Heart of the Sea

  “Got me there.”

  “But if you ever have to earn a few extra, you make a very fine omelette.” She rose, taking both of the plates to the sink. “I appreciate a decent cook, as it’s not a skill I have, nor one I care to develop.”

  He came up behind her, ran his hands over her shoulders, down her arms and back again in one long stroke. “Going to wash my dishes?”

  “No.” She wanted to stretch like a satisfied cat, but thought it wiser not to. “But I might be persuaded to dry them for you.”

  She let him turn her around, kept her eyes on his as he lowered his head. Then, with not a little regret, placed her fingers on his lips before they touched hers. “Here’s what I’m thinking. Either of us could seduce the other with considerable style if not much effort.”

  “Okay. Let me go first.”

  Her laugh was low and smooth. “And however satisfied we might be after, it’s early days yet. Let’s keep that adventure for another time.”

  He gathered her a little closer. “Why wait? You’re the fatalist.”

  “Clever. But we’ll wait because I’ve a mind to. I’ve a very strong mind.” She tapped his lips with her finger once, then drew back.

  “Me, too.” Deliberately, he lifted her hand to his lips again, brushed them over her palm, then her knuckles.

  “I like that. I might just come back for more, another time. And as things are, I believe I’ll leave the dishes to you after all. Now, will you walk me out like a proper gentleman?”

  “Tell me,” he said as they started out of the kitchen, “how many men have you wrapped around your finger to date?”

  “Oh, I’ve lost count. But none of them seemed to mind it.” She glanced back as the phone began to ring. “Do you need to answer?”

  “The machine’ll get it.”

  “Answering machines and faxes. I wonder what Old Maude would think.” She stepped outside and off the stoop to where the flowers were dancing in the breeze. “You look suited to this place,” she said after a moment’s study of him. “And I imagine you look just as suited to some lofty boardroom.”

  He reached down to snap off a spray of verbena and handed it to her. “Come back.”

  “Oh, I imagine I’ll wander your way again.” She tucked the flower into her hair as she turned to the

  garden gate.

  He saw then why he hadn’t heard her drive up. She’d ridden a bike. “Darcy, if you’ll wait a minute, I’ll drive you back down.”

  “No need. Good day to you, Trevor Magee.”

  She straddled the bike and steered down the narrow drive and into the bumps and ditches the locals claimed was a road. And managed, Trevor noted, to look outrageously sexy doing it.

  Since he stopped by the site after going into the village, it was after noon when he walked to the Gallagher house. His knock was answered by the barking of a dog, a throaty, excitable sound that made him take a cautious step in reverse. He was an urbanite and had a healthy respect for anything capable of making that kind of noise. The barking stopped seconds before the door opened, but the dog itself sat beside Jude, madly thumping its tail. Trevor had seen the dog a time or two, but at a distance. He hadn’t realized the thing was quite so large.

  “Hello, Trevor. How nice. Come in.”

  “Ah . . .” He glanced meaningfully at the dog, and Jude laughed.

  “Finn’s harmless. I promise. He just likes to make a racket so I’ll think he’s protecting me. Say good day to Mr. Magee,” Jude ordered, and Finn obediently lifted a huge paw.

  “I’d like to stay on his good side.” Hoping the dog would let him keep all his fingers, Trevor shook, hand to paw.

  “I can put him out back if he worries you.”

  “No, no, it’s fine.” He hoped. “I’m sorry to interrupt your day. I was hoping you had a minute.”

  “I’ve several minutes. Come in and sit down. Can I get you some tea? Have you had lunch? Shawn sent down a lovely casserole.”

  “No, nothing, thanks, I’m fine. Don’t go to any trouble.”

  “It’s not a bit of trouble,” she began, but she pressed one hand to the small of her back and the other to her belly as she stepped back.

  “You sit down.” Trevor took her arm and steered her textStyle2">to the living room. “I’ll confess, large dogs and pregnant women unnerve me.”

  It wasn’t true. Large dogs might have unnerved him, but pregnant women melted him. But the statement got her to a chair.

  “I promise neither of us will bite.” But she sat, gratefully. “I swore I was going to stay calm and graceful through this experience. I’m pretty calm yet, but I said good-bye to grace at the six-month point.”

  “You look like you’re handling it well. Do you know if you’re having a boy or a girl?”

  “No, we want to be surprised.” She laid a hand on Finn’s head when he came to sit by her chair. Trevor noted she didn’t have to reach far. “I took a walk last evening and looked at your site. You’re making progress.”

  “Steady. This time next year you’ll be able to walk down and take in a show.”

  “I’m looking forward to it, very much. It must be satisfying to turn your visions into reality.”

  “Isn’t that what you’re doing? With your books, with your baby?”

  “I like you. Are you comfortable enough to tell me what’s on your mind?”

  He waited a beat. “I forgot you’re a psychologist.”

  “I taught psychology.” In a gesture of apology, she lifted her hands, let them fall again. “In the last year or so I’ve cured myself of being too shy to say what I’m thinking. The result has pros and cons. I don’t mean to be pushy.”

  “I came here to ask you something, talk to you about something. You figured it out. That’s not pushy, that’s . . . efficient,” he said after a moment. “One of my favorite words lately. Carrick and Gwen.”

  “Yes?” Now she folded her hands, looking serene and easy. “What about them?”

  “You believe they exist? Existed?” he corrected.

  “I know they exist.” She saw the doubt in his eyes and took a moment to gather her thoughts. “We’re from a different place, you and I. New York, Chicago. Urban, sophisticated, our lives based on facts and the tangible of the everyday.”

  He saw where she was going and nodded. “We’re not there anymore.”

  “No, we’re not there anymore. This is a place that . . . ‘thrives’ isn’t the word I want, because it doesn’t need to thrive. It just is. This place that’s home for me now, this place that’s drawn you to build one of your dreams here, isn’t just apart from where we came from because of history or geography. It understands things we’ve forgotten.”

  “Reality is reality, whatever part of the world you’re standing in.”

  “I thought that once. If you still do, why do Carrick and Gwen worry you?”

  “Interest me.”

  “Have you seen her?”

  “No.”

  “Him, then.”

  Trevor hesitated, remembering the man who’d appeared near Saint Declan’s Well. “I don’t believe in faeries.”

  “I imagine Carrick believes in you,” Jude murmured. “I want to show you something.” She started to rise,cursed under her breath, then held up a hand, waving it testily when Trevor got to his feet. “No, damn it, I’m not ready to be hauled up every time I sit down. Just a minute.” She shifted, then boosted herself out, belly first, by pushing her hands against the arms of the chair. “ Relax. It’ll take me a minute. I’m not as light on my feet as I used to be.”

  As she walked out, Trevor sat back down. He and Finn eyed each other with interest and suspicion. “I’m not going to steal the silverware, so let’s both just stay in our respective corners.”

  As if it had been an invitation, Finn sauntered over and planted both forepaws in Trevor’s lap.

  “Christ.” Gingerly, Trevor lifted the dog’s feet out of his crotch. “Perfect aim. Now I know why my father never l
et me have that puppy. Down!”

  At the command Finn’s butt hit the floor, then he lovingly licked Trevor’s hand.

  “There, you’ve made friends.”

  Trevor glanced up at Jude and barely resisted squirming to relieve the throbbing in his balls. “You bet.”

  “Go lie down, Finn.” Jude gave the dog an absent pat before sitting on the hassock at Trevor’s feet. “Do you know what this is?” She opened her hand, held it out. Centered in her palm was a clear and brilliant stone.

  “At a glance it looks like a diamond, and given the size, I’d say it’s a very nicely faceted piece of glass.”

  “A diamond, first water, between eighteen and twenty carats. I got a book, a loupe, and figured it out. I didn’t want to take it to a jeweler. Go ahead,” she invited, “take a closer look.”

  Trevor took it out of her hand, held it to the light streaming through the front window. “Why didn’t you want to take it to a jeweler?”

  “It seemed rude, as it was a gift. I visited cousin Maude’s grave last year, and I watched Carrick pour a flood of these out of the silver bag he wears at his belt. I watched them bloom into flowers, except for this one that lay sparkling in the blossoms.”

  Trevor turned the stone over in his hand, and wondered. “Jewels of the sun.”

  “My life changed when I came here. This is a symbol. Whether it’s pretty glass or a priceless gem doesn’t matter really. It’s all how you look at things. I saw magic, and it opened my world.”

  “I like my world.”

  “Whether you change it or not is your choice. You came here for a reason. To Ardmore.”

  “To build a theater.”

  “To build,” Jude said quietly. “How much, is up to you.”

  FIVE

  TREVOR’S DECISION TO spend the evening in the pub was a logical one. A professional one. He preferred thinking of it that way, as it was just a little too hard on the ego to admit he was there largely to look at Darcy. He wasn’t a horny teenager, he was a businessman. Gallagher’s Pub was now very much part of his interests.

  And it appeared to be a thriving one.

  Most of the tables were full—families, couples, tour groups huddled together over pints and glasses and conversations. A young boy who couldn’t have been more than fifteen sat in a corner playing a weepy tune on a concertina. A fire had been lit, as with evening the weather had gone chilly and damp, and around the red glow of the simmering turf a trio of old men with windraw faces sat smoking contemplatively and tapping booted feet to the music.

  Nearby, a child who couldn’t have seen his first birthday bounced and giggled on his mother’s knee.

  His own mother, Trevor thought, would have loved this. Carolyn Ryan Magee was fourth-generation Irish, born of parents who’d never set foot on Irish soil, any more than their parents before them had. And she was unabashedly sentimental over what she considered her roots.

  She was, he understood, the only reason he knew as much as he did about family history on his father’s side. Family, no matter if they’d been dead and buried for generations, meant something to her. When something mattered to his mother, she made certain it mattered to her men. Neither of whom, Trevor mused, could resist her.

  It was she who’d played Irish music in the house while his father had rolled his eyes and tolerated it. It was she who had told her son stories at bedtime of the Good People and silkies and pookas.

  And it had been she, Trevor knew, who had smoothed over in her fiercely determined way whatever hurts and resentments his father had felt toward his parents. Even with her powers, she hadn’t been able to add warmth, but at least she’d built a shaky bridge that had allowed for civility and respect on both sides.

  In fact, Trevor wondered if he’d have noticed the distance between his father and his father’s parents if it hadn’t been for the love and openness of his own home.

  Of all the couples he knew, he’d never known any as cheerfully devoted to each other as the one who’d created him. It was a marvelously intimate miracle, and one he never took for granted.

  He imagined his mother would sit here, as he was now, and soak it all up, join in the songs, chat with all the strangers. Thinking of it, he scanned the room through the pale blue haze of smoke, and thought of ventilation systems. Then he shook his head and headed to the bar. Whatever the health hazards, he supposed this was precisely the atmosphere those who came here were looking for.

  He saw Brenna at the far end of the bar, working the taps and having what appeared to be the most serious of discussions with a man who had to be a hundred and six.

  The only stool left was at the opposite end, and sliding on, Trevor waited while Aidan passed out glasses and made change.

  “Well, how’s it all going, then?” Aidan asked, and added the next layers to a pair of Guinnesses he was building.

  “Fine. You’re busy tonight.”

  “And busy we should be most nights from now till winter. Can I quench your thirst for you?”

  “You can. I’ll have a pint of Guinness.”

  “That’s the way. Jude said you were by to see her today, and having some concerns about our local color.”

  “Not concerns. Curiosity.”

  “Curiosity, to be sure.” Aidan began the slow, intricate process of building Trevor’s pint while he finished off the two in progress. “A man’s bound to have some curiosity about the matter when he finds himself plunked down in the middle of it. Jude’s publisher has the notion that when her book comes out, it could stir more interest in our little corner of the world. Good business that, for both of us.”

  “Then we’ll have to be ready for it.” He glanced around, noted that Sinead was moving with a great deal more energy tonight. But Darcy was nowhere to be seen. “You’re going to need more help in here, Aidan.”

  “I’ve given that some thought.” He filled a basket with crisps and set them on the counter. “Darcy’ll be talking to some people when the time comes.”

  As if hitting the cue, Darcy’s voice rang through the kitchen doorway in a peal of heartfelt and inventive curses.

  “You’re a miserable excuse for a blind donkey’s ass, and why you require a head hard as rock when you’ve nothing inside it needing protection, I’ll never know, for you’re brainless as a turnip and twice as disagreeable.”

  When Trevor cocked his head in question, Aidan merely continued to work his taps. “It’s a bit of a temper our sister has, and Shawn needs only to exist to provoke it.”

  “A shrew is it? I’ll give you a shrew, you slant-eyed, toothless toad.”

  There was an audible thud, a yelp, more cursing, then Darcy, face flushed, eyes lightning-hot, swung through the door with a large and loaded tray on her hip.

  “Brenna, I brained your husband with a stewpot— though why an intelligent woman such as yourself would choose to wed a baboon like that escapes me.”

  “I hope it wasn’t full, as he makes a fine stew.”

  “It was empty. You get a better ring that way.” She tossed her head, drew in a long breath, and let it out again with a satisfied huff. Shifting the tray, she turned toward the pass-through, and spotted Trevor.

  Temper vanished from her face like magic. Though her eyes remained hot, they took on an unmistakable sexual edge. “Well, now, look who’s come in out of the rainy evening.” Her tone went to purr as she sauntered to the end of the bar. “Would you mind flipping up the pass-through, darling? I’ve my hands a bit full at the moment.”

  She’d been balancing trays one-handed more than half her life, but she liked to see him move. The hum in her throat was a sound of pure appreciation when he slid off the stool and walked over to do as she’d asked.

  “It’s nice to be rescued by a strong, handsome man.”

  “Mind yourself, Trev, there’s a viper under that comely face.” This was Shawn’s opinion, and he gave it a bit testily as he came out to serve another pair of orders at the bar.

  “Pay no attent
ion to the babblings of our pet monkey.” She sent one steely stare over her shoulder. “Our parents, being kindhearted, bought him from a traveler family—gypsies, you’d say. A waste of two pounds and ten, if you’re asking me.”

  With a twitch of hip she walked off to deliver her orders.

  “That was a good one,” Shawn murmured. “She must’ve been saving it up. Good evening to you, Trev. Are you looking for a meal?”

  “I guess I’ll try the stew. I’ve heard it’s good tonight.”

  “Aye.” With a rueful smile, Shawn rubbed the bump on his head. His gaze drifted to the side where the young boy teased out a livelier tune. “You’ve come on a good evening. Connor there can play like an angel or a demon, depending on the mood.”

  “I’ve yet to hear you play.” Trevor settled on his stool again. “I’m told that, like the stew, it’s good.”

  “Oh, I’ve a bit of a hand with it. We all do. Music’s part of the Gallagher way.”

  “Just a bit of advice, on your music. Get an agent.”

  “Oh, well.” Shawn looked back, met Trevor’s eyes. “You’re paying me a good price for the songs you’ve bought so far. I trust you to be fair. You’ve an honest face.”

  “A good agent would squeeze out more.”

  “I’ve no need for more.” He glanced over at Brenna. “I’ve everything already.”

  With a baffled shake of his head, Trevor picked up the beer Aidan set in front of him. “Finkle said you weren’t a business-minded man. But I have to say you’re not anywhere near as dim as he led me to believe. No offense.”

  “None taken.”

  Trevor watched Shawn over the rim of his mug. “ Finkle said you kept getting him confused with another investor, a restaurateur from London.”

  “Did he now?” Amusement twinkled in Shawn’s eyes.“Imagine that. Aidan, do we know anything about a restaurant man from London who’d have been interested in connecting to the pub here?”

  Aidan tucked his tongue in his cheek. “I seem to recall Mr. Finkle bringing that matter to my attention, though I assured him there was no such person at t’all. Fact is,” Aidan continued after a weighty pause, “we, all of us, went to great pains to assure him of it.”

  “That’s what I thought.” Impressed, Trevor took a deep gulp of Guinness. “Very slick.”

  Then he heard Darcy laugh, quick and bright, and turned to see her rub her hand over the boy Connor’s head. She left it there, her eyes sparkling on his as she began to sing.

  It was a fast tune, with lyrics tumbling into each other. He’d heard it before, in the pubs of New York or when his mother was in the mood to listen to Irish music, but he’d never heard it like this. Not in a voice that seemed soaked in rich wine with gold at the edges.

  He’d had the report from Finkle, and there had been mention of Darcy’s singing voice. In fact, the man had rhapsodized about it. Trevor hadn’t put any stock in that issue. As his pet business was a recording company, he knew how often voices were praised through the roof when they deserved no more than polite applause.

  Listening now, watching now, Trevor admitted he should have given his scout more credit.

  When she came back into the chorus, Shawn leaned on the bar and matched his voice to hers. There was a laugh in the music of it as she wandered back toward the bar, and laying a casual hand on Trevor’s shoulder, sang straight to her brother.

  “I’ll tell me ma when I go home the boys won’t leave the girls alone.”

  No, Trevor imagined, the boys had never left this one alone. He had an urge to pull her hair himself, but not in the playful manner the song indicated. No, to fill his hands with it, pull it back, and feast on her.

  Thousands of men, he imagined, would react the same way. The notion appealed