If Cash Kelly didn’t have a heart, like he claimed, he consumed and claimed me with something even greater—his soul.
I never minded the darkness. I’d be his fire until he found his way home. To me.
His hand came underneath my chin, and he lifted it up with his fingers so that I’d look at him. He whispered something in Gaelic, his voice rough, and then he said clearly, “Keely Kelly, you proved me wrong, my darlin’. So fuckin’ wrong. I ripped my heart out at the roots and placed it at your feet long before I even knew I did—a heart that has always known and protected your name.”
He leaned down, putting his lips against mine, and our tongues moved in a kiss that intertwined our souls in a way that felt irrevocable. He pulled back first, staring at me, before he took my hand and led me off the Peace Bridge.
* * *
We madeit back to the flat in Derry in no time, and he instructed me to pack.
“We just got here,” I said, but doing it.
“We weren’t staying here the entire trip,” he said, grabbing for my suitcase after I’d shoved everything inside. I hadn’t taken much out, and neither had he, it seemed, since he made it back to the master bedroom in no less than a minute.
He waved a hand toward the kitchen and told me to pack whatever I could from the cabinets. Someone had stocked them before we got here—Kelly said he had someone who took care of the place for him. I found reusable bags and stuffed them with as much nonperishable foods as I could.
Then we left.
He leaned over the seat of the Land Rover, his arm brushing my thigh, and an ache of longing hit me straight between the legs. I had to control the breath that left my mouth in a slow release. He’d worn a flat cap, and his strong bone structure was on perfect display the entire night. I’d refused to touch him then, but my resolve had melted on the bridge, and all that had been caged up had been set free.
When he came back with a map, his hand lingered, and I knew he was doing it on purpose. I ran my hand up his arm until I found his hand—flesh against flesh—and took the map from him.
“Where are we headed, darlin’?” I whispered.
“To heaven,” he said.
“If we can find it, you mean?” My grin came slow.
He looked me in the eye. “Already know the direction, darlin’. You’ll just have to direct me on some of the turns.”
We sped through Derry, the murals depicting political unrest still standing out even at night, and not for the first time, Ronan Kelly came to mind. I hadn’t connected the dots until we were on the bridge.
When I’d gotten back to New York and the news of the vegetable trucks being blown up was scattered on every television and printed in every newspaper, some of the information stated that the explosives used reminded the authorities of a bomb that had been used years ago in political warfare overseas. Authorities overseas still didn’t know who’d done it, but they blamed it on radicals.
I got the feeling if Cash’s twin showed up with their mother the next day, Ronan Kelly’s life, his real one, was going to be front page news, for the first time, to his son.
Derry faded with the night, and Kelly told me to open the map. He pointed out our destination and told me to direct him.
“What is this?” I lifted the map. “And how do I read it?” I was joking, but only a little. If we needed a map, that meant that cellphone service was probably going to be shitty, and that meant only one thing: We were headed into rough terrain.
He grinned. “It’s called a map, darlin’, and if you don’t know how to use one, you best start now. Sink or swim. One wrong turn and there’s no tellin’ where we’ll end up.”
I helped him along the way, and in between my directions, we talked. It was the first time I’d ever had him this way, all to myself, for a stretch of time. It mirrored the night we were at Sullivan’s, when I’d offered the truce. I wanted this night to end differently.
As we approached a place called Poisoned Glen, he described it. I couldn’t see it in the darkness, so I had to trust that what he told me about the beauty of the place come morning would be true.
He said there was a rumor that instead of the place being called “Heavenly Glen,” like intended, something got lost in translation from Irish to English, and it was called “Poisoned Glen” instead.
“The Irish word for heaven is ‘neamh,’ and the word for poison is ‘neimhe,’” he said.
“Heaven and hell,” I said. “Separated by two simple vowels.”
“It doesn’t even take two. One misstep can lead you to one place or the other.”
“Give me the story about this place,” I said, staring at his face in the darkness.
“There might not be one.”
