The Parting Glass (50 page)

His grandmother bustled out of the kitchen and told him that Clare had arrived hours ago.

“She did?” Glen was stunned and immediately worried. He had expected Clare to sneak out at dusk, so that her father wouldn’t discover her absence until morning. By then they would be long gone.

“I’ll tell her to go home. You don’t sound glad she’s here,” Lena said. She wore her best Sunday dress and marcasite combs to hold her hair in place.

“I’m thrilled beyond measure that she’s here. I don’t like to think what it might have taken to escape in broad daylight.”

“She’s a bit the worse for wear, but she’s alive and well.”

He intended to keep her that way. “I’m going up to see her.”

“Think again, boy,” his father said. “The women will claw out your eyes if you try to see her before the wedding.”

He and Clare had so much to discuss and plan for, but he knew his father was right. They needed the semblance of normality, if only in such a simple tradition as that one. “Is Father McSweeney here?”

“Not yet. But he’s on his way,” Lena said.

Glen wondered how wise it had been to ask the old priest to preside. Had McNulty figured out by now that Clare was in love with another man or that she would try to marry her lover tonight? Liam, the bodyguard, certainly knew and would probably have no compunctions about reporting it. And surely a number of people had seen him with her at St. Brigid’s, where they’d first met. Might the priest be followed to the saloon? That was a long shot, of course, but Glen wished now that they had thought of another, less obvious, way to get the old man here.

He decided he was being overly suspicious. If anything, her father only knew that she had left home. With any luck he would not immediately link her disappearance to a man but to a desire to escape Cassidy.

“You were able to get the license?” Lena asked.

“With a little finagling, yes.”

“And a ring?”

“There wasn’t time. I’ll buy her one when we settle down.”

“No, I have one for you.” Lena reached inside the pocket of her dress and pulled out a tiny cardboard box. “This was mine, from my first marriage to Terence, your grandfather. I put it away when I married Rowan. It belonged to Terence’s mother. It’s a poor ring, worn and scratched, but it’s part of your history. And having met Clare, I believe she will treasure it.”

He was touched. He kissed her cheek. “She
will
treasure it. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.”

Lena smiled. “You’ve the gift of knowing how to make a woman feel good. Terence had it, too.”

“What should I do now?”

“Sit and worry, which is what you’ll do no matter what I say.”

A Donaghue cousin—a particularly beefy one—was standing guard at the door. As Glen watched, he opened it a crack to usher in Father McSweeney. Glen went to pay his respects, his grandmother trailing behind.

“You do us all a great service, Father,” she said, after Glen had thanked him.

The priest looked tired from the trip, even though St. Brigid’s was not far away and a driver had brought him. “It will be good to get these two married and out of the city.”

Lena ushered the priest to a comfortable chair. Glen’s father pulled him aside to find out what plans he had made.

“I turned in my badge this morning, and I bought train tickets to Los Angeles. My boss thinks he can put in a good word for me there with the local police force.” He paused. “And he let me keep my gun until I get settled, even though it’s against policy.”

Terry chose not to comment on that. “Los Angeles is too far away.”

Glen was afraid it might not be far enough, but it was their best chance. His friend at the courthouse had promised to “lose” all records of the wedding for six months, so if either Cassidy or McNulty thought to check for such a thing, they would be stymied.

“I want you to have this,” his father said. He handed Glen a package wrapped in white paper. “Open it now.”

Glen did. Inside he found his grandfather Rowan’s watch.

“He would have wanted
you
to have it,” Terry said. “You’re the only grandchild in law enforcement. He would have been so proud.”

Glen wondered if one of Rowan’s biological grandchildren should have this heirloom, but clearly Rowan had given it to Terry, his son by adoption. There had never been any favoritism in the family.

“I’ll treasure it,” Glen said.

“And take this.” Terry pulled an envelope from his pocket. “It’s from all of us. To help you get started. You’ll stay in touch?”

Glen had already made arrangements to write to the family in care of a friend who would give them the letters. Too many precautions, perhaps, but better than too few.

He took the envelope and flipped through the bills. “Thank you. This is very generous of all of you.”

A hush was falling over the saloon. Glen looked up and saw that everyone was watching him.

“Your bride is coming,” Terry said. “Go to the front and stand by the priest, son.”

Clare wondered how her mother had looked in this dress. It was ivory satin covered with layers of beautifully embroidered tulle and had a silhouette that was delightfully out of fashion in this era of the boyish figure. The neck was high, but the bodice above her breasts was sheer. The sleeves were sheer, too, but what she loved most was the train of delicate lace that hung from the shoulders. She felt like an angel with wings.

“Your mother is gone?” Fenola asked.

Clare already liked Glen’s mother. She was down-to-earth, and she didn’t hesitate to say what she felt. She was also fair, and Clare sensed that, under the no-nonsense facade, she was kind.

“She died when I was eight. I still miss her.”

“Well, she would be weeping with joy to see what a beautiful bride you are.”

Impulsively Clare took Fenola’s hands. “I will take such good care of him, Mother. And I’ll love him until the day I die.”

“I can sense that. You won’t blame us for worrying a bit, though, will you?”

“Of course not. And I promise, as soon as we safely can, we’ll come back. I won’t keep him from you.”

“We’ll come to see you if we can. When you’re settled and when we’re sure no one is watching.”

Clare knew how hard that might be on their income. Surely Prohibition had cut into their family business, but these were people who would sacrifice everything they had for their children.

“Do you feel ready?” Fenola asked.

Clare looked down at her dress. Her hands were trembling, but not from fear. “I gave up hope of real happiness a long time ago.” There was no self-pity in her voice, only joy. “I am the luckiest woman in the world to be marrying Glen.”

“Yes, well, before I cry right here and now, let’s go downstairs so I’ll have company. I’ll go first and open the door.” Fenola leaned forward and planted a kiss on Clare’s cheek. “He’s lucky to be marrying you, too.” She left the room.

Clare waited a full minute before she followed. She descended the stairs slowly, although she really wanted to run straight into Glen’s arms. There was no music and no flowers; nobody had found the time to arrange anything appropriate. But the silence pleased her. She could not remember when she had been the center of so much attention, and she was not ashamed to enjoy it.

She reached the bottom of the steps and came through the door. There was an audible intake of breath, but she couldn’t glance at the several dozen people standing on each side of a makeshift aisle. She searched for her husband-to-be, and she found him standing in front of Father McSweeney, turned so that he could watch her walk toward him. He grinned broadly.

She walked as if to music, and when she reached his side, he grabbed her hand. Father McSweeney beamed proudly at them both and began to speak.

Clare wanted to listen. She would only be married once, God willing, and she wanted to savor every word. But she could think of nothing except Glen, of how much she loved him and how unlikely it had been from the beginning that their love would end in marriage. She felt as if she were floating far above the ceremony, far above the gathered family and the priest, far above the saloon. She felt light and ethereal, the embodiment of joy.

Shots rang out. Glass shattered, and women screamed. Clare found herself on the floor, Glen’s body half covering hers.

“Cassidy.” He uttered the word like an oath. “Stay here.”

She grabbed his arm. “Glen, no!”

“I have to stop him.” He pulled away and got to his feet. As she tried to rise, too, he drew a gun from a holster under his jacket.

She hadn’t known he was armed. “Glen!”

He looked down at her, as if to tell her everything would be all right; then he took off for the front door. Clare tried to follow, but Father McSweeney gripped her arm. “Stay here.”

Someone was already on the telephone to the police; someone else was herding the others to the back of the saloon. Father McSweeney dragged her along. From the corner of her eye she saw that several of the men were on their way to the front. She saw that one, at least, was armed.

“Glen…” She tried to lag behind, but for a frail old man, Father McSweeney was surprisingly strong.

“He’s safer out there without you, Clare,” the priest said.

She knew it wasn’t true. Cassidy was a madman, and first and foremost, he wanted Clare. His prime mission was to kill her, and that was why he had come. Instead, other innocents were going to die. All because she had fallen in love with Glen.

“Downstairs,” Terry shouted.

With the others, Clare was herded into the kitchen, then down into a stairway to what she supposed was a basement. At the bottom, though, she saw that there was much more. What looked like an ordinary wall was a doorway leading into a narrow passageway lit only by the occasional lightbulb. She knew immediately what it must be used for.

“Where does this lead?” Father McSweeney was behind her now, but she addressed the question to one of Glen’s younger cousins, who was hurrying along beside her.

“The hill and the road going over to Whiskey Island.”

She wondered how much of her own father’s liquor had made its way through this passage. There was no time to consider the irony of Tim’s most precious assets entering and exiting through the tunnel. His liquor
and
the flesh and blood that he had been only too willing to sell. She did not want to be angry, not at this moment, when the man she loved was facing a maniac’s bullets. She wanted to pray, to beseech God to spare Glen’s life. But there was no time for anything more than crossing herself and a quickly muttered, fervent plea as she ran.

They stopped near the end of the tunnel. Terence had put himself in charge, and he held up his hand for silence.

Clare saw the door at the end, barred from the inside. She realized they were not going to escape but were going to hover here until the police arrived. Glen and the others were outside fighting for their lives and hers, and she was trapped with his family.

They stood in total silence. Clare could feel the thunderous beat of her heart, the trembling of her hands. She was terrified and resigned, and mutely, she prayed.

Footsteps sounded at the end of the tunnel by the stairs. Two men stepped in front of her to shield her.

“It’s okay,” a man shouted. “It looks like we scared them off. The guy who was shooting got nicked, we think, and lit out. They’re making sure, but it looks like you can come back up in a few minutes.”

The others began to talk quietly among themselves. Clare felt a hand on her arm. In the dim light of the bare bulb hanging just above their heads, she saw Fenola.

“It’s my fault,” Clare said. “All my fault.”

“None of that, girl. It’s the fault of those men up there, who don’t know how to take no for an answer. And it’s okay. Didn’t you hear? Everyone came through it. We’ll finish the wedding, then we’ll get you out of here. Both of you. And not a moment too soon.”

“But now you’re all in danger.”

“There’s nothing for you to worry about there. The Donaghues have friends. We’ll take care of ourselves, don’t you worry.”

But Clare
was
worried. These people had taken her in, befriended her even though she was stealing their beloved only son. And now she had put them at terrible risk. Because once she was gone, on whom would Niall Cassidy vent his rage? Her father? Yes, most certainly Tim, because Clare had earned Cassidy’s wrath. But it was likely that Niall would seek vengeance on the Donaghues, as well.

The man who had joined them spoke a few minutes later. “I think we can start back. I’ll go upstairs and check for sure. Don’t come up until I’ve given the final signal.”

In groups of two or three, they started back down the tunnel toward the saloon. Clare held back, and Fenola stayed beside her. “Are you all right?” she asked Clare.

“It’s just been too much shock, I think. I feel a little dizzy.” Clare wasn’t lying, although she could easily have walked back.

“I’ll stay with you until you feel better.”

“No, I think I need a few moments alone. Please…”

Fenola nodded. “All right. But if you’re not up in a few minutes, I’ll send someone back to help you.”

“Yes. Thanks.” Clare leaned against the wall and closed her eyes. She heard the others making their way down the tunnel, the slow drag of Fenola’s footsteps as she lingered, unwilling to abandon her daughter-in-law-to-be.

Clare wasn’t clear about what to do. She knew only that she had to think. How could she marry Glen when it put so many people in danger? Was her personal happiness more important? She and Glen would be far away and safe, but these people would be forced to stay behind and answer for her decision.

She pictured Glen’s face, Glen’s dear face. She wanted nothing more than to be his wife and the mother of his children. She closed her eyes and prayed again, hoping for an answer.

It came in the form of gunfire, only this time near the tunnel door that opened on to the road. She heard shouts, and more bullets, and she knew what she had to do.

At the door she clawed at the bar, lifting it with great effort and swinging it left so that it was no longer an impediment. The key was in the lock, and it screeched as she turned it. Night rushed in, the very last moments of twilight. At first, as her eyes adjusted, she could see very little; then she saw two men. She recognized one of them as Liam.