A Woman's Heart. JoAnn Ross

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      “And how exactly did he do that?”

      “He asked Sharon Fitzgerald to the May Dance.”

      “Is that all?” Fionna asked.

      “You don’t understand! Everyone’s already coupled up. I won’t have a date!”

      “You could always go to the dance alone,” Fionna suggested.

      “Grandmother!” Mary shot a desperate look at Nora. “Would you please explain that these days only the wretched homely girls destined for spinsterhood go to dances alone?”

      “I doubt you’re destined for spinsterhood,” Nora replied mildly as she noted the black trails of mascara running down her sister’s cheeks.

      While she understood a teenager’s natural impulse for rebellion, she did wish that Mary hadn’t taken to emulating what had become known in Dublin as the Gothic look. The black tortured-artist’s clothing, white Kabuki-dancer powder and maroon-painted lips Mary favored on weekends away from school detracted from her natural beauty.

      At least the nuns had forbidden the fluorescent green or orange spiked hair sported by the city teenagers. And, needless to say, body piercing was out of the question. Nora decided to be grateful for small favors.

      “I realize it hurts,” she tried again. “But it’s not the end of the world, darling. There are still three weeks until the dance, and perhaps Jack will change his mind—”

      “He’s not going to change his mind,” Mary sniffed. “Because the only reason he dropped me for Sharon is ’cause she puts out. She’s probably slept with half the boys in school.”

      There it was again. That ever-threatening sex issue. Lately, Nora had finally come to understand all too well why her mother had worried so during the days she’d been stealing off to hidden meadows with Devlin Monohan.

      “A man won’t buy the cow when he can get the milk for free,” Fionna said sagely. “You’re right to hold on to your virginity, Mary, dear. When you’re with your husband on your wedding night, you’ll look back on this day and be glad you held firm.”

      “I’m never going to get married!”

      “Of course you will.” Nora handed her a tissue.

      “No, I’m not.” Mary blew her nose with a loud unfeminine honk. “I’ve decided to become a nun.”

      “You’ve certainly got the wardrobe for it,” Fionna muttered, casting a derisive look at the flowing black skirt and ebony tunic sweater.

      “You can’t be a nun,” seven-year-old Celia, who was coloring in a book of Irish Grand National winners, piped up. “You have to have a vocation. Then you go off to be a missionary in the Congo.”

      The kettle whistled, allowing Nora to turn away to hide her smile. The Nun’s Story was a perennial favorite on television, broadcast every season during Lent.

      Mary turned on the youngest Joyce sister. “That’s just a stupid movie.”

      “I know that.” Celia lifted her small pointed chin. “But Sister Mary Anthony is reading us the lives of the saints, and they all had vocations. Like Saint Theresa who walked on thorns and didn’t flinch. And Joan of Arc who was burned at the stake and never even cried.”

      “And let’s not be forgetting Saint Maria Goretti who died rather than submit to a man,” Fionna said pointedly. “She didn’t even lose courage when her attacker started stabbing her with his dagger. Now that’s a vocation.”

      “I didn’t say I was going to be a bloody saint!” Mary’s palm hit the kitchen table with enough force to send crayons rolling off onto the floor. “I said I was going to be a nun.”

      “There’s no need to swear.” Nora put the teapot on the table.

      “You just don’t understand!” Mary jumped up, knocking over her chair with a loud clatter. “None of you understand!” she cried as she ran from the room.

      There was the sound of footfalls on the stairs. Moments later the slam of a door reverberated through the farmhouse, causing the calendar from Monohan’s Mercantile, with the lovely photograph of wildflowers, to tilt on the wall like a drunkard.

      Appearing unfazed by the histrionics, Celia returned to her coloring, carefully filling in the lines of a flowing mane with a crayon that was nearly the same color as her russet braids. “When I’m a teenager, I’m not going to have anything to do with boys,” she vowed.

      “I, for one, would be very grateful if you stick to that decision,” Nora said, even though she knew it would never happen. Boys and tears were just part of growing up.

      Wanting to calm things down before the American writer arrived, Nora followed the pitiful sound of sobbing upstairs. Although she tried her best to sympathize with Mary’s upsets, it was difficult when they occurred so often. Granted, Jack’s behavior was just cause, but usually Mary’s bleak moods were triggered by far less.

      But then again, Nora reminded herself, she hadn’t lost her mother at the tender age of nine as Mary had. She’d been all of eighteen and had had Conor to offer comfort and love during that sad time.

      As she rapped on the closed bedroom door, Nora thought that Sheila Monohan had definitely been right about one thing. Raising her mother’s three children along with her own—not to mention worrying about her father, who was little more than an overgrown child himself—was far from easy.

      Nora lifted her eyes upward, which, unfortunately made her notice the new brown water stain on the ceiling. She really was going to have to get the roof rethatched.

      “It would certainly be nice, Mam,” she murmured, “if you could give me a little help with this one.”

      Chapter Four

      Smoke and Strong Whiskey

      As Quinn drove past the butcher shop, the rows of meat and dressed chickens displayed in the storefront window reminded him of how many hours it had been since he’d eaten. Spotting the hanging sign across the square advertising The Irish Rose pub, he decided to stop.

      “Some food and a couple cups of coffee should stave off jet lag.” And ease the headache that had begun to throb while he’d been driving around in circles.

      This would also give him an opportunity to ask directions to the Joyce farm. He’d been assured by the rental agent who handled the transaction that the farm was on the road directly out of Castlelough. However, having already discovered the vagaries of the Irish roadway system, Quinn feared the agent’s assurances would prove to be overly optimistic.

      He allowed himself a smile when he read the words burned into the piece of wood nailed to the pub door: Here when we’re open. Gone when we’re closed.

      The interior of The Irish Rose could have been lifted directly from the set of The Quiet Man. Quinn suspected it had looked much the same when the town of Castlelough had been founded more than five hundred years earlier.

      The dark-paneled walls had shelves filled with bottles of whiskey gleaming СКАЧАТЬ