by JoAnn Ross
Cassandra remembered an elderly woman at the commune, who, along with making honey for the members to sell at local farmers’ markets, had supplemented her living by performing psychic readings at the markets, fairs, and to private clients who, from the luxury cars that would show up from time to time, profited quite well from her advice.
One summer, when the skies were filled with dragonflies, she’d told Cassandra and Sedona that they represented change, not just in one’s life but in emotional growth and self-realization.
The ever-pragmatic Sedona had scoffed at the woman’s pronouncement that the dragonfly’s skittering flight across water represented the act of looking beneath the surface, into the deep implications of life.
“If they represent looking deeper, why do they fly so fast over the water?” she’d asked.
The fortune-teller, apparently not used to being challenged, had gathered up her crystal ball and tarot cards and gone marching back to her small, brightly painted house, colorful skirts swaying.
“I hope she doesn’t put a curse on us,” Cassandra had said, only partly kidding.
Her cousin had merely shrugged. Even at thirteen, she’d been the most sensible, down-to-earth person Cassandra had ever met. “Zelda’s always been thin-skinned. It was a logical enough question.”
Which had been true enough. But when Cassandra’s parents had died in that earthquake two weeks later, she couldn’t help wondering.
Unable to go any farther, she made her way back down the trail to the cottage, only to find that Duncan still hadn’t returned. Which, even though she knew she should be relieved, left her feeling more than a little disappointed.
Despite the sun struggling to shine, she felt damp and chilled from her walk. Retrieving her shampoo and body soap from her carry-on, she went into the bathroom located in the hallway between the bedrooms and was surprised to find it spotless.
The Duncan she remembered hadn’t bothered to unpack, and since hotel rooms came with maids—who were admittedly tipped well—housekeeping had never been a priority. Then again, she thought as she stripped off the underwear she’d been sleeping in, she’d never known him to cook, either. Apparently she hadn’t been the only one who’d changed over these past months apart.
The warm shower water sluicing over her felt like nirvana. Tilting her head back, she closed her eyes and felt it washing away the travel grunge, along with lingering fatigue and tension.
The problem was that, like everything else about Briarwood Cottage, it brought back memories of their Irish honeymoon and the way Duncan had stripped her out of her clothes that had gotten soaked on a visit to the Cliffs of Moher, shed his own, then pulled her into the shower, where their lovemaking had definitely steamed up the bathroom more than the hot water.
She could have stayed there forever, had it not been for the limits of the cottage’s water heater. Lost in sensual memories, which had morphed into fantasies of Duncan spreading soapsuds all over her body, Cassandra hadn’t noticed the loss of water temperature until she was suddenly shocked back to reality.
She yelped and leaped out from beneath the now-icy water. Making matters worse, as she stood shivering and dripping on the soft white rug, she realized that she’d forgotten to bring in a change of clothing. After quickly drying off, she wrapped a thick towel around her freezing body and made a dash for the bedroom.
Just as Duncan appeared in the hallway.
10
“Sorry,” he said as she froze like the proverbial deer in the headlights. “I assumed you’d still be sleeping.”
“I woke up a bit ago.” She tugged the towel up a few inches. Duncan supposed that if he were a gentleman, he’d turn away, but hell, drinking in the sight of her creamy shoulders and long, bare legs, he told himself it wasn’t as if she were a stranger.
Didn’t a husband have some right to enjoy looking at his wife?
“I was taking a shower,” she said. “I’m afraid I used up all the hot water.”
“No problem.” He gave her his best smile. The same I’m-harmless-and-want-to-be-your-friend smile he’d pull out when interviewing locals in terrorist territories. “How are you feeling?”
“Better.” She managed a faint return smile even as she held the towel so tight her knuckles were turning white. “That bed’s like sleeping on a cloud.”
“It’s the goose down,” he said. “Like what we had in the other cottage. The bed in the other room is the same.”
Although much lonelier than their honeymoon one.
“I hope you slept well.”
“I did. I also took a walk.”
“In the rain?”
“I don’t melt. And it was mostly just mist by the time I woke up. I went a little past the cemetery. And the cairn.”
“I checked that shortly after I arrived. I’ve never been one to believe in ghosts, but there’s definitely something, like lingering spirits, going on there.”
“Like what they say about the veil being thinner,” she agreed. “I felt it, too. Like ghosts standing guard over the past.”
“Exactly.”
“Well…” She went to drag a hand through her wet hair, causing the white towel to slip a bit. Duncan wouldn’t lie—he wouldn’t mind if it dropped to the floor. “I suppose I’d better get dressed.”
“I’ll put the groceries away,” he said. “I was going to make coffee. Would you like some? Or tea again?”
“Coffee would be great.”
“Got it.”
They stood there, him looking down at Cass, her looking back up at him. Although they were a few feet apart, he could almost feel the cord connecting them and wondered if she felt it as well.
“I’m dripping on your floor.” Yet she didn’t move.
“It’s Ireland. I’d bet the floor can handle it.” Because she still hadn’t run away, he indulged in taking her in, from the top of that unfamiliar short hair down to her bare, nude toes, which had always been tipped in bright colors.
Since their work hadn’t taken them to places where mani/pedis were easily available, she’d colored them herself. Just thinking of watching her, brow furrowed in deep concentration as she painted them a deep, tropical coral while rockets exploded over their hotel, was enough to make him semi-hard. Although she’d complained the next morning about him having smudged the polish, she’d laughed as he’d half carried, half dragged her the few feet to the bed.
“You’ve always looked good wet,” he said.
She tilted her chin up in a pissed-off way that was all too familiar. And welcome. He’d been at a total loss on how to deal with the wounded sparrow he’d found in that chaotic, makeshift Egyptian clinic that could have been one of the lower rings of hell.
“If I were keeping track, I’d say that was another move.”
“Ah, but if it were, and I’m not saying it was, perhaps I was encouraged by my wife greeting me home in nothing but a towel.”
This time her color was born from a quick flash of temper, which, perversely, he was happy to see. “You’re as incorrigible as ever.”
“And you’re as beautiful as ever.”
She shook her head and blew out a breath. “I’m going to get dressed.” She turned on her heel and marched back toward the guest bedroom.
The Emerald Isle might be world-famous for its scenery, but as far as Duncan was concerned, Cass’s very fine butt walking away equaled any view the country offered.
She firmly closed the door between them. It wasn’t exactly a slam, but close.
Another encouraging step forward, he decided as he strolled into the kitchen to start the coffee. An annoyed wife was not an indifferent one.
11
Having been prepared to heat up the jar of spaghetti sauce, Duncan was surprised when Cass came out of the bedroom, dressed in a snug blue sweater dress a few shades darker than her eyes and a pair of short, red, pointed-toe cowboy boots she’d picked up on Mulberry Street during one of their rare times together in New York.
He hadn’t lied when he told her she looked lovely. She might not be all the way back, but her new shorter hair enhanced her expressive face, the lost look was no longer in eyes as blue as Lough Caislean, and her smile, while not yet as dazzling as he knew it could be, still warmed the gray Irish evening.
“Thank you,” he said.
“For what?”
“For wearing that dress.”
“It’s new.” Appearing a bit nervous, she ran her hands down her sides. “Sedona dragged me out shopping at this little Shelter Bay boutique last week.”
“I’ll have to remember to thank her, too.”
The dress hugged her body in a way that had his fingers perversely itching to peel it off her. Beginning at the hem, which ended mid-thigh, then up over her sweet spot, where he’d linger just long enough to make her as crazy as being anywhere near her was making him, then higher, to breasts with nipples he knew to be the color of a deep pink rose.
And, damn, if he kept thinking like this, he was going to walk into the pub with the mother of all boners. And wouldn’t that provide some fun entertainment for the locals?
“I’ve always liked those boots,” he said, trying to take his mind away from doing her right here on the couch. Now. Unfortunately, thinking about the boots didn’t work either as he remembered telling her in the store that she’d looked hotter than a firecracker in them. Which was exactly what she’d been a few hours later, after they’d returned to their apartment. “That was a good day.”
After she’d tried on at least a bazillion pairs of boots, they’d wandered into a nearby Little Italy restaurant where they’d shared a bottle of red wine and an ultra-thin-crust pepperoni pizza smothered in mozzarella and a rich red sauce that would have made any Italian nonna proud.
“Any day not dodging bullets is a good day,” Cass agreed as she sat down on the sofa beside him. “I’m sorry about whatever happened in that bar that got you banished to here,” she said as they took in the view of the hills, the castle, and the lake.
He lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “I’m no longer considering this trip a banishment, thanks to you showing up. Though that wasn’t my best moment,” he admitted, wondering if this week was equally difficult for her. Or had she put the anniversary of their meeting and the first time they’d made love away the same as she’d put him away?
“I started writing about it on the flight here,” she surprised him by admitting.
“You were writing about me?”
“Not you. I don’t write about real people anymore, remember? No, I used Fleet Week and the idea of the Lady as inspiration for a piece about some ancient sea serpent stowing away on a Navy cruiser as it crossed over the Bermuda Triangle.”
“Bermuda Triangle myths probably are popular in your business.” Duncan wasn’t as surprised as he’d once been at her career change.
“People eat them up,” she agreed. “Along with extraterrestrials, UFOs, and anything to do with the Titanic or Section 51.”
“I liked that one you wrote last week about the Titanic survivor being rescued from a melting glacier after having been raised by polar bears.”
She angled her head and studied him. “You really have been reading my stories.”
“You’ve always had a remarkably engaging writing voice. Fiction, even if it’s labeled as tabloid fiction, has given your imagination free rein. As outlandish as that one was, I immediately saw how it could easily be slanted into an allegorical novel about an outsider suddenly having to find the skills to fit into a society that doesn’t really have a place for him.”
“That was how I first conceived it,” she admitted. “Because once I stopped racing around the world, I realized that perhaps I’d been so caught up in chasing stories about other people’s lives, I’d never allowed myself to slow down enough to think about my own life. Where I fit in.”
“I’m not sure people like you and I do fit in all that well.” Duncan had been giving that matter more than a little thought himself. “Neither of us had much stability growing up, between your bouncing back and forth between living with your parents and with your cousin’s family and me being sent off to all those boarding schools.
“Then, while we might have been to more locations on the planet than most people, because of what we were covering, our world became more and more narrowed down to the dark places. It’s not as if details surrounding the most recent genocide make for engaging dinner party conversation.”
“I haven’t been to any party, let alone a cocktail party, for longer than I can remember.”
“We could remedy that,” he suggested. “I was told they’re having a seisiún at the pub this evening.”
“Oh.” The light that had brightened her face while they’d been talking about her work seemed to fade. Like a candle being snuffed out. She dragged a hand through her hair, which had begun to curl as it dried, again. “While dinner sounded nice enough, I’m not sure I’m really up to all that.”
“Understandable, given that it’s your first day here. And Patrick Brennan, the owner, realized that when he invited us. He said there’s a more private snug in the back he can save for us.”
“If I say yes to that, are you going to talk dirty to me?”
“Only if you want me to.” Her question brought back that pub grub supper they’d eaten in a snug during their honeymoon. It had been after he’d bought them the matching rings. “And, for the record, I wasn’t talking dirty that night in Galway. I was merely telling my wife all the things I wanted to do to her. And have her do to me…with me.”
The color streamed back, like a brilliant sunrise lighting her from the inside out. “This isn’t going to work.”
She wasn’t talking about eating dinner, and they both knew it. “We’ll never know if we don’t give it a try,” Duncan coaxed. “I’m not asking for a lifetime commitment, Cass.” As far as Duncan was concerned, she’d already agreed to that. He’d just have to make her realize that some things, some people, were worth fighting for. “Just a friendly night out. And if you’re worried about me jumping you—”
“Since you set the bar for honesty earlier, I’ll have to admit that I’m concerned about just the opposite. About me jumping you.”
Score one for his side. “And that would be a bad thing why?”
“Because it would just complicate our situation even more.”
“You said the same thing the morning after our first dinner at the Serene,” he reminded her. “About how you didn’t have the time or place in your life for complications.”
“It wasn’t dinner that made things complicated. It was spending the night together,” she corrected. “And look how that turned out.”
“It wasn’t all bad,” he reminded her. “We might not have had Paris, like Rick and Ilsa before they met up again at Rick’s Place in Casablanca. But we did have Barbados and Ireland.”
“Which adds up to all of ten days and one tropical night.”
“It could have been more if our lives hadn’t been taken out of our hands.” He paused. Then went for broke. “Maybe it’s time we finally took them back.”
That stopped her.
“Do you really believe that’s possible?”
Failure was not an option. “We’ll never know if we don’t try… Remember what you said when you caved in and agreed to marry me?”
“That it was madness and we’d be insane to even try to make a marriage work.”
“After that. While we were on the beach, right before we exchanged vows. That you’d rather—”
“Regret making a mistake than look back and regret not having taken the risk,” she said. Cassandra blew out a breath. Closed her eyes briefly, then, as her stomach growled, shook her head.
“I’m only giving in when it comes to dinner,” she warned as she stood up.
“I’ll take that,” Duncan agreed.
It was, he reminded himself again, a start.
12
Five minutes later, they were
driving down the narrow, winding road that occasionally offered glimpses of the cliffs and sea beyond before turning back to hug the heather-studded mountain. The rain had begun again, and for the first few minutes, there was only the hiss of water beneath the tires and the swish, swish, swish of the wipers sweeping the water off the SUV’s windshield.
“So, did you get your story?” Cass asked as Duncan braked for some sheep being herded across the road by a thick-coated dog. The sheep’s backs had been spray-painted a bright, fluorescent green to mark ownership.
“The beginnings of one,” he said. “There seemed to be more people here looking to win the photo lottery with a picture of the creature than there are ones who actually believe in her.”
“Did you talk to the townspeople?”
“I tried. But although they were friendly enough, there seemed to be a conspiracy of silence where she’s concerned. Which is a dichotomy, since you can’t go in a gift shop anywhere in town without seeing Lady souvenirs.”
“I suppose that’s not surprising,” she mused. “I’ve always found Ireland to be a land of contradictions. Since legends and tales have been retold and reshaped over so many years, it’s only natural that they’d be more open to various viewpoints…
“There is something I’ve been wondering about since my walk,” she said. “It dawned on me, when I came to the hedge blocking my way to the lake, that it wouldn’t take that much for people to cut through it. Yet, looking at the castle and lake from the cottage window, or even a more expansive view from the hillside, there’s no one there.”
“That same thought occurred to me yesterday,” Duncan said. “And I did find the reason for that. Whether locals believe it or simply use it to protect property, the story around the village is that the hedge is enchanted and that anyone who dares to cut through it will suffer a lifetime of terrible luck.”
