Irish Eyes

Irish Eyes

by Andrew M. Greeley

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New York Times bestselling author Andrew M. Greeley's beloved psychic detective finds herself drawn to a century-old unsolved mystery in Irish Eyes.

Nuala Anne McGrail, that beautiful Irish spitfire, now lives in Chicago with her husband, Dermot, and their new baby, Nellliecoyne. As Nuala fans may suspect, Nelliecoyne is no ordinary baby: she is fey like her mother, and can see into the past as well as the future.

Both Nuala and her daughter have had strange vibrations from a place on the lake where a shipload of Irish-Americans lost their lives a hundred years ago. In the course of their investigation, Nuala and Dermot make some dangerous enemies, and eventually have to solve a murder and find a buried treasure. Will Nuala survive the attacks of a sleazy DJ, and a dangerous run-in with the Balkan Mafia? And how does the diary of a young Irish woman at the turn of the century play into these events?

At the Publisher's request, this title is being sold without Digital Rights Management Software (DRM) applied.

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9781429912198
Publisher: Tom Doherty Associates
Publication date: 02/19/2000
Series: Nuala Anne McGrail Novels , #5
Sold by: Macmillan
Format: NOOK Book
Pages: 320
Sales rank: 331,993
File size: 493 KB

About the Author

Priest, sociologist, author, and journalist, Father Andrew M. Greeley (1928-2013) was the author of over 50 bestselling novels and more than 100 works of nonfiction. His novels include the Bishop Blackie Ryan series, including The Archbishop in Andalusia; the Nuala Anne McGrail series, including Irish Tweed; the O’Malley Family Saga, including A Midwinter’s Tale; and standalones such as Home for Christmas and The Cardinal Sins.

A leading spokesperson for generations of Catholics, Father Greeley unflinchingly urged his beloved Church to become more responsive to believers’ evolving concerns. He chronicled his service to the Church in two autobiographies, Confessions of a Parish Priest and Furthermore!

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.

Read an Excerpt

Irish Eyes

A Nuala Anne McGrail Novel

By Andrew M. Greeley

Tom Doherty Associates

Copyright © 2000 Andrew M. Greeley Enterprises, Ltd
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4299-1219-8


THE REDHEAD with the green eyes continued to play with my wife's breast. She stared at me with what I thought was undisguised triumph. I had prior rights to that breast. The redhead was an interloper, a latecomer, a spoilsport.

"Had enough, had you now?" my wife said to her. "Want to go to himself, do you now?"

The myth was that this eating, defecating, sleeping machine loved me more than her ma. She supported the myth by stretching out her arms to me and gurgling, "Da."

It wasn't really "da." Everyone knows that going-on-seven-months-old children cannot pronounce words. But Nuala Anne had decreed that the gurgle meant "da" and there was no room for dispute.

"The child definitely likes you more than me, Dermot Michael," my wife said triumphantly, a view which was supposed to mitigate my unspoken anguish that the witch had intruded into our marriage and taken my wife away from me. Or at least destroyed my monopoly. "Ma for food, Da for love."

The bewitching little girl snuggled contentedly into my arms and promptly fell asleep, a characteristic she shared with her mother. Fiona, our pure white family wolfhound, watched me suspiciously, not at all sure that I was capable even of the minor task of holding the little redhead in my arms. In Fiona's eyes I was strictly number three. The intruder had taken not only my wife but my good dog away from me.


I generally disagree with the Adversary, an inner voice which constantly criticizes me. However, I had to admit that the small creature sleeping in my arms was moderately adorable.

"She's a changeling," I replied to the Adversary. "At six months she shouldn't be trying to crawl and shouldn't be saying 'Da.' She's not altogether human. Didn't my mom say that most babies don't crawl till nine or ten months?"


Nuala Anne had tossed aside her robe and disclosed temporarily her spectacular naked body. I gasped inwardly. Fiona paced around anxiously, knowing that herself was dressing for her early morning run on the beach in the Indian summer sun. Breakfast for all of us, save the red-haired intruder, after her run and before my run.

A warning about my wife's name. It is definitely not Nuahla nor Nulla as in null and void. Nor is it "Null" like in "null and void" as some of my siblings call her, though not in my presence anymore. (She thinks my reaction to that nickname is "funny.") You might try "Noolah" with a touch of Galway fog in your voice or a bad cold and a long and soft emphasis on the "oo," as though you were negatively responding to an attractive invitation with a hesitant "no." I must warn you that she insists that it is impossible to pronounce it correctly unless you speak the Irish language, "and yourself with that terrible flat Chicago 'a'!"

"What was the matter with herself last night?" I asked as Nuala pulled on her running shorts.

Nelliecoyne is what is technically known as a "good baby," which means that she keeps regular hours and thus permits her parents to sleep through the night. It was unthinkable that any child of Nuala Anne McGrail, particularly a girl child, would be anything but a "good baby."

Last night, however, was another story. My wife and I are deep sleepers, particularly after a serious bout of lovemaking. Last night it had been mind-bending in its seriousness. Sometime in the depths of the early morning hours, I had heard as from a great distance an angry wail. I ignored it. Nelliecoyne was a good baby, wasn't she?

Fiona, however, was less easily persuaded by past performance, I felt her large snout nudge me.

"Go away," I told her.

Fiona thereupon barked loudly.

"What's wrong, Dermot Michael?" my wife demanded, her voice heavy with sleep.

"Your daughter is wailing."

"Is she now?"

"I'll go see what the trouble is," I said bravely.

"Ah, no. She's probably hungry and you can't feed her, can you?"

"I cannot," I said contentedly.

So Nuala bounded out of bed, and naked in the moonlight, dashed next door to the nursery, accompanied by the agitated Fiona.

Nuala always dashes. She also bounds. And slams doors.

The tyke continued to wail furiously, something had offended her sense of propriety and order. Her mother's nipple would not satisfy her.

We were spending time in my parents' home at Grand Beach in mid-October, when the place was deserted, to savor the color and the warmth of Indian summer before the arctic air imposed its winter penance on us and to celebrate the second anniversary of our marriage and the third of our chance encounter at O'Neill's Pub on College Green, just down the street from Trinity College. We would take turns each morning running on the beach, swim naked in the heated pool while Nelliecoyne would watch us under the careful supervision of good dog Fiona (who would chase squirrels for the fun of it but never run too far away), walk in the afternoon sunlight with our daughter in her traveling sack, and do our work, such as it was, in the time left over.

I would write a few desultory pages on the first novel of my new contract and Nuala Anne would practice the songs for her forthcoming disc Nuala Anne Sings Lullabies. She was far more serious in her work than I, but never pushed me to settle down and be as responsible as she was.

There were, however, two important reasons to escape Chicago during Indian summer — lovemaking and Nick Farmer, the "music critic" of The Observer, a Chicago magazine, who was grimly determined to wreck Nuala's career because he hated me. Without ever discussing it explicitly (the Irish are great at that) we both wanted to indulge ourselves in sexual abandon before winter came.

ORGY IS WHAT YOU MEAN, the Adversary sniffed puritanically.

I sleep with many different women: a shy, fragile, virginal creature, a sultry seducer, a playful child, an aggressive sexual demon, an outrageous tease, a warm and close friend. All of them are my wife. I am never sure which one I will encounter in our bedroom. I don't know whether she plays the game of being someone different every night with deliberate planning or whether it is mere random chance. I know her better than I know anyone else in the world. But I hardly know her at all.

Mind you, I'm not complaining.

As I heard her singing an Irish lullaby to our daughter, I imagined her naked in the moonlight, tenderly rocking Nelliecoyne in her arms against the background of the silver Lake.

"The October winds lament,
Around the castle of Dromore,
Yet peace lies in her lofty halls,
My loving treasure store.
Though Autumn leaves may droop and die,
A bud of Spring are you."

I sighed happily. 'Tis good to have a wife, particularly one like mine.

Normally Nuala Anne would not cross the bedroom without clutching some kind of protection for her modesty. But when the child wailed such concerns for modesty vanished.

Slowly, reluctantly, Nelliecoyne settled down. Her wail became a mild sniffle of protest. Then the only sound was yet another lullaby. Finally, my wife snuggled into bed next to me.

"'Tis all right, Dermot," she said. "Something upset her. Fiona is staying with her."

Good dog, Fiona.

I extended my arm around her and we both slipped back into peaceful and compliant sleep.

The next morning, as she was tying her running shoes, Nuala Anne explained why our "really good" child had disrupted the serenity of our mid-October repose.

"Och, wasn't it most likely the boat that was offshore?"

She stood up and reached for her running bra, always the last garment to be put in place, at least when I was present. Deliberate? To taunt me, to tempt me, to promise me? What did I know?


"That big five-masted schooner that was a hundred yards or so offshore."

"That one?" I said as an ominous shiver began at the base of my skull and ran down my spine. My wife is fey, you see. She sees things, usually from the past and, more often than not, things about which she and I must do something. Even the sight of her bare breasts, usually enough to cure me of any and all chills, didn't exorcise this shiver.

"Isn't it the one that is as long as your football fields?"

"That one?"

"You can put herself into the crib if you want, though like as not you'll want to hold her till I come back and tell yourself how much more beautiful she is than I am. ... Come on, Fiona, girl, let's leave these slugabeds and get ourselves some real exercise!"

Nuala Anne and the dog thundered out of the house and bounded down the dune to the beach, two exuberant females liberated temporarily from their solemn duty to watch over Nelliecoyne and her inept and indulgent father.

Was unreal exercise what we did last night, exercise in which Nuala delighted in controlling the pace and action of our lovemaking?

I glanced out the window to watch them sprinting down the beach, a beach wider than it had ever been in my lifetime. My parents said that the March storms had swept in two mammoth sandbars that had lurked offshore for a couple of decades. There was debate in the community whether this meant greater hazard for houses on the Lake because the sandbars were better protection than sea walls. I was content with a better beach. But I've never been one with strong motivation to defer gratification.

The child stirred uneasily out of her sleep and whimpered a mild protest. I knew what that meant. So I changed her diaper, an exercise which the little monster seemed to think had been designed for amusement.

"You're a spoiled little brat," I informed her. "Your ma and your dog will spoil you altogether. It's lucky you have a stern father who will impose some discipline in your life."


I had been joking, but if the Adversary was too ignorant to know it I was not about to tell him.

Nelliecoyne gurgled happily as I replaced her in her crib. She was not old enough yet to distinguish the various caregivers who waited on her hand and foot. We were simply "the other one" whom she had to remind periodically of her needs. Even the snow-white hound was not distinct from the rest of us, though she seemed to be particularly happy when Fiona's ridiculously massive head loomed over her.

But what did I know?

I knew one thing, however, for sure as I began to prepare the waffles and bacon for our breakfast. There were no football-field-long five-masted schooners on Lake Michigan. There probably had not been any for a century. Save for those which were on the bottom of the Lake.

We were back to our old games. Nuala Anne McGrail was having one of her "interludes" during which the past and present combined into one eerie netherworld of mystery and pain.

That was bad enough. However, I knew that my wife was fey when I married her. Now I also knew that my daughter, the placidly sleeping Nelliecoyne, was also fey.

The chill ran down my spine again. This time it didn't go away.


SHREWD WEST of Ireland peasant that she is, Nuala Anne likes to keep life under control. That's why she was studying accounting at Trinity College when I first met her three years ago at O'Neill's Pub across from St. Anne's Church, a gorgeous nineteen-year-old in whose voice one heard the bells of music floating over the bogs of Connemara, a Celtic goddess in jeans and a sweatshirt.

The course of a pregnancy, however, was something she could not control. She was angry at herself for being sick almost all the time, for "spotting" intermittently, and for two near misses at miscarriages. She considered all of these natural inevitabilities to be signs of her own moral failure as both a wife and a potential mother.

Through a long and extremely difficult labor, she apologized to me and her mother — Annie McGrail, whom we had flown over for the event — for the inconvenience she was causing us. This is very Irish behavior and there was no point in trying to fight it. Did she mean it as literally true?

What do I know?

"Sure, doesn't she half believe it all?" Annie had whispered to me.

I have never been able to comprehend what the word half on the lips of an Irish person means.

"Didn't I half believe it meself?"

That settled nothing, save adding confirmation to the thesis that apples don't fall very far from their trees.

However, just as Jesus had wisely observed, all these feelings of guilt and responsibility had temporarily disappeared when a worn but radiant Nuala Anne had held the intolerably tiny redhead in her arms.

"Isn't she gorgeous, Dermot Michael?"

"She is," I agreed honestly enough.

"Now," she sighed, "won't I have to work very hard to be a good mother to her?"

What happens to me in all of that, I asked myself.

I said, however, "Nuala Anne, for you being a good mother will be as natural as breathing."

"Ah, no," she sighed.

I did not try to convince her. Try as I might, I had never persuaded her that she was as wonderful a wife as a young man could possibly hope for.

"Doesn't she look like your ma?"

"Ma" in our family meant my late grandmother, the indomitable Nell Pat Malone, with whom Nuala thought she had some weird psychic link.

"She does," I admitted.

"What will we call her, Dermot love?"

Long before the child had been conceived, indeed before we were married, Nuala had informed me that our first child would be a girl and that we would name her Mary Anne, which was my grandmother's real name.

"I thought we were going to call her Mary Anne."

"That will be her name," she said patiently, as though she had two infants on her hands, "but what will we call her?"

"Well," I said, "we can't call her Nell Pat."

"OF COURSE we can't call her that. Your name isn't Patrick like Nell Pat's father's was."

This was said in a tone that hinted it might well be my fault that I had not been named Patrick.

"'Tis true," I said, half apologetically.

"We could call her Nell Derm?"

"Nuala, that sounds like some kind of body lotion."

We both giggled, happy that the agony of labor was over and that we had a new life in the family, even if I had some reservations in the back basement of my brain about playing second fiddle to this tiny intruder.

"WELL, what do you think we should call her, if you know so much?"

"Well," I said, feeling like I was already an old man, "I have this fantasy of our being at a Catholic League championship game in fifteen years or so and the announcer saying, 'And for St. Ignatius College Prep at forward, five-ten and All-State, Nellie Coyne!'"

No woman in her right mind would permit a daughter to be called Nellie, just because her father wanted the child to be a basketball star.

"Five-ten, is it?"

"About her mother's height. And naturally with her mother's figure. And her red hair in a long ponytail. And a look of pure defiance on her face."

"Sure, doesn't it have a certain ring to it?"

And she began to sing Victor Herbert's "My Nellie's Blue Eyes."

Was it the name she had wanted all along? Had she communicated this to me by some weird psychic transfer?

I didn't want to think about that.

Oddly enough both families thought that Nellie was a perfect name for our little rug rat with the red hair and quickly adopted the elision Nelliecoyne. As my brother George the Priest, who knows nothing about such matters, commented, "It fits her perfectly." His boss, the little Bishop, observed more realistically, "Nelliecoyne suggests what is patent. She will be a handful, but a delightful handful."

So Nelliecoyne she was.

None of them, however, had predicted that she would be fey like her mother, that at the age of six months she would see a ghost ship, a ship that didn't exist and perhaps never existed, floating off the shore of Grand Beach. Grand Beach, by the way, is the last place on the planet one would have expected a ghost ship to appear, especially without the permission of the neoauthoritarians in the Village Council and the Michigan Department of Natural Resources.

The child remained in my arms.

"What are you up to, small girl child?" I asked her.

She continued to sleep peacefully.

Nuala Anne was a good mother, tender, gentle, but firm. Just as she was a good wife, tender, gentle, but firm. She did not let her compulsions about being inadequate interfere with her performance in either role. They impeded (or perhaps half impeded) only her self-image.

Nonetheless and paradoxically, marriage, sexual self-possession (a long time in coming), and motherhood had in fact enhanced her self-confidence. The persona of Nuala Anne, the poised woman of the world, emerged more often, though the urNuala, the shy, skittish child from the Irish Gaeltacht, still lurked.

That one, I add, without going into details, is the most challenging and the most rewarding of bedmates. When the Gaeltacht lass was gently introduced to abandon, the skies fell in on us.


Excerpted from Irish Eyes by Andrew M. Greeley. Copyright © 2000 Andrew M. Greeley Enterprises, Ltd. Excerpted by permission of Tom Doherty Associates.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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