Through the Door

by Jodi McIsaac

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Text copyright © Jodi McIsaac

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by 47North

  PO Box 400818

  Las Vegas, NV 89140

  ISBN-13: 9781612183077

  ISBN-10: 1612183077

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2012955737

  Cover Illustration by Gene Mollica

  For Levi

  CONTENTS

  PRONUNCIATION GUIDE

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  PRONUNCIATION GUIDE

  Before you start stumbling over words like sidhe and Toirdhealbhach (don’t worry, that one appears only three times), here is a rough pronunciation guide to some of the old Irish or otherwise unfamiliar terms that pop up in this story. There’s a fair amount of debate on the correct way to pronounce some of these words (is it Too AH ha day DAN an or TOO ah ha DAY dan ah?), so please feel free to say them any way you like, as long as they sound good in your own head.

  Tuatha Dé Danann—Too AH ha day DAN an

  Tír na nÓg—TEER na NOHG

  Sidh—SHEE

  Sidhe (plural of sidh)—SHEE

  Ériu—AY roo

  Cohulleen druith—coo CALL en DRU ah

  Fionnbharr—FYUN var

  Fionnghuala—fyun OO la

  Nuala—NOO uh la

  Brighid—BREE yit

  Deardra—DEAR dra

  Ruadhan—ROO awn

  Toirdhealbhach—TUR a lakh

  Muireadhach—MWIR akh

  Aine—AWN ye

  Mallaidh—MAUL y

  Osgar—US gar

  PROLOGUE

  Today was the day.

  She was finally going to tell him.

  Cedar ran her fingers through her long black hair, her stomach twisting with nerves. She was weaving her way through the crowd at the Halifax Busker Festival, her boyfriend, Finn, following in her wake. Anything could happen here, with its cacophony of street performers and artists and musicians, which is why she never missed it. This year, she hoped, would be one to remember. It all depended on how he took the news.

  “So? What do you think?” she asked, spinning around and fixing her mossy green eyes on him. He was looking over his shoulder at something behind them, but at her question he turned back to her and grinned, brushing a wave of brown hair off his forehead.

  “The festival? I think it’s beautiful chaos. Sort of like you,” he said, his eyes crinkling. Cedar laughed and kissed him. He smelled like honey and lime and pepper, and it made her heart beat faster, even though the air around them was thick with salt air, hot pavement, street kebabs, and the sweat of performers. The crowd poured itself between stalls hawking everything from incense to kilts, and gathered in knots to watch the entertainment. There were bodies everywhere—some dancing, some singing, some drawing, some coaxing music out of unrecognizable instruments, everyone beckoning and beguiling the passersby. Cedar watched, amazed, as a contortionist twisted himself into impossible positions, and a fire dancer spun and leapt and tangoed with the flames. She lingered at every artist’s stall, admiring the work and discussing technique and influences.

  “Maybe next year you should bring some of your work,” Finn said.

  “Mmm, maybe,” she said. They stopped and talked to a chalk artist creating 3-D images on the pavement, and Cedar’s face lit up when the man told her he had seen her latest show at a local gallery. Cedar and Finn joined in an impromptu swing dance and then continued on to the next street corner where some old-timers were entertaining the crowd with a set of Cape Breton fiddle tunes. Finn winked at her and pulled his tin whistle out of his back pocket, joining in with a tune here and there as the men played and sang. Then one of the old men hauled him in from the crowd and sat him down on an upturned bucket, insisting he put his whistle to good use and join them for a song or two. Finn laughed and quickly complied, his brown waves bouncing as his body moved with the music. The crowd loved it: this young pup who could keep up with every song the wizened fiddlers threw at him. Finally, he bowed his way out and rejoined Cedar, who had been clapping and dancing along with the rest.

  “Two years together, and you can still surprise me,” she said, wrapping her arms around his neck and kissing him again.

  “Surely not. I’m an open book,” he said, his rich golden eyes widening in mock surprise.

  Cedar swallowed. “So, listen, there’s something—” she began, but stopped when she noticed he was no longer paying attention to her. He was looking away, his brow furrowed. She turned to follow his gaze, but didn’t see anything out of the ordinary.

  “What are you looking at?” she asked. He shook his head.

  “Nothing. I just thought I saw someone I knew, that’s all.” He dropped her hand and continued down the street. She followed him, glancing back at where he had been looking. Maybe this wasn’t the best time to tell him. But she didn’t want to wait much longer.

  Finn stopped in front of the theater and looked back at her, his eyes sparkling mischievously. “Want to go see the magic show?” he asked.

  Cedar groaned. “Oh, no. You’re not going to try to convince me again that magic is real, are you?” As an artist, Cedar thought magic was a lovely and romantic notion, but lately Finn had been taking it far more seriously, bringing home dusty old tomes from the university library and telling her stories of gods and heroes as if they had actually existed.

  “Magic is real,” he answered her. “If you want it to be. You just need to open your mind a wee bit more.” He put his hands on her head and ran his thumbs along her eyebrows, which were arched in skepticism. She laughed and pulled away.

  “You’re all the magic I need,” she said. “But, yes, I’ll come see the show with you. Emphasis on the word show.”

  The sun had set when Finn and Cedar left the theater and joined the crowd spilling into the warm August air. The show had been highly entertaining, even mystifying, and Cedar had found herself daydreaming about what life would be like if magic were real, as Finn insisted.

  The plaintive strains of Bob Marley accompanied them as they flowed through the throngs of people. “Come,” she said to Finn, taking his hand and pulling him toward its source. A crowd was growing around three young musicians playing “No Woman, No Cry.” Finn moved behind Cedar and wrapped his arms around her waist, bringing their bodies together. Cedar closed her eyes, and together they swayed to the music, wrapped in the night air and the knowledge that, at that moment, they were the only two people on earth. Now, she thought to herself. Now is the time to tell him.

  Without warning, she felt a cold wave sweep over her, and Finn stepped away as if
she had shocked him. She looked up at him and noticed with alarm that all the color had drained from his face.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked, putting her hand on his arm. He jerked away and continued staring off into the crowd, a look of horror marring his beautiful features.

  “Finn?” she asked. “What’s going on? Are you okay?”

  He shook his head, but when he turned back to her, his face had relaxed and his eyes were clear and calm. “I just felt sick all of a sudden,” he said. Then he smiled though it seemed forced to Cedar. “Maybe too much street meat for one day. I think I should head home.” She nodded, and they made their way through the crowd. She watched him carefully. His eyes kept darting around them, and his body was tense, as if ready to fight. She tried to follow his line of vision, and for one moment she thought she saw a bright flash of red quickly disappear around the corner. Then there was nothing. When they reached the door of her apartment, he didn’t follow her inside or kiss her goodnight.

  “I’m sorry our evening had to end early,” he said, standing a foot away from her. “It was an amazing day. One I’ll always remember.” Then he turned and walked away.

  The next day Cedar went straight to Finn’s apartment after work, only stopping to pick up his favorite takeout curry for dinner. Her stomach was once again fluttering nervously. They would be alone together, with no distractions, and she would be able to share her news. She let herself in, and then stopped short.

  It was empty. The furniture was gone; the walls were bare except for the holes where her paintings had once hung. A window was open, and the breeze made a few dust bunnies dance slowly around the floor toward her. In a daze, Cedar walked through the apartment, looking for a note or some indication of what had happened. There was nothing. She stood where the bed used to be and slowly pulled her phone out of her pocket. The automated voice on the other end told her his number had been disconnected. She sent off an e-mail, and felt a bone-deep cold creep over her as she read the immediate reply. No such user here.

  When she spoke, her voice sounded hollow, as void as the apartment that loomed around her. “I’m pregnant,” she said. But there was no one to hear.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Seven years later

  Cedar looked at the clock on her computer for the hundredth time, and then started shutting down files. She took one last glance at her e-mail and was about to shut that down too, when the message popped up on her screen: Just got revisions from the client. Need you to make these changes before you go home.

  So close. Cedar was a graphic designer at Ellison Creative, one of the top marketing firms in the country. It was a demanding job, but a solid one, and she figured stability was worth a little overtime. She sighed and started opening files again. An hour later, she finally packed up and left the office. She picked up Eden’s favorite pizza on the way home, thinking it might soften the blow of being late. Again.

  “Hey, I’m home!” she called as she opened the door to her downtown condo.

  “Mummy!” squealed Eden as she rushed to greet her. Cedar set the pizza on the counter, and lifted her daughter up into her arms. Eden was small for her age, all fine bones and olive skin and wavy brown hair that fell to her waist. She was the spitting image of her father, right down to the flecks of yellow in her golden eyes.

  “Hello, my heart,” Cedar said, kissing her daughter’s cheeks and setting her back down. “Did you have a good day?”

  “Yep! Gran took me to the art gallery!” Eden said.

  “Oh!” Cedar said with a twinge of disappointment. She had been hoping to take Eden to the art gallery that summer, but hadn’t found the time yet. “Hey, Mum,” she called. “Sorry I’m late.”

  Maeve McLeod poked her head out of the kitchen. She was short and slightly plump, with a face that still held some vestiges of gentle beauty. Now it was marred by a disapproving scowl.

  “No need to apologize to me,” she said, though her tone indicated otherwise. “How was work?”

  “Fine,” Cedar answered distractedly, admiring the drawings Eden was showing her. “Had some last-minute revisions for a client, that’s all.”

  Maeve pursed her lips.

  “What?” Cedar asked, annoyed.

  “You should be more firm with them. They know you have a daughter to get home to. They make you work late too much.”

  “Yes, but they also know I need this job.”

  Maeve sniffed. “Well, anyway, I made you dinner. I’ll just take it out of the oven and be on my way.”

  “You didn’t have to do that, Mum. I brought dinner home.”

  Maeve eyed the pizza box Cedar had set on the counter with an air of distrust. “Mmm” was all she said.

  “Why don’t you stay and eat with us? Are you going somewhere?” Cedar asked.

  “No, not going somewhere,” Maeve said, “but I’ll go. I’ve been here all day and you two need to spend some quality time together.” She set a casserole and salad on the table, put on her coat, and left after kissing Cedar on the cheek and pulling Eden in for a hug.

  Cedar took the casserole off the table and put it in the fridge, alongside the leftovers of the other meals her mother had made for them. She opened the pizza box and handed Eden a slice on a paper plate before serving herself. “So, how was the art gallery?” Cedar asked.

  “Good,” Eden answered, her mouth full. “Gran said you were a painter. Were you?”

  Cedar’s mouth tightened. Why was Maeve telling Eden how things used to be?

  “I was,” she said. “Sort of. It was just for fun, nothing serious. It was years ago. I had more time then.” And I was happier too, she added to herself. Unbidden memories came back to her: drop cloths splattered with bright colors, the mixed smell of strong coffee and paint as sunlight bounced off her canvas on a Sunday morning, walls crammed with art she had either created or been inspired by, Finn’s laughter as she tried to squeeze in just one more frame, his suggestion that she decorate the ceiling next.

  Eden looked around at the apartment’s walls, which were bare save for the bookshelves and a couple black-and-white photos of Eden. “Can I see your paintings? Where are they?”

  “No,” Cedar said, so forcefully that Eden swung back around to look at her. She tried to soften her voice. “They’re not here. I put them away.”

  “Why?” came the inevitable question.

  “I just did.” Cedar didn’t think she could explain the complexity of her decision to a six-year-old, and it wasn’t something she wanted to discuss, or even think about, for that matter. How could she explain to Eden that those paintings had come out of the happiest time of her life, that her best, most creative work had been done in the years she’d shared with Eden’s father, when she had been so full of inspiration and passion that the paint had seemed to flow from her veins straight onto the canvas? How could she explain to her daughter that the only time in her life she had felt truly alive, truly at home, truly, deeply happy, had been before Eden was born?

  She changed the subject. “So what did you like best at the gallery?” she asked.

  Eden shrugged. “Dunno.” There was a pause while Cedar tried to think of a suitable follow-up question.

  “How come I never see you painting?” Eden asked.

  “Eden, forget about it, okay? I just don’t.”

  There was another awkward pause, and Cedar found that she wasn’t very hungry anymore.

  “Was my dad a painter too?” Eden asked.

  Cedar stood up abruptly and started clearing the table. He was more than a painter, she thought, feeling tiny shoots of pain blossom inside her and wrap around her heart and lungs. A true artist. He was happiness and beauty and excruciating pain. She reached for Eden’s plate, but Eden grabbed it back, saying, “Hey! I’m not done!”

  “Sorry,” Cedar said. “No, he wasn’t a painter. I’m going to the bathroom.” She dumped her own plate in the trash and headed through her bedroom into the en suite. She closed the door and leaned against it,
pinching the bridge of her nose. She didn’t feel ready to have this conversation, although she knew the questions would only keep coming. The problem was that she didn’t have any answers, at least not the kind Eden would be looking for. I don’t know why he left me. I don’t know where he is. I don’t know if he’s ever coming back. I don’t know if he ever truly loved me.

  “I’m done my dinner. Can I be excused?” Eden called through the bathroom door. Cedar opened it.

  “Yes, of course,” she said. “Do you want to watch a movie before bedtime? I’ve got some work to do tonight.”

  Normally this would have induced a squeal of glee and a race for the sofa, but instead Eden just stood there, chewing on her lip.

  “Hannah says she doesn’t believe I have a dad because I don’t know anything about him,” she said. “She says I’m a test-tube baby, and they’re going to put me in the zoo. Am I?”

  Cedar stared at her, shocked. Were six-year-olds really that cruel? “Are you a test-tube baby? No, my heart, of course not. There are lots of kids who don’t really know their fathers. I didn’t know mine, remember?” Cedar’s father had died when she was just a baby. Maeve had never remarried, so it had always been just the two of them. She knelt down and wrapped Eden in her arms. As a child, Cedar, too, had been full of questions about her father, but it had never been a topic of conversation her mother had encouraged. There weren’t even any pictures of him in the house. After a while, she had stopped asking about him. She wondered when Eden would reach that same point. “Hannah’s just being mean, and you don’t need to listen to her. Of course you have a father. He’s just not part of our family. You and I are a family, and that’s all we need.”

  Cedar could feel her daughter’s little body start to shake in her arms, and she tightened her hold. “But I want a dad,” Eden wailed. “Everyone else has a dad!”

  “Shh, it’s okay,” Cedar said, rubbing Eden’s back. Tears were pricking at her own eyes, but she tried to hold them back. “Your father was a really good person. He loved music and books, and his favorite pizza was ham and pineapple, just like yours. And you look a lot like him.”