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odd in that.
    Except that the man in the huge coat and low-brimmed hat was Patrick Kelly, son of the owners of Kelly’s Pub.
    Dan lit another cigarette, feeling a new tension, as if rocks were forming in his gut.
    He waited awhile longer, then hiked up the collar of his coat and started off down the street, as well.
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    Moira seldom paused to window-shop; she was usually running somewhere, and besides, she had been in New York a long time. She still loved the beautiful displays that were put out for holidays, and she appreciated the fact that she could buy almost anything in the world in the city where she lived and worked. She loved clothes, but she also loved a day when she could take the time to try on outfits, go through a zillion pair of shoes, driving salesmen crazy.
    But that morning, walking toward the new French restaurant in the Village where she was to meet the lady from Maine to discuss their taping schedule, she found herself stopping to stare at an incredible Saint Patrick’s showcase. The stores usually had out all their Easter wares along with their Saint Patrick’s Day items. This particular window had been done with real love. There were shamrocks everywhere, arranged artfully. A field of lovely porcelain fairies had been hung to fly above a rainbow with the traditional pot of gold at the end. Finely carved leprechauns with charming faces were set around the rainbow, as if they were busy at daily tasks. The leprechaun in the middle sat on a pedestal, facing a fairy on another pedestal. The fairy was exquisite, poised on one toe, with wings painted the colors of the rainbow. Pausing without realizing it, she stared at the fairy, charmed. She realized that it was a music box.
    She glanced quickly at her watch and decided she had time to take a closer look. She went into the store, not surprised to discover that the shop owner was the cashier, that she still carried a bit of an Irish accent and that she was delighted with Moira’s interest in the item.
    â€œMy mother would absolutely love that piece,” Moira told her, and asked the price.
    It was high, but the woman quickly explained. “The piece is one of a kind. The fairies and leprechauns, you see. The porcelain fairies are limited, but the carved pieces are handcrafted by two brothers in Dublin. Each is individual, and signed. I believe they’ll be very popular in the future, but it’s not the fact that they may be highly collectible one day that makes them so dear. It’s the time taken for the work that goes into each one.”
    â€œI hate to ask you to take it out of the window.”
    â€œOh, no, dear, I love the darling little things. Please, it’s my pleasure, even if you don’t buy. You seem to truly appreciate the art of it.”
    Moira assured her that she did, indeed. And when the woman took the piece from the window and put it before her, she found that it was even more beautiful than she had thought. The carving of the face was exquisite. The fairy created a feeling that was totally ethereal. She was simply magical. All that is good and enchanting about the Irish people, Moira thought.
    â€œI’ll take her,” Moira said.
    â€œDon’t you wish to hear her play?” the woman asked, twisting the key at the bottom of the small pedestal.
    â€œSure, thank you. What song does she play?”
    The woman laughed softly. She allowed her accent to deepen as she jokingly said, “Why, besure and begorrah, dear. She plays ‘Danny Boy.’ You know, ‘Londonderry Air.”’
    The little fairy began to spin, to fly on her pedestal. The music tinkled out, charming, beautiful, sweet, the haunting melody familiar and yet light, different.
    â€œDanny Boy.” Of course. What else? There were so many beautiful old Irish tunes, but naturally this box would play “Danny Boy.”
    â€œIs something wrong?” the woman asked.
    â€œNo, she’s lovely, thank you