Even when he’d been really little, Niall had known she meant it. They’d all tiptoed around until she was better. Duncan couldn’t have been more than seven or eight—barely older than Des—when he’d first had to take charge of his younger siblings because Mommy couldn’t and Daddy… Well, chances were Daddy was in the slammer. Niall didn’t remember so well what ages he’d been when his father was home or not home for those stretches of time he hadn’t understood then.
He was glad he’d been able to give Desmond a good time. The kid had been subdued at first, but by the time he gingerly inched into the swimming pool he’d also been chattering in his completely uninhibited way.
“I can put my face in, but I don’t really like it when people splash. ’Cuz then I can’t close my eyes fast enough. You won’t splash me, will you?”
“Promise.” The pool wasn’t especially crowded, maybe not surprising when the day was so nice outside. People might have gone to the river or a lake today, instead of an indoor pool. There were families there, though, mostly kids shepherded by parents. Wearing board shorts, Niall hopped in, dunked himself in the cool water and surfaced, pushing his hair back from his face. “Your turn.”
They actually made some progress. It was true that Desmond could float, although he tended to sink if he didn’t kick at the same time. Not enough body fat to provide buoyancy. Niall dredged up the memory of long-ago swim lessons. Who’d taken him? he wondered. Mom? Dad? Duncan, who wouldn’t have been able to drive yet but could have ridden his bike over with Niall?
From those memories, he demonstrated the arm stroke and patiently helped Desmond practice, first standing and bending over, then actually swimming. They even got to a first lesson in turning your head to breathe, although hadn’t quite mastered that yet when Niall decided it was time to play instead.
There was a slide for the small fry, which Desmond loved.
“Mom showed me how to plug my nose,” he confided. “See?” He showed how he took a big puff of air, swelling out his cheeks, squeezed his eyes shut tight and gripped his nose tightly.
They played tag. They floated on their backs and stared up at the ceiling. They took turns sinking to the bottom of the pool to hunt for a penny Niall had had the foresight to bring. Together they showered in the communal shower in the locker room along with other men and boys, and got dressed together.
“This is the first time I’ve been in here,” Des said in awe, sneaking glances around. “’Cuz with Mom I have to go in the girls’ dressing room. Mom says when I’m bigger I can come in here by myself, but she says I’m not that big yet.”
“Probably not,” Niall agreed, amused. He’d noticed the way the boy appraised him in the buff, puffing out his own chest and dipping his head under the showerhead exactly the way Niall did.
Over dinner he asked if Desmond remembered his dad. “Yeah.” He was silent for an unnatural length of time for him. “Kind of. I was five when he died, you know. And I’m six now.”
“Do you miss him?”
He nodded. “Dad used to pick me up and let me ride on his shoulders. And he’d sit with me while I was taking my bath so Mom didn’t have to. And read to me sometimes. He was real good at reading stories.” He poked at his fries without picking one up. “I have a picture of him next to my bed. I’m glad, ’cuz…well, sometimes it’s getting hard to remember what he looked like. You know?”
“Yeah.” Niall had to clear his throat. “I know.”
“Did your mom and dad die?”
“No. But I haven’t seen either of them since I was fifteen years old. My big brother, Duncan, raised my younger brother and me.”
“How come? Where did your mom and dad go?”
“My father was arrested and went to jail.” He didn’t let himself react to the awe and horror on the boy’s face. “My mother… I guess she didn’t want to take care of three kids by herself.” Could he even blame her?
Yes, he thought. Yes, I can.
Desmond was quiet again. “I’m Anna’s big brother,” he finally volunteered.
“I know. She’s as lucky to have you as I was to have Duncan.”
“Except, I don’t think I could take care of her without Mom.”
Wishing he hadn’t awakened the worry he saw in those brown eyes so like Rowan’s, Niall smiled. “You won’t have to. Your mom isn’t the kind to ever leave you. I think they’d have to drag her away kicking and screaming.”
“I’ve never heard her scream. And she doesn’t kick. Except—” his forehead furrowed “—she’s real quick with her foot when Sam tries to get in the house when he’s not supposed to. Like when he’s muddy.”
Here it was the next evening and he was alone, but Niall smiled again when he recalled how admiring Des had sounded. “You’re real quick with your foot, too. Maybe it’s ’cuz you’re both grown-ups,” he had added.
Niall shook off the recollection. I should be glad Rowan and the kids are nowhere to be seen. This way I have the evening to myself.
His irritability didn’t subside. He wanted to know if her headache had gotten better, whether Desmond had had fun at the potluck even if he didn’t know any other kids going in. Probably, Niall realized, that’s where they were now. All having a good time.
Did Rowan date?
Man, he didn’t like the kids’ grandparents. Maybe they were luckier in Rowan’s parents, except…why had she taken her children to live with the Staleys if she had a good relationship with her own mother and father?
He swore and went to get his bagpipe. A few minutes later, he was absorbed in tuning the chanter. The peace that playing this most ancient of musical instruments brought him vanquished the restlessness.
DESMOND OPENED HIS CAR DOOR. “Why is Sam howling? Is he hurt?”
Her own car door open, Rowan listened. “I don’t think that is Sam. Or…” She hesitated. “Not only Sam.”
It was music, she realized, but out of her experience. Notes slid from one to the other in a haunting refrain that lifted the hair on her arms. She thought of state funerals, of bowed heads and tears. The word lament wasn’t one she’d ever used in her life, but it was the only word she could think of to describe this music. Her throat clogged momentarily. This was the saddest sound she’d ever heard.
“What on earth…?” she whispered.
Then she realized that Sam was chiming in with an occasional, sympathetic howl. So were several other dogs in the neighborhood.
“Mommy?” Anna sounded scared.
“It’s a bagpipe,” Rowan realized.
“What’s that?” Desmond had come around the car to stand close to her, the way he did when he was uneasy.
“A musical instrument.” She gave herself a shake. “Here, honey.” She helped Anna out of the car seat, grabbed the empty casserole dish and locked the car.
She opened the gate, but Super Sam didn’t come running to greet them. She finally spotted him on Niall’s small porch, sitting in front of the closed door staring at it, looking as pathetic as Desmond had when Niall ignored his knocks. The dog lifted his nose and loosed another long wail.
Dear God, Niall must be playing that music. The sound was too powerful, too visceral, to be a recording. Why hadn’t Gran ever said?
Because she was nearly deaf, of course.
“It’s scary music.” Anna buried her face against her mom’s neck.
Rowan pressed a kiss to her head. “No, sad. Bagpipes can be cheerful, too.” Couldn’t they? Yes, of course they could; Irish jigs were played on a bagpipe, she thought. This, though, could hardly be said even to have a melody; it was as if the man playing the music was expressing some inner hurt. Mourning.
She hustled the kids inside and firmly shut the door, which did not, unfortunately, shut out the music. If he was still playing onc
e they were ready for bed, she’d have to go talk to him.
As she supervised teeth brushing and the donning of pajamas, it occurred to Rowan to wonder why she leaped to assume that was Niall playing. Maybe he had a friend over, or it was his brother. She might not have noticed a car parked out at the curb. But for some reason she knew. This would be his instrument. She’d seen the same emotions in his eyes often enough. Loneliness. Pride. Grief.
Don’t be ridiculous. You’re imagining things.
No.
She was tucking Desmond into bed when the lament came to an end, the last notes hanging in the air. Rowan held her breath, waiting for the music to start again, but it didn’t. She should have felt relieved, but instead was unsettled. As if something was missing.
More silliness.
Anna, worn out by meeting so many new people, fell asleep readily. Rowan read to Desmond as she did most nights. He was reading himself now, but not well enough to enjoy it yet. She kept her voice soft, lulling him to sleep.
Was it possible to play a lullaby with a bagpipe? she wondered idly.
She reached out and gently smoothed his hair, recognizing the utter relaxation of sleep.
They’d had a good time, all of them, even Desmond who’d found other kids his age at the potluck, including a boy and a girl from his kindergarten class. Most of the families came with mother and father, which gave Rowan a pang, but there were others with a single parent. Mostly mothers, of course, but she’d met one man with two preschoolers. Someone told her he was raising his kids alone after his wife had left them.
Plenty of us do it, she’d told herself sternly. She didn’t want a man. A father for her kids, yes, but not if it meant having sex with him.
Other women enjoyed it.
Other women’s husbands didn’t get off on giving them pain.
No surprise, she had a flicker of imagining Niall cupping her face, bending his head…
She shivered.
If Drew had been like that, there must be other men who were, too. If there was one thing Rowan had learned, it was that you couldn’t tell from the outside what was really going on behind closed doors.
Wow, she thought, standing in the hall outside her kids’ bedrooms, I’m in a mood. And after such a good afternoon and evening.
It had to be the music that had set her off. It had been like…like a long, drawn out sob, making her shudder with the memory of every grief she’d ever known. Her marriage. Her husband’s death. Her realization that she couldn’t depend on her parents the way she thought she could. Her loneliness.
Rowan hated feeling sorry for herself.
“So don’t,” she said aloud.
There were things she could, and probably should, do, but she wouldn’t. She could see if there was something good on TV, or read. Maybe even something that would make her laugh.
Or she could sit outside and enjoy the night, now that it was quiet. The rose that clambered up the porch railing was in bloom, scenting the air. Rowan wished she’d thought to ask Gran what the name of it was. Now she’d probably never know.
Without consciously making a decision, she went downstairs and out through the kitchen. She didn’t turn on the porch light. Light did fall through the kitchen window, but not directly onto her. It was like a nightlight, she decided whimsically, settling onto the glider Gran had loved. One foot folded under her, the other on the porch, she set herself to rocking. Sam appeared out of the darkness, mellower than usual. Worn-out, probably, from playing accompaniment.
Why wasn’t Rowan at all surprised when Niall appeared, too? He seemed to materialize, a wraith taking on solidity once he chose to let her notice him. He was barefoot, she saw, without looking directly at him. Bare-legged, too, in cargo shorts and a T-shirt. He sat on the top step, not far from her, and didn’t say anything for a long time.
She glided back and forth and finally let her gaze settle on him, his shoulder leaning comfortably on the newel post of the railing, face in profile to her. He was mostly in shadow, but she’d have been able to see his face even if her eyes were closed. A strong face, not exactly handsome but unforgettable. Mostly, she thought, it was his eyes. They weren’t like other people’s. They were usually so flat, so distant. Only occasionally did she see an emotion in them that twisted her heart, and she didn’t even know why.
“Headache better?” he asked finally without looking at her.
“Uh-huh.”
“Migraine?”
“Yes. I don’t get them often, but they’re miserable.”
“My mother had migraines.” He made a sound; a sigh? “They’d knock her out for a couple of days.”
“I can’t afford to let them knock me out. I take pills.”
“Supermom.”
She wished. “Most moms do what they have to do.”
He averted his face, and she felt a sharp stab of regret, remembering what Desmond had passed on about his family.
“Was that you playing the bagpipe?” Rowan said after a while.
“I wondered if you’d heard. I haven’t played in a few weeks.”
“Because of us.”
His shoulders moved, although she couldn’t exactly call it a shrug. “Enid made an ideal landlady for me.”
“You wanted one who was deaf, not someone who appreciated music.”
For the first time, Niall glanced at her. She saw a flash of teeth as he smiled. “Not everyone believes bagpipes create music.”
“What I heard was…sad.”
“It was a lament. I played not long ago when a cop was killed in Tacoma. At his funeral.”
She imagined the stillness among the mourners as they listened. The way their skin had prickled as that peculiar instrument raised grief to an art form.
“I told the kids that bagpipes can make happy music, too.”
“Dance music. Yes.”
“How did you learn to play?
“My father. The MacLachlans are Scottish.” His tone was dry. “My grandfather emigrated. Dad still had a bit of an accent. He taught all of us boys the bagpipes. I’m not sure whether Conall has an ear or not, and Duncan quit playing when he got angry at Dad. I suppose he was rejecting everything Dad stood for.” He was silent for a long time. “Me, I was angry, too, but…I’ve always been able to express myself with the bagpipe.”
“You were angry because your father went to prison?”
“Des told you?” He didn’t sound surprised. “I suppose that was it. Although it had as much to do with the decisions he made that got him sent there.”
She didn’t ask. Couldn’t ask. But she wanted to.
“He dealt drugs.” Niall was gazing across the yard as if he saw more than the lights on in his cottage. “Trafficked in them, I guess is a better way to describe it. He occasionally held a regular job, but we all knew he hated it. He lived for the rush of adrenaline, for the big payoff.”
“And you and your brother became police officers.”
He laughed, low in his throat. “All three of us did. Most ironically of all, Conall is with the DEA.”
“Because of what your father did?” This was the strangest conversation. Neither of them were quite looking at each other. The quiet and the darkness and the scent of roses made it dreamlike, as if tomorrow they could both pretend they hadn’t held the conversation at all.
“No, I doubt it’s that simple. Although I suppose I can’t speak for my brothers.”
“Then…why?” she asked softly.
“I think for Duncan there was that rage.” He tipped his head back, as if to gaze up at the stars. “He’s likely in line to become police chief. Duncan is…all about being in charge. Funny, I was thinking about this the other day. Conall has always been reckless. He likes the adrenaline
rush, too. I don’t hear from him for months at a time because he’s undercover with Mexican smugglers or some crime organization. I couldn’t live like that.”
“No,” she murmured. She couldn’t imagine that Niall had in him the ability to sublimate his personality to that extent. He would always be himself. Aloof, wary, sad.
“Me, I suspect I followed the path of least resistance. There wasn’t anything in particular I wanted to do with my life, so I followed in Duncan’s footsteps.” There was a pause, then his voice changed. “Turned out law enforcement suited me, or I probably wouldn’t have stuck to it. And why the hell I’ve been going on and on about ancient history, I don’t know.”
“Doesn’t playing the bagpipe take you back? Make you remember your father?”
“Mostly not.” From the clipped sound of that, it was clear confidences were at an end. In fact, he eased himself to his feet. “I’ll leave you in peace.”
She took a deep breath. “You don’t have to.”
There was an unnerving moment of silence, during which the glider slowed. Rowan knew her cheeks were flushed and was grateful he wouldn’t be able to tell. What on earth had gotten into her? She didn’t understand, only knew that she craved his companionship.
“All right.” He sat down again.
Mortified, she couldn’t think of a thing to say. Was he itching to escape?
“You were glad to be able to move here,” he said in a quiet, slow, deep voice.
Rowan gave a choked laugh. “You noticed I’m not crazy about my parents-in-law.”
“Hard not to.” He sounded apologetic. Then thoughtful. “The kids didn’t look all that excited to see them, either.”
“No. Well, Anna’s okay with them. They spoil her, you know.”
From Father to Son Page 8
