“Ever the practical American,” he said, rolling her under him and framing her face with his hands. He kissed her lingeringly, raising his head finally to gaze into her eyes.
“I’m going to take you everywhere,” he said. “I want to show you everything there is to see, from the Cliffs of Moher to the Dingle Peninsula to Sligo Bay in the Northwest. Yeats lived there, as you know, and you can see the places he wrote about often. They’re not much changed from when he knew them.”
“It sounds wonderful,” Linn said dreamily.
“You can see Ben Bulben from the road as you approach, always shrouded in clouds hanging low about the bare head of the mountain. And right at the foot of it, in the shadow of the slope, is Drumcliff Churchyard where he’s buried. The grave has a limestone marker, as he requested, and the inscription is carved into it—”
“‘Cast a cold eye on life, on death. Horseman, pass by,’” Linn recited.
“That’s my lady,” Con said fondly. “And just across the road is a tavern where you can get pub grub, where the work crews come in for a glass of stout and a bite to eat. Oh, you should listen to them talk, Aislinn. It’s like music, those lyrical voices; it’s a wonderful thing to hear.”
“You love it very much, don’t you?” Linn asked, her voice misty with emotion.
“What?”
“Your country, its people.”
He shrugged. ‘‘I don’t think about it; it’s just something that is always there.”
“I know what you mean,” Linn whispered, so full of love for him that she didn’t trust herself to say more. She held him as he relaxed against her and she was almost asleep when he stirred and sat up abruptly.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“To stoke the fire. Go back to sleep.”
“You won’t leave?” she asked, her words blurred with fatigue.
“Never,” he said soothingly. “Where would I go?”
He slipped off the bed and she heard him adding logs to the blaze. When he returned she murmured quietly, “Do something for me?”
“Anything,” he answered.
“Take off your pants.”
He chuckled softly. “Certainly, my lady. I shall in all my best obey you.” He discarded the offending garment and gathered her into his arms.
“That’s better,” she purred. She fitted herself against him, curling up like a sleepy puppy. “I love you, Con,” she whispered before drifting off into slumber. “I can’t seem to stop saying that.”
“I love you too, mavourneen,” he replied. “Sleep now, and when you wake I’ll be here.”
She did, and he was.
Chapter 8
In the morning Linn emerged from the bathroom to hear Con rummaging loudly in the kitchen area of the cottage, muttering to himself. She belted the sash of the silk robe around her and padded over to him. Barefoot and dressed in a pair of jeans, he was on his hands and knees on the floor, shifting canned items around on the lower shelf of one of the cupboards.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“I’m looking for something to eat,” he replied. “So far I’ve found a tin of sardines and three cans of stewed tomatoes.”
“Sounds like a nutritious breakfast,” Linn said with a smile, going to the open door. The morning was fresh and cool, with a fine mist that threatened to become rain at any moment. This did nothing to dispel Linn’s newly acquired view that the world was a wonderful and even magical place.
“Everything is coated with dew,” she said dreamily.
Con looked up from the perusal of his meager larder.
“Aye, a soft day,” he answered, glancing out at the glistening trees.
“What is that?”
“A day that seems to hang between a fog and a drizzle like this one, but pleasant just the same,” he explained. “We have many such; there’s even a song about them: ‘A soft day, thank God, when the wind from the south with a honeyed mouth blows a secret through the trees.’ ”
“That’s lovely.”
Con stood, dusting his hands on the thighs of his jeans. “So are you.” He jerked his head back in the direction of the pantry. “That’s the lot, nothing edible,” he said, referring to his stock of food. “Unless you’ve a yen for fossilized chocolate covered peanuts. I also have those.”
“Is that all you keep in the house? What do you live on?”
He shrugged, gesturing vaguely. “I usually have stuff delivered, but lately I…” His eyes slid away from hers and then he looked back again. “Sort of lost interest,” he concluded.
Me too, Linn thought. It had to be love. They were exhibiting the same symptoms.
“We’ll have to go up to the house or in to town,” Con added.
“We’ll have to go up to the house to get me something to wear,” Linn replied, “but there isn’t much to eat there either. Bridie is supposed to do the shopping today. And I don’t think an early morning tête-à-tête in Bally is advisable. After last night, the sight of us having breakfast together would certainly stimulate conversation.”
Con made a disgusted sound. “Nosy beggars, all of them. None of their damn business anyway.”
“Con…”
He held up his hand. “All right, Aislinn. You’ve made your point.” He thrust his fists into the pockets of his jeans and cocked his head. “I’ll take you to Ennis; there’s a place there that serves American coffee.”
Linn stepped into her slippers. “I’m on my way.”
Con sprinted after her and caught her from behind, enclosing her in his arms and dropping his face to her shoulder. “I can’t believe you’re here with me,” he murmured. “When I woke up I thought for a moment that I had dreamed it all. But then I felt you, warm and snug against me, and I knew that it was real.”
Linn leaned back into him, sighing with pleasure. “Sometimes dreams do come true.”
He straightened and spun her around to face him. “I told you I was lucky,” he said, planting a kiss on her forehead.
Linn reached up to touch his face. “And now you’ve made me lucky too,” she said softly.
Con turned his head to kiss her fingers and then pushed her playfully away from him. “None of that, now,” he said. “Don’t get me started; I’ll never be able to last the course without food. You wouldn’t want me to die of starvation in your arms, would you?”
“Certainly not,” Linn said dryly, watching him remove a shirt from the stack on his shelf and shrug into it. He got a pair of socks from a drawer and pulled them on, searching for his shoes on the floor. He crawled around for several moments and then looked up, exasperated.
“Aislinn, where are my shoes?”
“I’m not wearing them, Con,” she said, amused.
“Bloody hell,” he swore, peering into the four corners of the cottage. “This place is a mess. Infinite chaos in a little room.”
Linn laughed at his paraphrase of Marlowe’s famous line. “You’re a slob, Conchubor,” she said.
“I am not,” he replied defensively, spying the pair of loafers under the bed and reaching out one long arm to retrieve them. “I try very hard to be neat, but I swear that everything I put in its place grows legs and walks away.” He put the shoes on and turned to face her.
“Are you ready?” Linn asked with exaggerated patience.
“I am.”
“Lead on.” Linn followed him out to his car, which had been returned by his ubiquitous “friends,” and got in beside him. It seemed strange to be riding around in the Bentley at this hour wearing nothing but the Chinese bathrobe, but Con was oblivious to her reaction. He talked easily, outlining the revisions he wanted to make in the book he was working on, and Linn thought that she had never seen him so relaxed. His rigid reserve was gone as if it had never existed, and she was filled with tenderness at the change in him. He trusts me now, she thought, and knew that it was so.
Con pulled up outside the house and walked around to open Linn’s door. He lifted her out of her seat and into
his arms.
“Hurry along, now,” he whispered, nuzzling her. “I’m perishing for lack of a decent meal.”
“I get the message,” she answered, laughing. “I’ll be quick.” She ran up the steps and unlocked the door as Con came in more slowly behind her. He lingered in the hall while she changed into slacks and a blouse which fastened at the back. She couldn’t do all of the buttons and went out to seek Con’s assistance.
“Would you button those last two I couldn’t reach?” she asked, standing in front of him.
Con pulled her closer and kissed the exposed skin of her back. “I’d rather unbutton those you did reach,” he said huskily, running his lips up to the nape of her neck.
Linn shivered, squirming loose from his hold. “I thought you were going to drop dead if you didn’t fill your empty belly,” she said archly.
As if to emphasize her point Con’s stomach growled ominously. Linn’s eyes widened.
“That sounds serious,” she said, awed. “We’d better get you to the breakfast table immediately.”
Con took her hand and pulled her after him out the door and down the steps, pausing only to let her lock up and put the key in her pocket. “I agree,” he replied, “but I intend to pick up where we left off as soon as we’ve eaten.” He hustled Linn into the car and slammed the door after her, sliding in beside her seconds later. “If I pass out before we get to Ennis you’ll have to take over the wheel,” he said.
“Try to stay conscious,” Linn replied. “I don’t think I’m equal to the challenge of driving with your countrymen.”
“Best drivers in the world are in Ireland,” Con said smugly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, my lady.” He started the car and drove off smoothly.
“Oh, really?” Linn answered sarcastically. “The small problem I’ve noticed is that they seem to think the posted speed limits are roadside decorations. You know, the sort of thing that adds atmosphere but that no one really pays much attention to at all.”
Con grinned. “God made us fast. We don’t like to let anything slow us down.”
Anything or anybody, Linn thought. She snuggled closer to Con and closed her eyes as he pulled out onto the main road.
Con glanced down at her. “Still tired, are you?” he asked.
“I didn’t get much sleep,” she said, smiling.
“Take a nap, then,” Con answered. “We’ll be there before you know it.”
Linn took him at his word, drifting off as he drove along and coming to as he slowed to a stop in downtown Ennis. She stretched and sat up, yawning.
“There’s the place,” Con announced, pointing down the street toward a shop which displayed a sign above its door reading The Coffee Bean. Traffic in and out of the restaurant was brisk.
“It looks promising,” she commented, trying to wake up as they emerged from the car and strolled down the road. Linn looked around at the buildings they passed: a Bank of Ireland branch, a Dunne’s store, a butcher’s shop (known as a victualler’s) and a pharmacy (known as a chemist’s). Ennis was an old town. The streets rose away from the center of commerce into a winding warren of stone houses and brick walls that branched out from the business district. The thoroughfare was thronged at this hour by people on their way to work, and quite a few of them were stopping off at The Coffee Bean for a “cuppa.”
Con led Linn inside. A buffet ran along one wall and the single large room was filled with picnic benches. The patrons picked up their food, cafeteria style, and then sat where they liked. Two chefs stood at a grill ready to prepare a la carte dishes while they waited. Con rattled off an enormous order for himself and filled two cups from the urns at the end of the line. Linn asked for scrambled eggs and toast. When everything was ready, they took their trays to a long table near the window and sat.
Linn watched in fascination as Con ate two fried eggs, sausage, bacon, an order of porridge and a plate of fresh fruit. He washed all of this down with tea. He looked up, munching happily on a bran muffin, to see Linn transfixed with her coffee cup in her hand.
“What’s the matter?” he asked. “Coffee not good?”
“It’s heavenly,” she said. “May I have some more?”
He got up and returned with a whole pot of it. “Keep it,” he said, placing it on a ceramic plate the cashier had given him. “Drown yourself in caffeine.”
“I intend to.” She eyed him warily. “I’m really concerned that you may not have had enough to eat.”
He grinned and took her free hand, raising it to his lips. “You worked me fearful hard last night, woman,” he said. “I have to replenish my strength.”
“How can you drink all that tea?” she asked. “It tastes like hot water.”
“It is hot water,” he replied, holding her hand against his cheek. “Wonderful stuff, the backbone of the nation.”
Linn shook her head, smiling. “I thought that was whiskey.”
He released her hand. “That’s the soul of the nation,” he stated. “Uisce beatha, the elixir of life.” He wiped his mouth with a napkin and leaned across the table toward Linn. “I’ve an invitation to speak in Kinsale tonight,” he said suddenly. “Would you go with me?”
“Where is Kinsale?” Linn asked.
“On the water, several hours’ drive from Bally,” he said. “I have to give a talk on folklore to a student group there.” He dropped his eyes. “To tell you the truth of it, I wasn’t too keen on going and had thought about making my excuses. But now I feel like taking the trip.” He looked up again. “That is if you’ll go with me.”
Linn smiled at him. “Of course. I’d go anywhere in the world with you now.”
“Would you, Aislinn?” he asked softly, watching her face. “Are you certain?”
“Certain sure,” she answered, using a Bally expression.
He cleared his throat. “Let’s be off, then,” he said, rising. “I’ve a powerful load of rewriting to do on that manuscript today before we leave.”
“Is it that bad?” Linn asked, walking with him to the register and waiting while he paid for their meal.
“If I could read it I might be able to tell you,” Con replied darkly.
“Oh,” Linn said in a small voice. “I suppose that’s my fault?”
“It is indeed,” Con answered, pushing the door open for her. “I’ve been so distracted I could hardly put two coherent words together. Nothing like a woman to ruin a man’s artistic integrity.”
“I beg your pardon.”
His eyes widened as he walked beside her down the street. “You mean you won’t take the blame for my failure of inspiration?”
Linn stopped short. “Was it really my fault that you couldn’t work?”
He folded his arms and faced her. “Well, Aislinn, let’s put it this way. Every time I sat down at the typewriter I wound up staring into space, mentally ravishing you instead of putting the words onto the paper. I conjured up some rather creative fantasies, but no literary masterpieces.”
Linn’s lips twitched. “I’m sorry, Con.”
He surveyed her critically. “I don’t believe that you are. You take great satisfaction in the certainty that you were driving me mad.”
Linn grinned. “I do not.”
Con continued to stare at her.
“Well, maybe a little,” she admitted.
“I thought so.” He ushered her into the car and edged his way out between the oncoming cars, joining the line of traffic.
“What will you speak about tonight?” Linn asked.
“Some of the legends that form the basis of our heritage here. I got most of my material from Seamus Martin. He knows the original version of almost all the stories.”
“Like which ones?” Linn asked, interested.
“Oh, Tristan and Isolde, for example. Have you ever heard of them?’‘
“Hmm. The Irish Romeo and Juliet, right?”
“Not exactly. Isolde was an Irish princess who was betrothed to Mark, the King of Cornwall.
Mark sent his nephew Tristan across the water to fetch Isolde, and to be cured of a festering wound that would not heal. During the time they spent together and the voyage back to England, they fell in love. When Isolde arrived, she married Mark but still harbored a hopeless passion for Tristan. In despair, she ran away to the lepers and Tristan rescued her from them. He tried to take her to safety, and during their flight he placed a sword between them to keep his vow of fealty to the king inviolate.”
“It would take more than a sword to keep me away from you,” Linn said fervently.
“Thank you. Anyway, Mark caught up with them and banished Tristan from the kingdom, after which he was set upon by robbers and left to die. Isolde pined away without him, and Mark finally took pity on her and sailed away to bring Tristan back to her. But it was too late. Tristan was already failing, and through a misfortune Isolde thought that he was dead when his ship arrived. She flung herself from a cliff in sight of the boat. They were reunited for a few seconds before they died together.”
“Good Lord, that’s terrible. Are all your stories so cheerful?”
“Most of the legends are pretty grim. Cuchulain and Niamh and Fergus and the Druid, all heavy duty stuff full of tragic love affairs and heroes dying gloriously in battle. But the leprechaun tales are a little lighter. They’re mostly morality plays concerning wicked, scheming fairies who take perverse delight in outsmarting the foolish mortals who try to do battle with them.”
“I thought leprechauns were sweet little men in green hats who show up in stationery stores around Saint Patrick’s Day.”
Con snorted, turning the wheel to bypass a bicyclist in the road. “That’s the popular conception, the romanticized version. But in the old stories they’re fallen angels and very bitter about it too. They’re constantly baiting mortals into traps, luring them to their downfall by appealing to their avarice.”
“I never knew that.”
Con nodded vigorously, warming to his subject. “You never heard of changelings?”
“No, what’s a changeling?”
“A shriveled up fairy brat left in a cradle in place of a human child who was snatched away to be a slave in the underworld. The wee folk rarely took girl children and so my mother kept me in skirts until I was three in order to fool them.”
The Eden Tree Page 15
