Grounded Hearts Page 11

  Tuda had wanted that late-in-life baby so much, but unfortunately, at four months along, Nan had helped her friend through a miscarriage. Tuda had gone into shock, followed by a deep depression. Very dark days. She knew the Lord would not give her another baby of her own to hold.

  After Paddy’s drunken bender, and the fire, Tuda had moved in with Nan for a few weeks, waiting for the Quinns’ house to be repaired. And waiting for her husband’s release from jail. She’d cried herself to sleep every night for over a month.

  Nan would see her during the day, climbing the hills behind the house, sobbing, screaming out loud, “Why? Why, Lord?”

  All Nan could tell her while they sat up nights, drinking tea and finding comfort in their friendship by the glow of the fire, was that there were no answers, merely friends who could help each other through the rough times.

  Tuda’s Paddy had stopped the drink for a couple of months after their troubles, but his sobriety hadn’t lasted.

  Arriving at the garage, Nan spotted her friend taking money from a lorry driver. She waved, slowing her bike to a stop beside the petrol pump. Tuda gave Nan a hug. “’Lo, Nan. How’s yaself?”

  In desperate need of a running car for Dutch’s escape. “Grand. How was your da’s funeral?”

  “A sorrowful affair. I miss him something terrible. He was a good man.” She sniffed and then adjusted the kerchief she wore over her head. Her wavy, dark hair added an attractive depth to her still-beautiful features. “But he’s in our Father’s house now, sitting with Ma, having his tea.”

  “Saddest part of life is the parting. Do you need to talk about it a’tall?”

  With a shake of her head, Tuda said, “He was old. Had a good long life. It was his time.”

  Nan reached into her pocket for the piece of paper with the auto-parts list. “Am I interrupting your work?”

  “Not a’tall. I’ve promised Dr. Mann I’d have her tire repaired by four. Will ya talk to me while I finish the job? I’ve only got to mount the beastly thing.”

  “That’d be lovely.” Inspirational, actually. Nan could start her car and drive, but that was as far as her mechanical talents went.

  “I dunno how lovely it’ll be in my grease pit, but you’re the sort of woman who doesn’t shy away from strange situations.”

  If Tuda only knew the half of it.

  “Park your bike and follow me inside.”

  The brick-walled interior of the garage was ten degrees colder than outside. It smelled of oil, grease, and burning rubber. Tools hung neatly on the walls, above wooden cabinets with multiple drawers.

  A calendar with an advertisement for Tangee lipstick hung above a box of bolts. A beautiful young woman wearing a smile and a military hat beamed, beckoning Nan to read the caption that highlighted the services of the Navy, Army and Air Force Institutes: “The ‘Uniform’ lipstick for individual loveliness. Tangee Natural. Available on request at your NAAFI Canteen.”

  Nan had a tiny bit left of the tube she’d bought before the war. Maybe tonight she’d put some on. She did have a visitor, after all. Perhaps she’d even put on those dancing shoes.

  Tuda grunted as she lifted a tire from a workbench. The tire thudded to the concrete floor. With expert handling, arm muscles flexing, she rolled the wheel toward a Ford Model A, a much newer version of the car Nan had parked in the calf house.

  “Have you met our new doctor, Dr. Mann?” Tuda asked.

  “No, not yet.” Nan grinned, remembering the exchange between the men at Mikie’s.

  “She’s causing quite a stir.” After leaning the tire against the car, Tuda brushed her hands together, then returned to the workbench for the hubcap.

  “Is she, now?”

  “The men are afraid of her.”

  “Afraid of her?”

  “She’s quite the looker, you see. American, so she’s bold as brass. The men claim they don’t want her to examine any secrets under their belts.”

  “Ah please. Say no more.”

  Tuda cocked a grin. “I understand you tended to the pilots yesterday. Is that true, Nan?”

  “Yes, I did.” She perched on a stool.

  “Were they hurt?”

  “Cuts and bruises. No worse than a hurling match.”

  “Am glad for that.” Tuda struggled with the tire, got it into place, and then picked up a bolt from the hubcap she’d placed on the floor beside the car. “Did you hear they found the last poor fellow dead on the beach?” she asked, putting a bolt into position.

  “I did. Very sad.”

  Tuda took a tool and began tightening the bolt. “A sad end to a bright young life.”

  “RAF pilots are the bravest of the brave.” Nan almost didn’t want to ask, but it seemed more disrespectful not to. “Have you heard from your lads?”

  Tuda’s compressed lips revealed the anxiety Nan figured all mothers must feel with their boys off to war. Allied or Axis. When Ballyhaven’s telegraph boy rode his bicycle down the lane, families waited nervously until he had passed their doors.

  Staring off toward the windows, Tuda said, “They’re doing well. Thanks for asking after them.”

  “I remember them in my prayers every night.”

  “Thank you.” Tuda shut her eyes for a brief second, then continued to bolt the tire into the wheel. “So, what brings ya out to see me?”

  Nan reached inside her tweed jacket for the list. Her stomach did a flip when she opened the paper: it was in Dutch’s handwriting. She’d copied his list down in her own hand but must have taken the wrong piece of paper.

  Needling tension tightened her stomach.

  No, wait. What a silly goose you are, Nan O’Neil. How would Tuda know this was his writing?

  Nan took a deep breath and then shot the words out. “I’ve decided to repair the Model A.”

  Tuda banged the hubcap into place. “Have ya, now? Well, it’s about time. And you being a medical professional, you can get petrol rationing. I’ll come out directly and have a look. We’ll get it going in no time a’tall. I’m dying for a project.”

  Nan was just dying. “That won’t be necessary. Here’s the list of things I need. Do you have such things?” She slipped off the stool.

  Tuda rose, her expression inquisitive. “My, Nan. You have such strong handwriting.”

  “All the better for you to read.”

  Did that sound too much like a fairy-tale answer? Nan’s fingernails dug into her palms. She slid her fists into her pockets. “Do you have all the parts in stock?”

  “Most of them. I’ll have to send for a few things. All doable.”

  “How soon?”

  “A couple of days for the parts.”

  “Can you make it sooner?”

  Tuda tilted her head, holding Nan’s gaze as if Nan were a kid caught by the priest with her hand down her pants. “What’s your rush?”

  Nan shrugged. “You know me. Once I get something into my head, I have to go forward in an altogether rapid fashion.”

  “No, I didn’t know that about you. I always thought of you as a patient sort. Cautious.” She read on, frowning. “What makes you sure you need these parts?”

  “Ah, well now. I have a book.”

  “A book is it?”

  “Yeah, a book.” Please, God, let her drop it.

  “This looks very detailed. Tell me, how is it you diagnosed the problem with the car?”

  “The book.” Nan waved a hand, smiled. She hadn’t used such a fake smile since she’d lied to Sister Mary Teresa at nursing college, when she had told the nun she’d been at the library instead of at the pub with Teddy. “It’s a fine book. Very informative.”

  “Is it?” Tuda flicked her gaze from the list to Nan’s eyes.

  Looking around the shop, anywhere except at her friend, Nan shifted from foot to foot. “Yes. A great book.”

  Tuda’s eyes narrowed. “Are ya sure it’s a great book and not a great bloke?”

  CHAPTER 10

  The garage wall
s seemed to close in on Nan. “A bloke? And where would I be getting myself a bloke?”

  “Good question. Where?” Tuda placed the list on the workbench and waited.

  And waited.

  Nan’s knees were shaking. If these encounters regarding Dutch didn’t stop making her heart beat faster than seemed humanly possible, she would meet the new doctor sooner rather than later. She’d be having a heart attack.

  Apparently, she was out of practice with her fake smile; Tuda wasn’t buying it. Nan tugged the scarf around her neck. “Is it hot in here? I feel hot.”

  “I bet you do. Well?” Tuda’s eyebrows rose, leaving enough horizontal lines to write a musical score. “Is there something you want to tell me?”

  Want to tell you? “No.”

  The garage door that led into the shop creaked open. Paddy held the phone receiver to his chest. His curly white hair was plastered down with Brylcreem. He winked at Nan. “Tuda, I’ve got Shamus Finn on the line. He’s wanting to know if his auto parts came in?”

  Nan swung around. Finn’s car was parked on the other side of the garage. Please, don’t let him come by. Please.

  Even above the pounding sound of her heartbeat, Nan could hear Tuda’s guttural growl. “Ya tell Finn, for the fiftieth time already, when the postman delivers his parts, I’ll let him know. Until then, tell him to stop calling and shut his piehole.”

  Paddy shook his head and rubbed the phone receiver up and down his chest. “I can’t tell him that.”

  “Then tell him what ya want, but don’t be bothering me with Finn again.” Her words had increased in volume.

  Looking toward the ceiling, Paddy said into the phone, “Sorry, Shamus—I mean, Officer Finn. The parts are still in transit . . .” Paddy closed the door behind him.

  “That Finn. If ever I wanted to throw someone under a bus.”

  “He’s the worst,” Nan agreed. “He’s been snooping around my house, looking for the flyboy, but it’s only an excuse to bother me.” Her pulse pounded in her ears. She’d used the word “flyboy.” What a stupid mistake. Perhaps Tuda hadn’t caught it.

  “He still after you? Still asking you to marry him?”

  “I’d sooner marry one of his pigs.”

  “There wouldn’t be much difference, except the pig wouldn’t come with an ailing mother.”

  “I pray he stops annoying me.”

  “Tell me, Nan. What on earth is a flyboy?”

  Nan shrugged. “Oh, it’s American slang for a pilot.”

  “Ya don’t say. Where did you pick up such a word?”

  “The BBC.”

  “Right. The BBC.” Holding a tool, Tuda asked, “Now, Nan. What’s this thing called in my hand?”

  “A tool.” She felt the collar of her sweater sticking to her neck.

  “What sort of tool is it?”

  “Why is that important? Don’t you know?”

  “Because for me to believe you wrote this list,” Tuda said, “that you diagnosed your car with only the aid of a book, I’d have to believe you knew the difference between a socket wrench and a screwdriver.”

  Fifty-fifty chance of being right. “It’s a socket wrench.”

  Tuda smiled. “Not even close. This is a tire iron.”

  Nan focused on the grease spots on the floor. “Look, if you don’t want to help me, that’s fine.”

  The tire iron clanked onto the bench, startling Nan. “Level with me, or you won’t get a blessed thing.”

  Nan let out a sigh. “Best you don’t know.”

  “Not helping unless I do.”

  Nan glanced around to be sure no one was listening before she whispered, “That poor fellow that washed up today, you know the one?”

  “The bomber boy from the Wellington crew?”

  Nan crossed her arms over her chest. “That’s just it. He wasn’t from the Wellington crew, at least not the one that went down on Collins’s farm.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I’ve got the wounded pilot in my bed.”

  Tuda’s hand went to her mouth. Her eyes widened. “No.”

  “Yes. He came to me in the middle of the night, bleeding. I promised to patch up his wounds, and then he was supposed to be on his way.” She paused. “I decided to help him escape over the border. He’s planning to fix up my car. Now, you can turn us in to the Garda or LDF or the Irish Army—”

  “I’d sooner have a bad rash on my face. How badly is he injured?”

  Nan sucked in a breath. That arm. She didn’t like the way the lacerated edges pulled away or the pus or the smell. “I think he’ll be fine. Just a cut to the arm that required stitches. And he jarred an old injury to his knee.”

  “You can count on me for anything, Nan. Anything. Including helping him. Did he really think he’d be able to install all these hoses and whatnots with an injured arm?”

  “Optimistic. But what if we’re found out? There’s jail time for citizens who violate the Emergency Act.”

  “In theory, I suppose. No one’s been brought up on charges yet.”

  “Yet.” Nan wished there were some other way besides dragging Tuda into her scheme. “No one’s been caught, yet. What if Finn catches us? He’s angling for a permanent Garda post. He’d do anything to make himself look good.”

  “We can outsmart that lard-arse.” Tuda hooked her thumbs into the back pockets of her overalls. “Besides, I’d like to think that if one of my twins were in need of escaping, there’d be women like us to help him. But tell me, Nan. One thing.”

  “All right.”

  “Are you sharing your bed with the bomber boy?”

  Nan slapped her arm. “The cheek on ya. No, of course not.”

  “Is it because he’s ugly?”

  “It’s because I’m a good Catholic girl. Please, don’t tease me about him.” The thought of Dutch between her sheets caused a ripple of goose bumps to trickle down her spine.

  “Okay, okay. Tell your pilot—does he have a name?”

  “Dutch.”

  Tuda grinned. “The Flying Dutchman?”

  “Just ‘flyboy.’”

  “Flyboy is it? So, he’s your secret flyboy?”

  “Not mine.” She felt her body smoldering like a turf fire. No man since Teddy had even lit a match in her heart. Why did Dutch Whitney manage to stoke her soul?

  Tuda’s eyes gleamed and sparkled. “You tell Dutch I’ll get his parts quicker than my husband can drain a Guinness. I’ll be out to your place early tomorrow morning, by six.”

  Nan frowned. “I thought you had to send for them?”

  A grin—no, more of a smirk, Nan thought—split across Tuda’s face. “Sure now, I have the parts. Finn’s order.”

  “Finn’s order? Didn’t you say they hadn’t arrived yet?”

  “He takes his time paying his bills, so I take my time fixing his car. I’ll help get Dutch on his way in no time.”

  Nan put her hand on Tuda’s. “Thank you.”

  Tuda winked. “It’s my pleasure. I’m glad for a bit of excitement. And it’s about time you found yourself a new love.”

  “Don’t be daft.” Yet her body suddenly ached to be held. Held and kissed. Cherished by his touch, his words, his gaze upon hers.

  “Did I hit a chord?”

  Like an Irish harp, but Nan wasn’t about to admit it. At the sound of footsteps, Nan turned, gaping at the woman entering the garage.

  “If it isn’t herself, our new doctor. Hello, Dr. Mann.”

  “Hello, Mrs. Quinn,” the doctor said in her American accent. She had wavy, shoulder-length mink-colored hair, clear skin, and deep-brown eyes. She could have been one of those American movie stars, a real looker with a magazine-worthy figure. “Is my car ready?”

  “Indeed it is, and if you’d please, call me Tuda. I’d like you to meet our extraordinary midwife, Nan O’Neil.”

  “Juliet Mann.” She held out a manicured hand. Nan wondered if the lovely American had brought nail polish with her; she’
d be hard-pressed to find any in Ireland these days.

  “A pleasure to meet you, Dr. Mann.” The doctor’s hand was soft, her handshake firm.

  “Just call me Juliet. I’ve heard so many great things about you. My uncle said he counted on you more than his stethoscope where the women of the town were concerned.”

  “Ah, go on ya. Dr. Glennon is too kind. Juliet. What a lovely name.”

  The doctor smelled like an expensive Dublin perfume counter—lilies and vanilla. “Mom thought it best to give me a girlie name to go along with ‘Mann.’” Juliet smiled.

  Americans had such grand teeth. All straight and white. Nan tongued the space at the back of her mouth, where a molar used to be.

  The doctor must be in her late thirties, she thought, though Juliet could have passed for Nan’s age, maybe even younger. There were no wrinkles branching out from her eyes. No parentheses around her mouth. No furrows feathering up from her lips.

  Nan brushed her drab hair behind her shoulders. Juliet was probably the sort of woman Dutch would be drawn to. Not plain like Nan, a small-town girl who smelled of antiseptic and turf, with a missing tooth.

  Juliet touched the pearl necklace that dangled over her silk blouse. “I hope we’ll be good friends as well as medical colleagues. I’m going to rely on you to keep doing what you’re doing. You only call me in if a case needs extra help. Then I’ll be there. Okay?”

  Nan took an instant liking to the tall American. “Okay, same as with your uncle. Call me Nan.”

  “Sure, love to. Hey, you need a ride? It’s getting dark.”

  “No, I have my bicycle. I best be on my way.”

  “Yes.” Tuda’s lips spread into a mischievous grin. “The night is young and so are you.”

  “You got yourself a fella waiting?” Juliet inspected the tire with a kick of her polished high-heel shoe.

  More like a headache. “Not hardly in this town.” And if Nan wasn’t careful, if she didn’t pray hard enough for strength against her fleshy self, he might turn into a sinful heartache.

  CHAPTER 11

  Dutch drummed his fingers on the mantel, beside the picture of Jesus pointing to the Sacred Heart.

  Where had Nan hidden his gun?

  He scanned the room for the hundredth time. He’d been through the cabinet where blue-willow-patterned plates and teacups hung, searched the spotlessly clean scullery, even poked between the pans. He’d started upstairs to the loft, but halfway up, a wave of nausea overtook him. Sinking to the steps, he focused on the cat at the bottom of the stairway. Mr. Dee couldn’t be spinning. It had to be him.