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hair touched by a reddish sheen. He was a good-looking fellow, on stage now with the band, playing along with the violinist. He saw Daniel and gave him a wave and a grin, beckoning to him. Daniel nodded and smiled in return, motioning that he would join them all soon. Patrick nudged Jeff Dolan, lead guitarist and group leader, and Jeff, too, nodded Dan’s way.
    Still scanning the room, Dan saw a lone man in a business suit seated at a far corner table, a darkened table. A stranger. Dan had the feeling the man was surveying the occupants of the pub, just as he was doing himself.
    â€œWhat are you drinking yourself?” Eamon asked him.
    â€œWhat’s he drinking?” Seamus said indignantly. “Give him a whiskey and a Guinness!”
    â€œNow, Seamus, I’m in the grand old USA,” Dan protested. “A Bud Lite on draft, if you will, Eamon. It may prove to be a long night—back with a party of Boston’s black sheep!”
    â€œHow’s the place look, Danny?” Liam asked. “You miss it when you’re away?”
    â€œWhy, the pub looks just fine, and old friends look even better,” Dan replied. He lifted the stein Eamon had brought him. “Slainte! To old times, old friends.”
    â€œAnd to the old country!” Eamon declared.
    â€œAye, to the old country,” Dan said softly.
    Â 
    The sky was overcast when Moira’s shuttle from New York to Boston made its initial descent for landing. Even so, she stared out the window for a bird’s-eye view of the city where she had grown up, and which she still loved so much. Coming home. She was excited; she loved her family dearly. They were all entirely crazy, of course. She was convinced of that. But she loved them and was happy at the prospect of seeing them.
    But then…then there was this whole Danny thing.
    The plane landed. She was slow to take off her seat belt and slow to deplane. No one was picking her up; she had made the last-minute decision to take an earlier shuttle than the rest of the cast and crew, who would be taking the last flight. When the people in the seats behind her had filed out, she grabbed her overnight bag and walked out, thanking the flight attendant and the pilots, who were waiting for her exit to leave themselves.
    Outside Logan, she hailed a taxi. Once seated, she realized that the driver, a young man of twenty-something with a lean face and amber eyes, was staring at her by way of the rearview mirror.
    â€œYou’re Moira Kelly!” he said, flushing as she caught his eye.
    â€œYes.”
    â€œIn my cab! Fancy that. You just travel on a regular plane and get in a regular taxi?”
    â€œSeems to be the best way to get around,” she told him, smiling.
    â€œYou mean you don’t have a private jet and a limo waiting?” the man demanded.
    She laughed. “I don’t have a private jet at all, though sometimes we do hire private cars.”
    â€œAnd no one recognizes you—and hounds you?”
    â€œI’m afraid that all of America doesn’t tune in to the Leisure Channel. And even those who do don’t necessarily watch our show.”
    â€œWell, they should.”
    â€œThank you. Very much.”
    â€œWhat are you doing in Boston?”
    â€œI’m from here.”
    â€œWow. Right. And you’re Irish, right? Are you home to see family, or are you going to film stuff here?”
    â€œBoth.”
    â€œWow. Well, great. Hey, it’s a privilege. If you need more transportation while you’re here, call me. I’ve got the cleanest cab in the city. I grew up here, too. I know the place backward and forward. No charge, even. Honest.”
    â€œI’d never take advantage that way of anyone making a living,” Moira said. “But give me your card, and I promise when we need transportation we’ll call you.” In fact, he did seem to be a good driver. Boston’s traffic was as crazy as ever. There