The Last Bride in Ballymuir by Dorien Kelly Page A

his
past rose to claim him. Another dangerous emotion, hope.
    He stood at the front door
to Spillane’s intent on making life no more comfortable for the man
on the inside than it was for him, out
there. Finally, ten min utes after opening
time, Spillane unlocked the front door and hovered nervously by the
cash register.
    His hunger dull and dead,
Michael grabbed the first bit of breakfast
food he found and made his way to the
grocer. When he reached into his pocket, he saw Spillane flinch.
Spitting an obscenity, Michael slapped a few bills on the low
counter.
    “ I’ve not yet killed a man
over a box of cereal,” he said, then left
without waiting for his change.
    Halfway down the block he
realized that he had no idea where he was
heading. Not that it really mat tered.
Glancing at the box of sugary cereal clenched in one hand, he
turned toward Vi’s house. Milk to top his cereal wasn’t much of a
reason to keep putting one foot in front of the other, but it was
all he had.
    Half an hour later, showered, dressed, and
hungry again, Michael poured himself his third bowl of cereal and
dug in his spoon. The problem, he decided, was in his expectations.
Somewhere deep inside, he was still waiting for an apology from
everyone at that bloody farce of a trial. He was waiting for that
bastard Brian Rourke to tell the truth. For that he’d die waiting,
too. They’d set him free, and that was as good as he was going to
get. Maybe as good as he deserved.
    Michael gave a disgusted scoff, then crunched
another shovelful of sweet cereal. Before he had abandoned his
faith—or it him—the part he’d rebelled against was the guilt. And
it seemed that was all that stayed with him.
    And what did he really have
for this start on a life? A sister who
loved him fiercely, enough money to last a time, and...
    He chomped through the last of his breakfast,
drowning out thoughts of Kylie O’Shea. There was no having her now,
not without harming her forever. And wittingly or unwittingly, he’d
done harm enough in his years.
    After he scrubbed the teetering mountain of
dishes in the kitchen sink, Michael made his way back to town.
Recalling his sister’s words about help being wanted at the
hardware, he stopped there first.
    The store owner—tall, skinny
as a walking stick— looked familiar,
probably one of the men Vi had introduced him to after church the
other day. His expression looked familiar, too. It was the same
blank stare he’d gotten from Spillane.
    A sick feeling curdled in Michael’s gut. He
turned down one of the narrow, cluttered aisles. Take the worst
chin up, his nan had always said. And that was what he intended to
do. As an excuse to be there, he grabbed the clamps, wood glue, and
sandpaper he’d need to start on Vi’s apothecary’s chest.
    After paying, Michael said, “I saw the sign
in the window, and was wondering—”
    “ Not hiring.”
    “ But the sign
says—”
    The man walked to the window, pulled out the
sign, and tucked it under the counter. “Not hiring.”
    Michael nodded his head toward the sign’s
hiding spot. “And when I walk out?”
    “ After that, I might be
hiring.”
    Nan had her favorite curse,
too: Go hifreann leat — the hell with you. In her honor
Michael used it, and got a harsher one in return. There was no
mistaking the direction of the wind that blew through town. Pure
northerly and icy cold.
     
    “Just what are they saying about me?”
    Michael’s sister looked up from her work. “I
didn’t stay long enough last night to hear all the particulars,” Vi
answered slowly. “And I’m sure even those have been well
embellished by now. Where have you been?”
    He slapped his bag onto the
edge of her worktable, making a framed bit
of painted silk rattle and dance. From beneath, Roger growled in
warning. Michael gave a narrow-eyed snarl of his own. “I’ve been
trying to find food and work. Spillane all but slammed the door in my face, and at the
hardware—”
    She raised a