in bed. Alone in bed. And drunk or sober, day or night, she could find her way over the land that had once been hers. She heard the hoot of an owl and the rustle of something that hunted or hid by night in the higher pass to the east. Overhead, the moon, just past full, Er-Aone like a bright beacon in a swimming sea of stars. The night whispered around her, secretly. A brook to the west babbled in answer.

  This, this, was part of what she wanted. What she needed as much as breath was the glory of solitude. Having the green fields flowing around her, silvered now in moon- and star-light, with only the faint glow in the distance that was the lamp in Murphy's kitchen. She remembered walking here with her father, her child's hand clutched warmly in his. He hadn't talked of planting or plowing, but of dreams. Always, he had spoken of dreams. He'd never really found his. Sadder somehow, she thought, was that she was beginning to see that her mother had found hers, only to lose it again. How would it be, she wondered, to have what you wanted as close as your fingertips, then have it slip away? Forever.

  And wasn't that exactly what she herself was so afraid of? She lay on her back on the grass, her head spinning with too much drink and too many dreams other own. The stars wheeled in their angels' dance, and the moon, shiny as a silver coin, looked down on her. The air was sweetened by the lilt of a nightingale. And the night was hers alone.

  She smiled, shut her eyes and slept.

  Chapter Eleven

  IT was the cow that woke her. The big, liquid eyes studied the sleeping form curled in the pasture. There was little thought in a cow's head other than "food and the need to be milked. So she sniffed once, twice, at Maggie's cheek, snorted, then began to crop grass.

  "Oh God have mercy, what's the noise?" Her head throbbing like a large drum being beaten, Maggie rolled over, bumped solidly into the cow's foreleg and opened bleary, bloodshot eyes.

  "Sweet Jesus Christ!" Maggie's squeal reverberated in her head like a gong, causing her to catch hold of her ears as if they were about to explode as she scrambled away. The cow, as startled as she, mooed and rolled her eyes. "What are you doing here?"