Tears of the Moon (19 page)

“That's a question you'll have to put to her.” He wanted to leave it at that, dignified, dismissive, but it rankled. “I wasn't more than fifteen, and the water was cold. A man's not at his best just out of frigid water, you know.”

“That's your story, son, and you stick with it.”

“And you shouldn't have been looking in that direction. But you always were a perverted sort.”

“Why shouldn't I have looked? Everyone else was. He lost his trunks in the sea,” she explained to Jude, “and didn't realize it till he was standing clear of the surf, jay naked. I've always regretted the lack of a camera.”

Jude glanced at Shawn with sympathy. “I used to regret being an only child. But there are some circumstances when—oh!”

“What is it?” Aidan was on his feet like a shot, prepared to haul his wife into his arms, when she pressed her finger to her belly. “There, you've upset her with your bickering.”

“No, no. The baby's moving.” Thrilled, she grabbed Aidan's hand and laid it over her middle. “Do you feel it? It's like a rippling inside me.”

Panic shifted to awe, filling his eyes, his heart. “He's lively.”

“It's a family meeting, after all. Why shouldn't he be part of it?” Shawn raised his glass again.
“Slainte.”

He went to visit Maude. Since he'd been used to seeing her once or twice a week most of his life, Shawn saw no reason that should change after death. And her resting place was a good spot for thinking.

It had nothing much to do with the fact that he would stroll near the cliff hotel on his way. It wasn't likely he'd see Brenna, but, well, if he didn't walk in that direction, there was no chance at all of seeing her.

As he recalled, Maude Fitzgerald had been the romantic sort, and he thought she'd appreciate the logic of it.

The hotel sat dramatically on the cliffs, with the sea spread before it. And though the air was brisk with morning, a scattering of guests were out and about enjoying the view. Shawn gave himself the pleasure of it as well, and as he watched the boats bob and sail over the water, he thanked his ancestors for going into the business of a public house rather than fishing.

There was Tim Riley and his crew hauling in nets while the waves kicked and danced. There was a rhythm to it that had Shawn tapping his foot and set pipe against cello in a musical duel in his head.

Shawn imagined the tourists thought the boats looked picturesque. They probably viewed the idea of making a living from the sea as a kind of romantic venture steeped in history and tradition. But as he stood, wind flowing through his dark hair and doing its best to sneak under his sweater, he could only think it a cold and lonely and capricious life.

He'd take a warm pub and a busy kitchen any day of the week.

But it was romance that whirled through Mary Kate's mind when she rushed out after spotting him. She had to press a hand to her heart, as it filled with images.

She looked at Shawn, standing on the cliffs, legs spread, eyes on the horizon, and she saw Heathcliff, Rhett Butler, Lancelot, and every other heroic fantasy that might fill an infatuated young woman's dreams.

She was glad she'd borrowed her sister Patty's new blue blouse that morning, though Patty wasn't going to be pleased about it. Making a valiant attempt to smooth her hair, Mary Kate hurried forward.

“Shawn.”

When he turned and saw her coming toward him, Shawn cursed himself. He hadn't thought of the possibility of running into Brenna's sister, not when he'd been so busy thinking of Brenna.

Mind your step, Gallagher, he warned himself. “Good morning, Mary Kate. I was forgetting the hotel is full of O'Tooles just now.”

She had to untangle her tongue. His eyes were so clear in this light. If she looked into them deeply enough, she could see herself reflected back. It was so alluring.

“You should come in out of the wind. I've a break now, I'll buy you some tea.”

“That's a kind offer, but I'm on my way to see Old Maude. I was just watching Tim Riley pull in his nets, and they looked heavy with fish. I'll have to go about bargaining with him later for some of his catch.”

“Why don't you stop by on your way back?” She tilted her head, running a hand through her hair and looking up at him under her lashes in a look she'd practiced endlessly. “I can take my lunch most anytime.”

“Ah . . .” She had more skill in flirtation than he'd given her credit for. It was just a little frightening. “I'm due at the pub before long.”

“I'd love to be able to sit and talk with you.” She laid a hand on his arm. “When there's not so much going on.”

“Well, that's a thought, isn't it? I've got to be going. You should go inside. You shouldn't be standing out here in that thin blouse. You'll catch a chill. My best to your family.”

As he made his escape, Mary Kate sighed. He'd noticed the blouse.

He'd handled that well, Shawn congratulated himself. Friendly, a sort of older brother to younger sister kind of thing. He was sure the little crisis had passed. And it was really rather sweet that she'd thought of him the way she had. A man had to be flattered, especially since he'd slipped through those sticky loops with no harm done.

But deciding a bit of backup wouldn't be out of order, he dipped into Saint Declan's Well and sprinkled the water on the ground.

“Superstitious? A modern-thinking man?”

Shawn's head came up, and his eyes met the clever blue ones of Carrick, prince of the faeries. “A modernthinking man knows there's a reason for superstitions, especially when he stands and finds himself having a conversation with the likes of you.”

Since he'd come for a purpose, Shawn walked away from the well and over to Maude's grave. “So, tell me, are you always here and about? I've come to this spot all my life, and it's only recently I've seen you.”

“There was no particular reason for you to see me before recently. I've a question for you, Shawn Gallagher, and I'm hoping you'll be answering it.”

“Well, you have to ask it first.”

“So I will.” Carrick sat by the grave across from Shawn so their eyes were level. “What the bleeding, blistering hell are you waiting for?”

Shawn raised his eyebrows, rested his hands on his knees. “All manner of things.”

“Oh, that's typical of you.” Disgust edged Carrick's voice. “I'm speaking of Mary Brenna O'Toole, and why you haven't taken her to your bed.”

“That would be between Brenna and myself,” Shawn said evenly, “and no concern of yours.”

“Of course it's a concern of mine.” Carrick was on his feet now, the movement too fast for the human eye to catch. The ring on his finger glowed a deep, deep blue, and the silver pouch hanging from his belt glittered. “I judged you to have the kind of nature that would understand, but you're more boneheaded than even your brother.”

“Sure and you aren't the first to say so.”

“It's in place, Gallagher the younger.”

Because Carrick was now standing beside Shawn rather than across from him, Shawn got to his feet. “And what would that be?”

“Your part, your destiny. Your choices. How is it you can look into your heart for making your music, and not for living your life?”

“My life is as I like it.”

“Boneheaded,” Carrick said again. “Finn protect me from the foolishness of mortals.” He threw up his hands, and thunder rumbled across the clear bowl of the sky.

“If you think to impress me with parlor tricks, you won't succeed at it. That's just your temper talking, and I've one of my own.”

“Would you dare match it to mine?” As a demonstration, Carrick waved a finger, and a bolt of blinding white light lanced into the ground in front of Shawn's feet.

“Bully tactics.” Though Shawn had to fight the instinct to leap back. “And unworthy of you.”

Fury turned Carrick's eyes nearly black, trembled from his fingertips in little licks of red flame. Then subsided as he threw back his head and laughed. “Well, now, you've more courage than I gave you credit for. Or it's just stupid you are.”

“Wise enough to know you can cause mischief if you like, but no real harm. You don't worry me, Carrick.”

“I could have you on your knees croaking like a bullfrog.”

“Which would hurt my pride but little else.” Not, Shawn thought, that he wanted to put the matter to the test. “What's the point of this? Threats don't endear you to me.”

“I've waited six of your lifetimes for something you could have in an instant, just by holding out your hand.” But this time he sighed. “Tears from the moon I gathered for her the second time.” As he spoke he took the pouch from his belt. “And at her feet I poured the pearls they formed. And all she saw was the pearls.”

Turning the pouch over, he poured a white waterfall of glowing white gems onto Maude's grave. “They glowed in the grass, in the moonlight then, white and smooth as Gwen's skin. But she didn't see that it wasn't pearls I'd poured at her feet, but my heart—the longing in it, and aye, the purity of that love as well. I didn't know she needed to be told, or that it was already too late, as I hadn't given her the part of me she wanted.”

Carrick's voice was full of despair now, and so ripe with unhappiness that Shawn touched his arm. “What did she want?”

“Love. Just the word. A single word. But I gave her diamonds—jewels plucked from the sun, and these pearls, then the final time the stones you call sapphires that I harvested from the heart of the sea.”

“I know your story well.”

“Aye, you would. And your new sister, Jude, has put it in her book of tales and legends. The ending is still an unhappy one as I cast the spell over my Gwen, in anger and in pain—rashly, Gallagher. Three times love would find love, heart accept heart with all the failings and the foibles. And then, my Gwen and I will be free to be together. A hundred years times three I've waited, and my patience is sore tested. You're a man who has words.”

Considering, Carrick circled Shawn and the grave. “You use them well with your music—music others should hear, but that's another matter. A man who has such a gift of words is one who understands what's inside a person, sometimes before that person knows. It's a gift you have. I'm only asking you to use it.”

In a long flourish, he waved his hand over the grave, and the pearls blossomed into flowers. “The jewels I gave Gwen grew into flowers. Your Jude will tell you it was the flowers she kept. Some women want the simple things, Gallagher, so I've come to understand.”

He lifted his finger. Resting on the tip was a single perfect pearl. With a thin smile, he flicked it toward Shawn, then nodded, pleased, when Shawn snatched it from the air. “Take it, keep it, until you realize who it is you're to give it to. When you do, give the words. They're more of magic than what you have in hand.”

The air trembled, wavered, and Carrick disappeared into it.

“The man wears you out,” Shawn murmured, then sat beside Maude's grave again. “It's very unusual companions you have.”

Then, because he needed it, Shawn let himself fall into the quiet. He watched the moonflowers, blooms open despite the steam of sunlight, dance across the grave. He studied the pearl, rubbing it through his fingers. He put it in his pocket before reaching down to pick a single blossom.

“I don't think you'll mind, as it's for Jude,” he said to Maude. He sat and kept her company another twenty minutes before going back home.

He didn't knock. It had been his home too long for him to think of it. But Shawn did think, the minute he'd closed the door behind him, that he was very likely interrupting Jude's work.

When she came to the top of the steps before he could decide if he should go back out again, he glanced up in apology. “You'll be working. I'll come back 'round later.”

“No, that's all right. I don't mind a break. Would you like some tea?” she asked as she started down.

“I would, yes, but I'll fix it for both of us.”

“I won't argue with that.” She smiled uncertainly when he held out the moonflower. “Thanks. Isn't it the wrong time for this to be blooming?”

“In most places. It's one of the things I'd like to speak with you about.” He started back toward the kitchen with her. “How are you feeling today?”

“Good. Really good, actually. I think the morning sickness is passing, and I'm not sorry to see it go.”

“And your work's going well?”

It would be Shawn's way, she thought, to wind his way around to the genuine purpose of the visit in his own time. So she found a little bottle for the blossom while he put on the kettle. “Yes, it is. I still have moments when I can't believe I'm doing it. This time last year I was still teaching, and hating my work. Now I have a book on its way to being published, and another one coming to life every day. I'm a little nervous because this one's a story out of my head instead of a compilation of others I've been told, but I really love the process of it.”

“Being a little nervous you'll probably write a better story, don't you think?” At home, he got out the biscuit tin and filled a plate. “Meaning, you'll have more care with it.”

“I hope you're right. Are you nervous when you're writing your music?”

“Not the tunes,” he said after a moment's thought. “The words sometimes. Trying to find the right way of saying what the music's telling me. It can be frustrating.”

“How do you handle it?”

“Oh, I bang my head against it for a while.” After the pot was warmed he measured out the tea. “Then if all I get from that is a headache, I'll take a walk to clear it, or think of something else entirely. Most times, after I do, the words are just there, as if they'd been waiting for me to pluck them.”