The Source

Page 22

“Perhaps we could make it a double wedding?” Colin asked me good-naturedly.
“Not a chance,” Oliver responded. “You never want to see two Taylor women competing for the same spotlight. Trust me, it’s easy to get burned.” He put his arm around Colin’s shoulders and led him toward the whiskey.
I looked across the room, to where Peter was beaming at me from behind the bar. Our eyes met, and I felt the baby move. “That’s right, little man,” I said. “That’s your daddy.” I moved toward the bar, and he leaned over it to kiss me deeply, hungrily. Another taste of whiskey. His face looked a little flushed, and his eyes were moist. His Irish was showing.
“There you are, my love,” Claire said, coming over and taking me in her arms.
“Can I help somehow?”
“Oh, no, we’ve got everything under control. Have you seen the memorial to Peadar?”
“No, not yet,” I responded.
“Here, let me show you.” She led me across the bar to a long table that had been draped with a white tablecloth. Two large vases of white roses paired with blue lisianthus and yellow irises, one of Ellen’s favorite bouquets, anchored the ends of the table. A large black-and-white photo of a young man, dark with a mischievous grin, stood in the middle, flanked by white column candles and smaller photos of Peadar from over the years (the 1970s?—the ’80s?), the dark hair graying, and crow’s feet lining the corners of his eyes. There was also a Polaroid similar to the one found by Detective Cook, this one showing Peadar standing between Claire and Colin and holding his infant namesake, Peter.
“It’s hard to believe that scrawny little baby grew into the man behind the bar,” I said, as I could find nothing else to say about the older stranger whose life we had gathered to celebrate.
Claire’s face darkened for a moment, but then she glanced over at her son, and her smile returned full force. “Isn’t it, though?” She turned back to the memorial. “We didn’t have many photos to use. That one was the day we brought Peter home from the hospital. This one here,” she said, touching the Polaroid’s thick bottom border, “this was the last time we saw Peadar. He and Colin’s father had a falling out, and then . . . well, then nothing.” She tried to choke back tears. “I’m sorry. I can’t bear the thought that he may have been murdered.” I wanted to tell her that he hadn’t been murdered. That he hadn’t died alone either. I would have to soon, but not here and certainly not now. “He was so dear, so innocent.”
“I could tell,” I said, prompting a look of confusion from Claire. “From the photos,” I said, although the photographs reflected none of the innocence I’d seen in Peadar’s eyes. “He looks like a very nice man.”
She pulled a tissue from her pocket and dabbed at her eyes. “I should get back to the kitchen, see how things are going there.” She gave me a quick hug and a pat on the stomach. I noticed that Ellen was arriving with a sheepish Tucker in tow. He wore a canary-swallowing smile and was readily accepting the many handshakes and pats that were coming his way. In that moment I hated myself. The man did look happy. He did seem to be in love. Who was I to question Ellen’s choices? I realized that I had to put on my big-girl pants and apologize to her.
A chorus of “The Girl I Left Behind Me” broke out near the bar, being led, much to my amusement, by Oliver. A player near the bandstand whipped out a mandolin. Uilleann pipes droned awake and moments later a fiddle joined in, followed by a banjo. Voices from every corner joined in. Iris had put down her drink and was dancing with Colin. Now this was an Irish wake. I hadn’t managed to save Peadar, but looking around, feeling the music move through me, I felt happy. I took a seat near the memorial that gave me a decent view of the bandstand.
A hand touched my shoulder, and I looked over to find Detective Cook standing behind me. “Still the life of the party, isn’t he?”
It felt somehow disloyal to discuss Oliver with Cook. “I don’t think you should have come tonight,” I said. “This is a private event, and I didn’t see the name ‘Detective’ on the guest list.” I was all too aware that the two had been involved. Their secret romance had ended in tragedy years ago, a tragedy involving Jilo’s granddaughter, Grace. For years, Oliver’s guilt had driven his whole life, and even though he would never confess it, I knew that he would give his own life to right the wrong he had done. I saw no such remorse in the detective.
“Oh, I was invited, all right,” he said, showing me the pint of beer in his hand.
“So you are here as a private citizen, not a policeman, then?”
“That depends on whether you have something you are trying to hide,” he said, but the twinkle in his eyes indicated that he was pulling my leg.
“Oh, Detective Cook, my life is nothing these days if not an open book.”
He took a sip from his beer. “You know, you could call me ‘Adam’ if you’d like. I’m not your enemy. Matter of fact, I am one of the best friends you have in this room.”
“I will reserve judgment on that.” I paused. “Adam. However, I’m more than willing to do away with formalities if you will quit calling me ‘Miss Taylor.’?”
“Deal,” he said. “But no one is going to call you ‘Miss Taylor’ for much longer, huh? Claire told me,” he said in response to my unasked question. “When’s the wedding?”
“Soon. Why, you angling for an invitation?”
“I’d be honored,” he said and looked over at Oliver. “I assume your uncle will give you away.”
“Yes, and someday I hope to return the favor.” Cook—Adam—laughed. Disloyal or not, it seemed like the right time to do a little meddling. “So, how much longer are you going to punish him? It’s obvious you still have feelings for each other.”
“Ah, Mercy. If it were only that simple. I’m not punishing him . . .”
“No?”
“No. The world isn’t as simple as you seem to think it is. I’m a policeman, a detective . . .”
“Oh, so you aren’t vindictive, just a coward.”
He stepped back and his eyes widened, filling with fire. He teetered only a thumb’s breadth away from telling me off, then his shoulders slackened and a grin returned to his face. “Damn, you Taylors sure know how to push my buttons.”
“You got such big ones, and they are so darned shiny,” I said.
He took a few more sips of his beer and looked around. We both watched as Oliver grabbed Iris and spun her around the room, expertly landing her into the arms of a dark, much younger stranger. “I’m not a coward, Mercy, but folks around here, hell, folks in this room even, if they knew about me . . .”
“They’d what?” I said and slugged my fist into the rock that was his stomach. “Try to beat you up and take your milk money?”
“They’d lose respect for me. I’ve worked my entire life to become somebody in this town. To use my life as an example for others.”
I had no desire to argue that point. “You’re right. Some will lose respect for you. They’ll call you names. Laugh behind your back. I guess you aren’t a big enough man to handle that, huh?”