From Publishers Weekly
In Greeley's cute ninth Nuala Anne McGrail novel (after 2005's Irish Cream), beautiful Nuala Anne, who's fey, wakes one morning in a particularly dark mood from a nightmare prefiguring disaster. Soon after, a car bombing strikes the powerful Curran family and sends ripples through Chicago's Irish-American community. Nuala Anne sends Dermot Coyne, her handsome husband, to consult a document, written by an Irish priest who witnessed the execution of Irish patriot Robert Emmet in 1803, which she intuits may help with the crisis caused by the car bombing. Meanwhile, Nuala Anne must cope with a host of other challenges, including the threat from the Homeland Security Department to deport her back to Ireland. Greeley's lovable part-time sleuths always deliver, but here he has almost too much going on. The shifts in Irish dialects, Dermot's internal asides and the document extracts can confuse the uninitiated. Greeley displays two very different families, the Currans and Nuala Anne's, which, like the best crystal on close examination, reveals one badly cracked, while the other shines on brightly. (Feb.)
Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.
Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.
Review
"Immensely entertaining."--Publishers Weekly on Irish Cream
"'Tis a charmin' tale that Andrew Greeley tells. . . . It's a lively novel filled with Irish wit, interesting situations, and likable people."--The Chattanooga Times on Irish Whiskey
"The prolific cleric plops his psychic singer heroine and her family into a delightful stew of trouble in his latest crowd pleaser. . . . The double plot is rich with detail, while the couple's earnestness and good intentions are never in question."--Publishers Weekly on Irish Stew!
"A love story as much as a mystery, with Greeley portraying Chicago's middle-class Irish-American ethnics with flair, dignity, and affection for their lilting speech."--Chicago Sun-Times on Irish Lace
"The comical banter between Dermot and Nuala cleverly gives the reader insight into their Irish heritage as well as their Catholic faith."--Romantic Times on Irish Stew!
"'Tis a charmin' tale that Andrew Greeley tells. . . . It's a lively novel filled with Irish wit, interesting situations, and likable people."--The Chattanooga Times on Irish Whiskey
"The prolific cleric plops his psychic singer heroine and her family into a delightful stew of trouble in his latest crowd pleaser. . . . The double plot is rich with detail, while the couple's earnestness and good intentions are never in question."--Publishers Weekly on Irish Stew!
"A love story as much as a mystery, with Greeley portraying Chicago's middle-class Irish-American ethnics with flair, dignity, and affection for their lilting speech."--Chicago Sun-Times on Irish Lace
"The comical banter between Dermot and Nuala cleverly gives the reader insight into their Irish heritage as well as their Catholic faith."--Romantic Times on Irish Stew!
About the Author
Priest, sociologist, author and journalist, Father Andrew M. Greeley built an international assemblage of devout fans over a career spanning five decades. His books include the Bishop Blackie Ryan novels, including The Archbishop in Andalusia, the Nuala Anne McGrail novels, including Irish Tweed, and The Cardinal Virtues. He was the author of over 50 best-selling novels and more than 100 works of non-fiction, and his writing has been translated into 12 languages.
Father Greeley was a Professor of Sociology at the University of Arizona and a Research Associate with the National Opinion Research Center (NORC) at the University of Chicago. In addition to scholarly studies and popular fiction, for many years he penned a weekly column appearing in the Chicago Sun-Times and other newspapers. He was also a frequent contributor to The New York Times, the National Catholic Reporter, America and Commonweal, and was interviewed regularly on national radio and television. He authored hundreds of articles on sociological topics, ranging from school desegregation to elder sex to politics and the environment.
Throughout his priesthood, Father Greeley unflinchingly urged his beloved Church to become more responsive to evolving concerns of Catholics everywhere. His clear writing style, consistent themes and celebrity stature made him a leading spokesperson for generations of Catholics. He chronicled his service to the Church in two autobiographies, Confessions of a Parish Priest and Furthermore!
In 1986, Father Greeley established a $1 million Catholic Inner-City School Fund, providing scholarships and financial support to schools in the Chicago Archdiocese with a minority student body of more than 50 percent. In 1984, he contributed a $1 million endowment to establish a chair in Roman Catholic Studies at the University of Chicago. He also funded an annual lecture series, “The Church in Society,” at St. Mary of the Lake Seminary, Mundelein, Illinois, from which he received his S.T.L. in 1954.
Father Greeley received many honors and awards, including honorary degrees from the National University of Ireland at Galway, the University of Arizona and Bard College. A Chicago native, he earned his M.A. in 1961 and his Ph.D. in 1962 from the University of Chicago.
Father Greeley was a penetrating student of popular culture, deeply engaged with the world around him, and a lifelong Chicago sports fan, cheering for the Bulls, Bears and the Cubs. Born in 1928, he died in May 2013 at the age of 85.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Irish Crystal
1
THE WOMAN in my bed woke up screaming. Hysterically.
Legions of demons with pitchforks were chasing her, I thought with some lack of sympathy. And herself believing that there were only good angels.
Strong, resourceful spear-carrier that I am, I struggled out of the depths of sleep and put my arm around her. She was as stiff as a redwood tree.
"'Tis only a dream," I said bravely.
She continued to wail.
"They're all around us!"
"'Tis only a dream," I insisted. "I'll turn on the lights."
"Don't!" she begged. "I don't want to see them."
"Who don't you want to see?"
"Whom," she sobbed and collapsed into my arms.
I felt the soaking-wet cotton of her Notre Dame sleep tee shirt with the word "Irish!" scrawled above her breasts in gold--a redundant label if there ever were one.
"Whom?" I corrected myself.
"The spies, you friggin' eejit!"
That was a new one. I didn't like it. Often her nightmares were a warning that we were about to embark on one of our mystery tours. There are costs in being married to a fey woman from the Gaeltacht.
"They're part of your nightmare. They're not real."
"They are too real!" She clung to me in desperation. "They're all around us."
Two other presences stumbled into the room, one large and canine, the other small and human.
"Are you all right, Ma?" Nelliecoyne, our seven-year-old daughter, asked.
A very large muzzle nudged around my arms--Fiona, our senior citizen wolfhound. Like the woman in my bed they were both fey. Three of the dark ones in my house--wife, older daughter, and hound.
She eased out of my arms so as to embrace the little girl and pat the big canine on her massive head.
"'Tis only a nightmare, dear," she said to the little girl.
"Aren't they the terrible things altogether, Ma!"
Since she was speaking English with a brogue, Nelliecoyne pronounced the "th" words as though they began with a "d" as in "dey da terrible dings." She talks brogue only with her ma, and with me sometimes, when I'm around. Otherwise, she talks either Chicago English (with its flat "A") or Irish. Trilingual, like I say, just like her ma.
"Did I wake herself up?" The woman put aside her hysterical mask and became an anxious mother.
"Sure, Ma, don't you know that lightning could strike in the backyard and that one would sleep right through it?"
"That one" was her little sister, Socra Marie, a reformed two-year-old terrorist, doing her best to act like a three-year-old "big girl" and losing sometimes to her exuberance.
"I'm fine now, dear. You and Fiona can go back to sleep. Doesn't your da always take care of me when I have these nightmares?"
"Da says that creative people have them all the time."
"And isn't Da always right?" She sighed.
"And doesn't he always take good care of you?" Nellie replied with her own sigh.
"Always."
They both sighed together. These were West of Ireland sighs that sound like the advent of a serious attack of asthma.
As spear-carriers go, Da isn't the worst of them.
After hugs and kisses the dawn patrol departed. The woman reclaimed the protection of my arms. She was still trembling.
"Can I turn on the lights now, just to be sure?"
She huddled against me.
"All right," she said dubiously.
YOU JUST WANT TO SCREW HER.
She's my wife.
YOU'RE TAKING ADVANTAGE OF HER FRIGHT.
I turned on the lamp at the bedside. Cautiously the woman turned away from my chest and glanced around our bedroom.
"Well, they were here when I woke up."
Her long hair was in disarray. Her face red from tears. She was still shivering. Her sleep shirt was askew. Her eyes darted around, looking for monsters. She was nonetheless gorgeous.
As in all matters, the woman's collection of sleepwear was variable--from outrageously erotic to dull. Moreover, her choice in night garments was not an indicator of her interest in sex. So the blue-and-gold shirt was hardly a hint--not that I needed much of a hint to want her.
I am going to make love to her. She's in her shy West of Ireland mode. Can't beat that.
ONLY IF SHE ASKS YOU. DON'T BE A HORNY NOTRE DOMER ALL YOUR LIFE.
"It was just a dream, Nuala Anne."
"Sometimes dreams are true."
She disengaged from me and lay back on her pillow, still trembling.
"They're just reviews of the day, aided by that last drop of the creature you had at dinner."
"A lot you know."
"Cindasue talked about spies at dinner last night ..."
"They're all around us, Dermot Michael. Won't we have to fight them!"
I didn't like that one bit.
"Well, we'd better get back to sleep."
She reached for a tissue on the nightstand and wiped away the tears. Almost nine years of marriage and a little gesture like that still destroyed me altogether, as she would have said.
"I'm sorry I woke you up," she said.
"No problem."
"I don't suppose, Dermot, you'd ever want a little ride now, would you?"
"I could be talked into it."
The result was marital sex--a gentle, tender, healing journey down a familiar path which was always new towards a sweetly explosive finale somewhere in a field of flowers. Perhaps, I thought as she slipped back into sleep, this is why God or evolution or someone created marriage.
I have been working, if that's what poets do, on a cycle of poems about marital love. I suspect that the reason God and the evolution process made men and women so much alike and yet so different was to provide surprises in the marriage union. If herself ever stops surprising me, I'll know that our marriage is in trouble.
Reversing the stereotypical expectations, I remained awake, wondering and worrying. Nuala Anne, my glorious and treasured wife, was in one of her labile moods, something that happens to your dark ones intermittently. The problem was that she wanted another child, a second son for the Mick (Micheal Dermod, our son and so far our middle child) to fight with, though there was no sign that our self-possessed five-year-old was looking for a fight with anyone. "Four is a nice number, isn't it now? A nice round number?"
Her first three pregnancies caused serious problems. Nelliecoyne proved difficult to carry and difficult to bring into the world. After the arrival of the Mick, my wife went into postpartum stress. Socra Marie showed up after twenty-five weeks, weighing eight hundred grams. I was uneasy about what might happen next, but I have enoughsense not to argue. Then, despite considerable, and admittedly pleasant efforts, she did not conceive.
"Maybe someone is sending us a message," I had suggested very tentatively.
"Maybe," she admitted.
Earlier in the week we had our problems with the dogs--our large and amiable snow-white wolfhounds, Fiona and Maeve. On nice days, as Nuala determined them, they would accompany her and the kids across the street to the local Catholic school, where they perform for the entertainment of all parents and children present.
So on Monday evening I had received a call from the pastor of the parish, a humorless little man who considered our family one of the many burdens he must patiently bear.
"Mr. Coyne?"
"Yes, Father."
"I'm calling about your dogs."
"Yes, Father."
"They are very big dogs, Mr. Coyne."
"Yes, Father."
"And frightening."
"They're very gentle and loving."
Unless someone tried to harm Nuala Anne or her children. Her husband, the canines figured, could take care of himself.
"I have been receiving complaints, Mr. Coyne, about their presence in the school yard in the morning."
"How many complaints, Father?"
"That's not the issue. Parents are worried about the safety of their children. Would you tell Mrs. Coyne that I must insist that the dogs do not come to the school yard anymore."
"I will relay your concerns to Nuala Anne, Father. I never try to tell her anything."
"I would, Mr. Coyne, if it became necessary, request assistance from the police in this matter. I also wish she would stop bringing them into church. It is unseemly to have such large beasts in church."
"I'll inform my wife of your decision to ban her dogs from the parish."
Passive aggressive jerk!
Nuala's face, on her couch across the study, threatened explosion.
"Just one complaint," I had suggested.
She had risen from the couch to her full height without comment and strode down to the room where the kids were doing their homework under the supervision of Ethne, our nanny who was working on her doctorate in elementary education at nearby DePaul.
I had followed along wondering what would happen. All three of the children were engaged in creating crayon-colored designs on drawing paper.
"Is there anyone in the school yard," she had demanded, "who doesn't like the doggies?"
"Mrs. Carson." Nelliecoyne had not looked up from her art. "She says they're dangerous."
"She's a bitch," the Mick had added.
"Bitch, bitch, bitch!" the little one confirmed.
Ethne had giggled.
"Where did you learn those words?" my wife had demanded, her face turning a pleasing shade of crimson.
"From you, Ma." Nelliecoyne had continued to work on her color scheme.
"I don't ever want to hear it from you ever again! Do you understand!"
"Yes, Ma."
Their father, fearing for his life, kept his mouth shut, lest he erupt into laughter.
"You just keep your frigging mouth shut, Dermot Michael Coyne."
"Yes, ma'am."
Back in our study, she had picked up...
