Irish Chain Read online

  “Remember we have a lot of pictures to take tonight.” I felt obligated to play the adult authority figure. “And find Ramon, will you? Tell him to get his fool self back here.”

  “Yes sir—I mean, ma’am.” He slapped the heels of his black, high-topped combat boots together, saluted me, executed a semblance of a military turn and marched toward the exit. One of the girls decorating the tables giggled. I gave a dramatic sigh, suspecting it would be some time before I saw either Todd or Ramon again.

  I started to call for help from one of the girls, when a hand the size of a grizzly paw and sprinkled with reddish-brown hair took hold of the column.

  “I’ve always told my congregations it’s women who prop up the home,” a deep voice said. “Now I see I wasn’t exaggerating.”

  “Mac,” I said, twisting around and looking up into the smiling, full-bearded face of San Celina’s most famous high-school athlete. At six foot four with eyes the color of worn pewter, he still looked like he could bench press three hundred pounds and whistle while doing it. “You’re just the person I need to talk to.”

  “Whatever it is she’s done, I’m sorry—I’ll talk to her, but it won’t help—and yes, I pray for her all the time.”

  I laughed at the mock look of despair on his craggy face. With his chestnut beard and ruddy cheeks, he looked more like a Hollywood version of a Montana mountain man than a minister. “Well, I guess that pretty much answers anything I had to tell you about your grandmother.”

  “Believe me, Benni, there is nothing you can tell me about Grandma Oralee that I haven’t already heard. She’s incorrigible, I know, but she’d also give the shirt off her back to a stranger who even thought about shivering.” He rubbed the back of his free hand up and down his neatly trimmed beard. When I’d first seen him a month ago, I’d teased him about it, telling him he looked like a GQ version of John the Baptist. According to Dove, the beard had been quite a controversial subject when the congregation hired him. Some people at First Baptist apparently still believed there was a direct connection between facial hair and liberal thinking.

  “Actually,” I said, “it’s not that big a deal about Oralee. She and Mr. O’Hara are just having a slight disagreement about their weekly card game.”

  “Now, young woman,” a loud, guttural voice declared. Brady O’Hara limped up and pointed the tip of his cherry-wood cane in my direction. “A disagreement is something that happens between civilized people. Oralee Reid wants to turn this into a barroom brawl, as she has most things all her life.” His precise little brush of a white mustache quivered like a rabbit’s nose while his still clear aquamarine eyes flashed in anger.

  “Mr. O’Hara,” I said, chagrined at being caught discussing him. “How are you?”

  “That is a stupid question. My reputation is being maligned, my peace of mind interfered with and my money being stolen. How do you think I am? And just for the record, Reverend, I was most certainly not cheating. I merely bested your grandmother and she is not enough of a lady to admit it.”

  “Well,” I said, looking up at Mac, who was still propping up Tara’s porch like Big John did to mine. His eyes had grown dark with some undecipherable emotion. When he offered no help, I turned back to Mr. O’Hara. “Maybe you should try a different card game.”

  Mr. O’Hara brushed at the sleeves of his expensive tweed jacket. “Maybe she should try to learn some manners.”

  “You can jump in any time,” I said to Mac out of the side of my mouth.

  “You’re doing just fine,” he whispered back.

  “I’ll get you for this.”

  “When you two finish gossiping among yourselves, perhaps we can get back to the problem at hand,” Mr. O’Hara snapped. “I understand she is threatening to call the authorities. I’ll have you know I am not without influence myself in this town.” He pulled a white linen handkerchief from inside his jacket and started hacking into it. It was a smoker’s cough, ear-piercing and full of phlegm. In less than a minute, it became a full-blown choking attack.

  I stepped over and patted him gently on the back. “Now, Mr. O’Hara, we can get this all straightened out without anyone calling the police on anyone else.”

  He jerked at my touch, turned and hit me across the shins with his wooden cane.

  “Hey!” I yelped and jumped back.

  “Young woman,” he said, still sputtering from his attack, “I’ll thank you to keep your hands to yourself and not use that condescending tone to me. I’ll decide when and if the authorities need to be informed. I was dealing with unpleasant people like Oralee forty years before you were in diapers.” He gave me a fierce look and hobbled away, his back as unyielding as a steel fence post.

  “Did you see what he just did? And I let him. I should have kicked that cane out from under him.”

  “Nice Christian attitude,” Mac remarked mildly, his arm still wrapped around the papier-mâché pillar.

  “Easy for you to say, preacher. I didn’t see you jumping in and trying to calm things down. What’s the problem? You looked kinda mad.”

  “You were doing just fine,” he said, ignoring my question.

  “You may as well put that down. It appears Ramon was ambushed in his quest for the elusive fish line.”

  He leaned the column against the wall and sat on the floor, grunting as he stretched his legs out in front of him. He massaged his knees with both hands. “Forty years old and the arthritis of a seventy-year-old.” He patted the floor next to him. “I try to let people work out their own problems before jumping in with my so-called professional opinion. You work here, right?”

  I sat cross-legged next to him and nodded.

  “Then this probably won’t be the last time you encounter Mr. O’Hara or deal with the problem between him and my grandmother. I can’t be here every time. And just remember, the peacemakers will be called the sons of God.”

  “Still a smart aleck, I see. That’s probably why Dove is so impressed with you. She said it was about time the church got some fresh blood.”

  “Dove has always been a very special lady . . .” he said, a slight hesitancy in his voice.

  “But?” I prompted. I knew that tone, especially when it pertained to my grandmother.

  “Well, frankly”—he lowered his voice even though no one was close enough to overhear us—“she scares the heck out of me.”

  “Dove? You’re kidding. With a grandmother like Oralee?”

  “Grandma Oralee’s a kick in the pants, all right, but she never interferes with anything unless it directly involves her. You know, she gave me the money for college and never once asked me about my grades or my social life.” He leaned back on his elbows and regarded me with calm gray eyes. “Your grandmother is more . . .” He stopped, obviously not quite sure how to word his feelings.

  “Nosy?” I offered. “Devious? Meddling? Opinionated? Stop me if any of these ring a bell.”

  His eyes glinted with amusement. “Well, she is extraordinarily concerned about other people’s lives.”

  I laughed and pointed my finger at him. “Mac, there’s not a person in your congregation who could find fault with that statement.”

  “Do you know that she gives me a written critique of my sermon every week? I hate to admit it, but they’re pretty good.”

  “That sounds like Dove. The words ‘mind your own business’ do not exist in her vocabulary.”

  “Well, I’ve only been here four weeks. Maybe I’ll get good enough after a few months she won’t need to do it anymore.”

  “Don’t count on it. I’ve been waiting thirty-four years. So, I haven’t talked with you much since you’ve been back. How are you liking old San Celina these days?”

  “Beats the heck out of L.A.”

  “I have a friend who might not agree with you.”

  “Oh, yes, the police chief.”

  “Now, what makes you think my friend is the police chief?”

  He just smiled.

  “Okay, wha
t did Dove tell you? And I want the truth.”

  “Only that he’s the acting chief of police and . . . that she likes him.”

  “Liar.”

  He rubbed his knees again and gave a low chuckle. “Well, her exact words were that you’d actually found a man who might be able to stand that smart mouth of yours.”

  “Now that sounds more like Dove. He’s a nice man. A bit on the macho side at times, but I do like him. I think you would too.”

  He glanced meaningfully at me. “She also said he may not stay in San Celina. That has her a bit worried. She’s afraid you’ll get hurt.”

  I held his gaze. “I’m not a kid, Mac. I don’t expect fairy tale endings.”

  He smiled again, a slow smile that seemed partly sad, partly sympathetic. “It’s a sorry thing when we get to that point, isn’t it?” He stood up and held out his hand to me.

  “Are you coming tonight?” I asked, grasping it and pulling myself up.

  “I volunteered to supervise refreshments, so I’ll be sequestered in the kitchen all night.”

  “Got out of wearing a neck choker, did you?”

  “That agony is reserved for Sundays only. Sneak into the kitchen if you get time. I’ll set aside some of the best goodies for you.”

  “You’ve got a deal. I guess it does pay to know people in high places.”

  He laid a huge hand on my shoulder and squeezed it gently. “Now that, Benni Harper, is a comment I should have made.”

  By five o’clock, Tara’s columns had achieved semi-straightness, and the room, swathed in green and pink crepe paper, looked a bit like how a New Orleans jazz funeral sounds. And I was more than willing to call it a night already. My head felt thick and achy from the smell of the donated magnolia and carnation centerpieces. Balloons teasingly popped behind me no longer caused me to crack a smile. The endless chatter and bathroom noises of the post-adolescents gave me visions of firing a shotgun in the air and yelling for quiet. There was no doubt I needed some time in a warm bubble bath to readjust my attitude, but there was only enough time for me to dash home, take a quick shower, pull on that atrocious dress and hustle back to Oak Terrace. Less than two hours later, the prom was in full swing with the volunteer disc jockey alternating between Glenn Miller, Whitney Houston and an occasional Vince Gill song. The university students, faces tight with concentration trying to recall the fox trot and waltz steps learned in high-school gym class, danced the beaming residents of the retirement home carefully across the glossy tile floor.

  “Ramon, everything looks great,” I said, surveying the refreshment table while trying to unobtrusively hike up the front of my dress with my forearms. If I managed to make it through the night without flashing everyone like a drunken Mardi Gras reveler, it would be a miracle. “For a while there, I didn’t think we’d pull it off, but it looks like we did.”

  “Yeah, it kinda does,” he agreed. “Boy, this is a heck of a lot better than doing a term paper.” He grinned at me, his young face still as silky as a child’s except for a few lovingly cultivated chin hairs.

  The sparkle globe hung in the center of the dimly lit room shot diamonds of light across the dancers’ faces and bounced off the shiny chrome of the dozens of wheelchairs parked along the sidelines like covered wagons pulled close for the night. A piccolo-voiced young woman in a skintight, red metallic dress organized a conga line. The enthusiastic leader was a lady with hair the same pale blue of this morning’s sky driving a motor-driven wheelchair with a Dodgers baseball pennant taped to the back. Snaking past us, she tossed her head back, showed a mouthful of dentures and screeched a loud arriba.

  Ramon and I looked at each other in surprise, then burst out laughing.

  “Maybe somebody better check the alcohol content of that punch,” I said. “Things are starting to get wild. And speaking of wild, where in the world did you get that tie?” I squinted in the shadowy light at his wide necktie.

  “You like it?” He held it up for my closer inspection. On a pale brown background, a wavy-haired Veronica Lake-twin cocked her hips in a frozen hula. A dark brown fringe around her impossibly narrow waist jiggled when he shook the tie. “Three old dudes offered to buy it off me. I got it at the Woman’s Shelter Thrift Store down by the bus station. Everyone grunge-shops there.”

  “It looks perfect with your suit,” I said. He wore a dark brown double-breasted jacket that almost reached his knees, and baggy, cuffed pants. “Where’s your machine gun, Mr. Capone?”

  “Step up to reality, Benni. What do you expect, a gray wool job like some old lawyer dude? Only a loser would dress like that.”

  I looked around at the other kids his age. He was right. Except for the colors, which ranged from Todd’s pure black suit complete with matching black shirt and tie to one kid’s jacket and pants in a particularly stomach-turning shade of pea green, all his classmates were dressed identically.

  “Well, don’t mention that to Gabe when he gets here. You’re sort of describing his favorite suit.”

  “That’s different. He’s an old guy. What’s he got to look good for?”

  “Remind me to repeat that remark to you when you’re forty-two. Now, you get out there and start asking some of these ladies to dance. They’ve been looking forward to it for weeks.”

  “I hate to dance,” he complained. “I think I should get extra credit for that.”

  “Just get out there and make someone’s grandma happy.” Before he could protest further, a voice as smooth as a soap opera villain’s interrupted us.

  “Everything looks quite marvelous, Benni.”

  I grimaced at Ramon and turned to face Edwin Montrose, manager of Oak Terrace Retirement Home and general mosquito in the ear for the last month as we planned the prom. “Thank you, Edwin.”

  “Gotta dance,” Ramon said. I shot him an evil look. He rolled his eyes and eased away, leaving me in the slithery man’s clutches. Edwin’s strained enthusiasm and uppity manner had not made him a favorite with the Cal Poly students, so I’d been running interference during the whole project.

  He wasn’t extremely popular with the senior citizens either. The women in my quilting class referred to him behind his back as “Mr. Ed” because of his long-limbed spare frame and a perpetually tanned face with the sunken-cheeked look of a horse. Somewhere between the age of forty and fifty with protruding too-blue eyes and black, vinyl-looking hair, he was the type of man who would ask you to dance even if you had your head practically lying in your lap avoiding eye contact, then argue with you when you said no.

  “Our guests seem to be enjoying themselves,” he said, laying a damp hand on my shoulder. I moved back slightly, but it remained glued to me, stubborn as a horsefly. He had, unfortunately, bought into the fallacy that lonely widows were always in the market for the attentions of any available man, and nothing I could say or do would convince him otherwise. His behavior this last month had bordered on sexual harassment. I considered twisting my head and giving his hand a good, hard bite. The only thing stopping me was the suspicion he’d probably enjoy it.

  “The kids did a great job,” I replied. “I really should check the punch.” I moved back, abruptly disengaging his hand and put the refreshment table between us, thankful that after tonight I wouldn’t have to work closely with him again. Thelma Rook, who once owned the largest feed store in San Celina, and her roommate, Martha Pickering, tottered up. Martha, a former waitress, inspected with a jaundiced eye the selection of cinnamon-sprinkled butter cookies, bright strawberry tarts and chocolate-dipped macaroons.

  “My dear Benni,” Thelma said. “This is so much fun. I feel sixteen again.” She touched long, large-knuckled fingers to the hand-beaded bodice of her silver and gray dress. I smiled at the woman who used to slip me sugar cubes from her husband’s stash to take home to my Appaloosa mare, Bacon Bits. Sometimes the treats made it home, sometimes they didn’t. Martha nodded her basketball bouffant of snowy curls in agreement and bit into a miniature chocolate eclair.

/>   “I’m terribly glad you ladies are enjoying yourselves,” Edwin said, coming around the table and standing close enough for me to gag from the smell of his Brut cologne. “We do try to provide here at Oak Terrace a rounded social environment specifically geared toward the discriminating senior. Isn’t that right, Benni?” He smiled with long beige teeth and punctuated his sentence by reaching over and giving my shoulder a squeeze, leaving his hand in place.

  “I suppose so,” I said, jerking my shoulder and giving him a deep frown. He gave me his best patent-leather smile and dropped his hand.

  “We know you do, Mr. Ed . . . um ... Edwin,” Thelma said, giving me a wink. “And we certainly appreciate it.” Behind her, Martha gave an extravagant snort and picked up a strawberry tart.

  The disc jockey put on an old sixties song—“Put Your Head On My Shoulder.” Edwin turned to me, an eager, somewhat hungry look on his face. “Benni, I think they’re playing our—” But before he could finish, Thelma interrupted.

  “Well, look at what’s coming your way, Benni,” she said. “If only I were a few years younger.”

  I followed the direction of her eyes across the room and felt my heart give a little jump. Clay O’Hara walked toward us wearing a squinty cowboy grin under his sandy handlebar mustache and a dark Stetson on his head. His Wranglers, faded just enough to show confidence, were snug enough to show the outline of his pocketknife.

  “Benni Ramsey.” He parked his thick-chested figure in front of me, one hip slightly cocked. “The last time I saw you, you were on your knees in cow shit holding a red-hot branding iron.”

  “You always had a way with words, Clay O’Hara,” I said. “And it’s been Benni Harper for almost fifteen years.”

  “That’s right,” he said, pushing his hat back slightly and running his mahogany eyes the length of me. Subtlety was never his strong suit. “You went and married that kid, didn’t you? Jack Harper and I didn’t take to one another much, but I was real sorry when Brady sent us the news clipping back in Colorado.”