Duet (18 page)

He received no immediate answer, but the night Billy’s plane touched down in Scotland, a violin played somewhere in the castle. And it wasn’t Billy’s.

F
OR
the third morning in a row, Mairi Connolly awakened from a very vivid dream of Scotsmen long dead. That would teach her not to read the old stories late at night. For some unfathomable reason, she’d felt an increasing need lately to reread her grandmother’s tales. A weary yawn escaped as she sat in her chair with her knitting, eyes nearly too bleary to count the stitches.

A shrill “I’m telling Gran!” shattered the peace of her day. Was this the fifth time or the sixth?

When the bickering between her grandsons escalated to blows, she rolled her eyes heavenward and rose to her feet, pausing to place her knitting on the chair before rushing to put a stop to their nonsense. She crossed the floor with all the speed her arthritic leg allowed, calling out a warning. “If any hitting happens in my house, I’ll be the one doing it!”

She slammed the kitchen door open, spotting two eight-year-old boys, mirror images, staring each other down in open hostility—an all-too-common occurrence. The bright red imprint of a fist marred Ian’s cheek. Mairi grabbed the boys by the collars of their matching blue T-shirts, forcing them apart. She trained an evil eye on one, then the other. Her silent threat always worked on their father. The twins seemed immune. “Now, Evan, tell me what Ian did that was bad enough you had to go and hit him for it,” she demanded.

“Gran, he—” Ian began.

Mairi cut him off. “I’m talking to your brother. You’ll get your turn in a moment.”

Evan stuck his tongue out at his sibling, quickly tucking it back away under the force of a cutting glare from Mairi.

“He lied.” Evan pouted.

“Did not!” his brother countered.

“Did too!

“Did not!”

“Silence!” Mairi shouted. When the boys fell quiet, she turned back to Evan. “What did Ian lie about?”

Evan folded his chubby arms across his chest. “He said there’s a ghost up at the castle.”

A chill ran up Mairi’s spine. “What ghost?” she asked, having a sneaky suspicion of what she’d hear.

When Ian answered instead, she found herself too shaken to scold him. “The old laird, like in the stories you told us.”

“See, Gran, I told you he lied!” Evan shouted in triumph.

“Hush, child,” she scolded Evan, attention riveted on Ian. “Why do you say he’s returned?”

“Well, I spent the night at the Cunninghams’ last night. It’s near the castle,” he pointed out helpfully, as though she could possibly be unaware of where the Cunninghams lived in such a sparsely populated village. Ian reared his shoulders back proudly. “He was playing the vi-lyn, like you said he’d do when his sweetheart came back to Scotland.”

Mairi studied the boy thoughtfully and then rounded on Evan. “Apologize to your brother.”

“But, Gran,” Evan whined, “he lied.”

“Whether he did or whether he didn’t isn’t the issue. You’d no right to hit him.”

A mumbled, halfhearted “I’m sorry” followed, one Mairi scarcely took notice of. A quick glance at the clock told her sundown would soon be upon them, when she could prove for herself whether or not Ian lied.

When her son came to pick up the boys, she darted out the door, unable to contain her excitement. While a girl, she’d sat at her grandmother’s feet, soaking up tales passed down from one generation to the next, and believing every word. The older she grew, the more secrets Gran shared, and when the woman died, Mairi collected all of Gran’s wisdom into handwritten notebooks, which she cherished with all her heart. Her friends in the Druid Preservation Society cherished them too.

She closed her eyes, picturing the man the legends spoke of, with hair black like a moonless night, and Callaghan tartan worn with pride. She’d once seen a portrait of him on display in the museum in Inverness. Whenever trouble arose, so the legends said, he’d be there for the clan. “A true Scotsman,” Gran had called Aillil Callaghan.

Mairi parked her ancient Morris Mini beside the road, out of sight of the castle gates, and waited. An hour passed, then two, her hope sinking with each passing moment. When she’d finally accepted that she’d been led on a wild goose chase, she heard the distant strains of a musical instrument. The chilly evening had little to do with the goose-flesh on her arms when she rolled down a window, hoping to determine where the sounds came from. They could easily be from the radio of a nearby house or car.

Her hands shook and she fumbled with the keys before successfully starting the car and easing it up to the gates of the castle. The current laird was on holiday and no lights shone from the windows. The rental car she’d seen the past few days wasn’t parked in the circular drive, and she’d passed the caretaker’s car at the village tavern. The house should have been empty. When she turned off the engine, she clearly heard a violin. The tune sounded vaguely familiar, and heart-wrenchingly sad.

A picture flashed before her eyes of the man from the portrait, dressed in a kilt, playing this very song amidst a grove of yews—a scene her grandmother had often described.

Her heart pounded a frantic beat. The Lost Laird was real, like Gran said! The spirit of Aillil Callaghan had roused, which meant his lover had been reborn and found the way to Scotland. She’d often shared her grandmother’s stories with her grandchildren, leaving out the part about the two lovers both being men. She’d save the complete version for when they grew older.

Mairi raced home, humming the phantom’s song, to flip through a dog-eared notebook. She skimmed page after page, finally locating the name she sought. She dialed information, delightfully surprised to receive a quick answer.

It was a bit late to be making phone calls, particularly to a stranger, but Mairi’s excitement wouldn’t wait. The gravelly voice of an elderly man answered the phone on the third ring, barking, “This had better be good!”

The hostile tone caught her off guard, and for a moment she considered giving a long, detailed explanation of why she’d called. Instead, she cleared her throat and simply stated, “Sir, although you don’t know me personally, I was given your name and told to contact you.”

The Keeper
, as Gran’s notes called him, couldn’t have possibly sounded more suspicious. “Contact me? Why?”

Mairi spoke the words she’d waited a lifetime to utter. “There’s a foreign violinist coming who’ll be looking for a special instrument. You know the one I mean.”

Silence followed a heavy sigh. After several moments the man answered, “Aye, I do.”

Mairi stayed up late into the night, making calls and putting wheels into motion, to finish something her many-times great-grandmother had started.

A
SIX
-
WORD
message started Billy’s adventure, a simple e-mail from his friend and manager, Neil: “Drop everything and come to Scotland.” The message came nearly a week ago.

The moment his plane touched down in Glasgow, Billy’s stomach tied up in knots. At first, he’d attributed his anxiety to jet lag. As time passed and the feelings grew stronger, so did his concern.
Please don’t let me come down with something, not right in the middle of the tour of a lifetime!
he prayed.

The inexplicable sense of urgency, the feeling of something very important he should be doing, increased with each passing day. No amount of coaxing his tired brain produced the “what” of the situation, either. He tried to dismiss the paranoia from his mind, for he’d far more important things to worry about, like tonight’s scheduled performance. Once he’d made the necessary arrangement to come to Scotland, it hadn’t taken Neil long to book a variety of venues in and around Glasgow. Then, in a stunning example of right-place-right-time, another violinist canceled a performance in Edinburgh and contacted Neil about hiring Billy to fill in. Neil crowed; Billy nearly fainted. The once-in-a-lifetime opportunity left a few scant hours to prepare for a concert that could pave the way for additional European performances, or send him home in shame.

“Pull over right here,” Billy told his driver, his roiling stomach demanding attention. Inquiring eyes met his in the rearview mirror. “Tell Neil I’ll meet him back at the hotel.” His manager would worry like a mother hen, but if Billy didn’t get some air immediately, he might be violently ill. Strange, he’d never gotten car sick before. Was it simply a case of nerves, or was he truly ailing?

He had to get out of the vehicle and now. With no particular destination in mind, Billy grabbed his violin case and took off on foot. The moment he touched his case, he experienced an irresistible urge to find a music store. Why? He didn’t need anything. The longer he walked, the deeper the insistence grew.

He stepped into a café and asked for information, emerging with directions to a place a few blocks away. Ten minutes later found him standing before an unassuming shop on a side street, staring through the window at a display of stringed instruments. For a business located in a poorer part of town, the showroom boasted an impressive selection.

The tinkling of a bell announced his arrival, and his mouth dropped open in surprise at the cluttered interior. Every square inch of the tiny shop appeared to house some form of instrument and, with the exception of those shown in the window, few were modern or new.

A young woman, streaks of electric blue accenting short-cropped blonde hair, stepped from behind the cash register and greeted him with a smile. “Good afternoon, sir. Can I help you?” Bits of silver glistened on one brow and on her lower lip. Thick, black makeup lined her eyes.

“I’d like to look around a bit if you don’t mind.” A relentless pull drew him toward the back of the store. The salesgirl forgotten, he crossed the room in sure, steady strides, bypassing dozens of instruments without paying them any heed.

Whatever called hid somewhere, forcing him to search for it. Through shelves of guitars, woodwinds, and drums he wandered, eventually stumbling upon violins. Racks, holding a variety of makes and models, were evenly placed over the rear wall of the shop. Normally he’d be enthralled at such a varied display; however, none of them were the one he sought.

The unseen force compelled him to a glass cabinet. The clerk’s smile fell. “I’m sorry, sir, those aren’t for sale. They’re the prizes of my grandfather’s collection.”

Billy scarcely heard her, captivated by a rare treasure of wood and strings—a violin unlike any he’d ever seen, but by the same token, very familiar. The burnished wood appeared old yet well cared for. What was this gem doing hiding among so many less-worthy specimens?

He gazed into the case, wanting nothing more than to hold the splendid creation, feel his fingers sliding into position upon its strings… to unleash the beauty hiding within. The world narrowed down to one thing, the desire to make the instrument sing. Deep down, he sensed only he could be its master, without quite understanding how. Like a soul mate, the artfully carved piece of wood seemed created for him alone.

“Don’t touch!” the clerk hissed, raising a hand in warning.

Billy grew desperate, his craving to pick up the violin overpowering. He had to. His heartbeat stuttered, his hands sweated, and it became very, very hard to breathe. “Please, miss.” He turned pleading eyes on the girl. “May I at least hold it?” Was it possible to die for the want of something?

She spoke in harsh whispers into a cell phone, giving him a wary eye. A moment later, a door behind the counter opened and an elderly gentleman stepped out.

“Grandfather! He’s trying to take it!” the young woman wailed, a stubborn set to her jaw and a glint in her eye. She reminded Billy of a wildlife show of a mother bear protecting cubs.

The man’s eyes widened when he spotted Billy, and the unfriendly, threatening expression fled, replaced by a look of deep remorse. He sighed, running a hand through snow-white hair. “It seems the time’s finally come. I was warned you’d be here soon, even if a part of me didn’t believe. You see, we’ve waited a very long time.” To the woman, he said, “I told you hiding it back here wouldn’t help. It knows to whom it belongs.”

Gawking back and forth between the clerk’s bowed head and the old man’s resigned frown, Billy got the distinct impression he’d missed the first act of a play and now never hoped to understand the plot.

“Well, go on,” the man said, a defeated air about him. “I hold it very dear, though it was never truly mine. If I wasn’t convinced before, I am now. My father told me it would call to its master.”

Shocked at being allowed to handle a doubtlessly rare antique, Billy wasn’t about to pass up the opportunity to do exactly what he’d been wanting to since laying eyes on the display. He placed his violin case on the floor. Carefully opening the glass door, he lifted the violin from the rack it shared with two others. His fingers settled around the neck like they belonged there. He knew this instrument like his own hand! “Do you have a bow?” he asked, voice shaky with more emotions than he could name.

“Aye.” The shopkeeper retrieved one from a display beside the counter. When Billy took the bow from the man’s wrinkled hand, all thought disappeared but the need to play. After a moment’s tuning, he drew the bow across the strings and promptly lost himself in a melody that sprung from deep within.

He didn’t know how long he played, or what he played. When he finished, the man blinked misty eyes and the clerk wept openly, dabbing at her mascara with a tissue. Black tears ran down her cheeks. The awkward moment left Billy at a loss. He knew he should thank the man, return the violin, and leave; yet couldn’t bring himself to.

“That was lovely,” the young woman said, “and about the saddest thing ever. What’s it called?”

“Thomas’s Lament” popped into his head. Wait! He’d never learned a tune called “Thomas’s Lament.” He shook his head, confused. “I have no earthly idea. I’ve never heard it before in my life.”

The old man uttered cryptic words. “Maybe not in this life.”

Billy cocked his head, waiting for an explanation. When the man didn’t elaborate, Billy, holding tight to the precious violin, offered an apology. “I… I’m sorry, I don’t know what to say. I know I should give this back, but I don’t seem able.”