Chapter 36 Midsummer's Eve is traditionally celebrated in Europe on June 23, but, in the interests of this story line (and it being 1998 and in America), I took some poetic license.

Saturday, June 20th, 1998

Michael Kelly

When Connor and I turned into the hallway from the elevators, I saw my brother Michael leaning against my door, tossing his keys up, catching them, tossing his keys up, catching them. I could tell by his body language he was not happy at being left in the hall; the locks had been changed. On the other hand, it was his own damn fault as he took an earlier train. His lips thinned when he saw us and he caught his keys with an open-handed snap, shoving them in the pocket of his faded blue jeans.

"You're early," I said with some dismay. I had hoped Michael would meet the boys in a neutral environment with everyone relaxed.

"I thought there were two of them." Michael rejoined flatly, his blue eyes narrowed with suspicion. Connor took a giant step in front of me, looming, blocking my path to the front door and my brother. I distinctly felt that bubble of projected threat he manifested when Murphy wasn't with us and a frisson fear skittered along my nerves.

"Mike, don't start it this way," I begged from behind Connor's shoulder. They both ignored me.

"Aye, dere are. Me brudder's helping Mrs. Arnold downstairs wit' her cat." Michael looked him up and down, eyes narrowed.

"Which one are you?" Michael pushed himself away from the wall, moving to stand in front of Connor. I frowned involuntarily and laid a hand on Connor's shoulder. My brother towered over us at 6'4" and well over 200 pounds, his black hair cut perfectly, body tight with muscle from playing professional hockey. His stance was not friendly.

"Mike, this is Connor. Please don't fight," I begged, apprehension dragging at my body, defeat in my voice.

"I'd say twas a pleasure t'meet ye, but I dinna know if tis goin' t'be." I felt Connor's shoulders tense and he dropped the packages he carried on the floor. I cringed at the thought of my precious tomatos bruising as they landed, but pushed the thought out of my mind, focusing on the potential disaster unfolding in front of me. He wanted Murphy here quite badly if his body language was any indication. I wondered how long it would take his brother to arrive. Michael glared and Connor shifted, feet planted firmly, leaning forward, voice gone quiet, hands curled lightly.

"Ye fuck her up an' I'll kill ye, her brudder or no." Though his voice was quiet, the threat was serious and deadly.

"Connor, don't. Please," I begged. "We've already reduced this conversation to threats?" I tried to elbow him out of the way, but he stood his ground, hand on my wrist, holding me behind him.

"Nay, Lass. If he means ye harm, ye'll stay behind me."

"It's not my sister who's got the problem right now," Michael sneered. Connor shifted slightly, edging me further behind him.

"Mike!" I said in warning. "Don't do it this way. I mean it!" Michael's eyes shifted then, looking at me behind Connor, taking in the situation, listening to my tone of voice. I could see a flash of humor cross his face, as fleeting as a dragonfly lost in the glare of sunlight. He shook himself just slightly, repositioning his shirt over his shoulders. I felt, more than saw, him take a deep breath and a long psychological step back, breaking off from his annoyed, overly protective brother mode.

"Right," He said, manfully swallowing his ire. "It speaks marginally well of you, guarding her like that." I could hear the grudging respect in his voice. My lighter twin relaxed infinitesimally at Michael's change in tone and I squeezed passed him, putting my arms around Michael for a quick hug. I could feel the sustained glares over my head, but ignored them.

"Be nice, Mike, none of your famous defensemen moves, okay?" I could feel his arms come around me and he dropped a kiss on the top of my head.

Connor moved then, seeing the feeling between Michael and me. He got the door open, his rosary hung, and packages deposited in the kitchen before any more conversation passed between us. Michael dropped his back pack on the couch and turned to Connor after eyeing the nails next to the door. Typical men, they just had to sniff around each other like suspicious dogs, each trying to get the upper hand.

Murphy arrived and the atmosphere became even more strained, introductions stilted as my brother sized up the men standing before him, Connor to the right, Murphy to the left, mirrors of each other, guarding the weaker side of each other, with me between. My Irishmen could be as charming as larks in the field, amiable, polite, and pleasant as only Celts can be. But, they weren't doing anything now, just glowering at my brother and he at them. If I couldn't salvage the situation, my brother would walk out and it would break my heart. I hoped like hell I wouldn't be doomed by my brother's censure, like Prometheus forever stretched between two poles, a vulture pecking at my liver.

I sighed, banishing thoughts of Greek mythology, hoping the situation could still be repaired. I wanted them to like it each other and the direct route, usually working best, offered its path. I turned on the TV, tuning into the Sox game which would begin airing in a few minutes; Sox at Tampa Bay. I hoped, stubbornly but realistically, as only a true Red Sox fan can, that they might actually win, even in the face of the curse of the Bambino. I grabbed a six pack of beer and touched Murphy's hand.

"Come sit with me, love?" I asked softly. He took the beer from me and linked his fingers with mine, smiling into my eyes.

"Anyt'ing ye want, m'girl." When he sat me down on the sofa, he bent and kissed the side of my neck. I felt the love for him well up and my eyes closed, hand pressed to his face, holding him against me. When I opened my eyes, it was to find my brother staring at me; he knew me well, as he should. We grew up close, only a year between us, me tagging along everywhere with my beloved older sibling. I prayed his renowned flexible thinking on the ice would allow him to see things as they really were between myself and the twins.

"Like that is it?" Michael's mouth quirked up and he sat in my arm chair, tacitly leaving the open space on my left for Connor, a small retreat. Murphy sat next to me, cracking a beer and passing it to my brother in what I hoped was a peace-offering. Connor moved then too, leaning down first to kiss the other side of my neck. I mirrored the movement of my hand, holding him close too for a moment. I inhaled. There was the usual whiff of nicotine, the scent of Connor, but overlying it all was a tinge of wariness. I opened my eyes and nodded, looking across the coffee table at my brother, my hand in Murphy's.

"Dat's exactly how tis," Connor said evenly, but without rancor. He sat next to me, draping his right arm around my shoulders. Michael gave me a level look and then glanced once again at the door, where the boys' rosaries now both hung. His lips curved up in the barest hint of a smile and he shrugged just slightly, the first indication of resignation in the set of his shoulders and expression in his eyes. I relaxed the tiniest bit, knowing we had probably turned the corner. I sent up a little prayer: please don't let some unforeseen debacle bar the way to a truce and acceptance. I tacked on another brief thought: Thank Christ that it was Connor with me in the hall, the more controlled twin. If Murphy had been there, no telling how things would have come out.

Part of the problem, I thought, was a tactical error on my part. I had told Michael the barest of details about the boys, only what I felt was strictly necessary to explain why I was with the both of them. The only really substantial thing I gave him was that I wouldn't risk their relationship with each other by choosing just one. Now that he could see them together, he was able to make his own evaluation, as long as he kept an open mind. When I relaxed, I felt both boys begin to relax next to me. It might be alright.

oOo

Very slowly, between Connor's natural exuberance and Murphy's quiet sly wit, the brothers won Michael over. Michael was kind, smart, naturally upbeat, well-educated, and possessed of a rapier sense of humor. All of these things began to bleed through when he eased up on his role of protective older brother. I could feel the change in tone of the afternoon when the twins found out, through the course of talking sports that my brother played for the New York Rangers.

Connor turned to me a look of feigned betrayal on his face. His pressed his fingers against his nose and shook his head, eyebrows knitted. "Ye didna t'ink it necessary or pertinent t'tell us dat yer brudder is famous?" I flushed bright red and Michael laughed with delight

"Ah, man, I'm not famous. I'm only a second string defensemen," Michael deflected the idea modestly, still smiling at my discomfort.

"Ye fuckin' skate wit' Wayne Gretzky!" Murphy laughed. "I'd call dat pretty amazin'." I knew things would be okay and stood up, moving into the kitchen to cook dinner. Between the Rangers and the Sox, I thought they might not kill each other.