by Lila Dubois
Chapter Four
Free Birds Fly
“Can I get more in the low end?” Tim spoke into the mic, his head tilted as he listened to the music coming out of the speakers.
The sound tech gave a thumbs-up with one hand, the other sliding dials on the control board.
Caera watched from the shadow of the doorway as Tim worked through his sound check. At the tech’s signal, he raised his fiddle to his chin. He drew the bow across the strings. A bright melody sprang forth, simple and tight, the notes repeated in a manner that begged for foot stomping and clapping.
Tilting his head up from the fiddle, he leaned towards the mic and started to sing in a clear voice about corn whiskey and pretty women.
There were hoots of laughter from the other musicians, who were sprawled in chairs on the stage or in the front row of seats. Tim continued to sing, one corner of his mouth curled up in a smile. His delight in the song showed on his face, in the way he held himself.
He stopped playing, asking into the mic, “How did that sound?”
There was a pause, then another thumbs-up. The technician called out, “Let’s do another one with just you, then we’ll check for the groups.”
“What was that?” someone in the front row asked Tim.
“Don’t you know your Round Peak Appalachian music?” Tim grinned. “That was ‘Drunken Hiccups’, one of my favorite fiddle pieces Tommy Jarrell played.”
“It’s a good thing you’re not up first—half the audience would leave listening to that.” Paddy was seated in a chair behind him, arms folded atop his guitar. A few chuckled at the comment.
“I thought the point of this event was you claiming all American folk as being Irish.” Tim grinned as he shook his head.
“That song must be from a part of America settled by the English.”
“A song about drinking and women you don’t love?” Tim’s comment raised a shout of laughter from the others.
“Corn whiskey. No proper Irishman would sing about corn whiskey.”
Tim raised the fiddle once more, pressing it into his shoulder instead of under his chin. This song Caera recognized as “Lakes of Pontchartrain”, an American song featuring an Irish immigrant and a Native American woman, which Ireland’s beloved Christy Moore had covered. When Tim started to sing the story came to life, brighter and quicker than she’d ever heard it. He sang the words in a clear baritone, his inflection making her long to see the places in the song.
“Caera?” Rory was at her side.
“Yes.”
“We have work to do.” His voice was clipped and hard, his jaw set.
Caera drew herself up. “I’m aware of that. How does the road look?” She’d sent him to check the road down the glen, in case last night’s rain had caused any problems.
“It’s fine.”
“All right. I’d like to go over what we want the valets to do.”
Rory followed her into their office, sitting stiffly. Caera sighed.
“Rory, you’re acting like a fool.”
“They were talking about you.”
“What?”
“The American and Paddy Fish. I heard them talking about you.”
Against her better judgment, she asked, “What did they say?”
“The American told Paddy who you were.”
“What?”
“He told Paddy that you’re the special events director, and then they said that you were young to have the job.”
Caera looked at him. “That’s it?”
“They shouldn’t talk about you.”
“Rory,” Caera said, exasperated, “I’ve been emailing all of them for months. They know who I am—they’re just putting a face to the name.”
Caera was pleased the Tim hadn’t been caught bragging to his friend that he’d kissed her. If Rory had overheard that, he would have said so.
“We have work to do,” Rory repeated.
Caera took a seat, printing out the logistics plan for the valets and general parking. She handed Rory a copy. Seeing him tense, she said, “Rory, I’m not yours to protect.”
“Well, you need protecting,” Rory snapped back.
“Why do you say that?”
“Because you do. And that man will bring you heartache.”
“And how do you know that?”
“I just do.”
“Rory.” Caera shook her head. “You know I’m not interested in anything between us.” She’d always been careful not to encourage Rory, but he’d been protective since she hired him.
“Neither am I,” he snapped, catching Caera by surprise.
“What?”
Rory folded his arms. “Can we get on with work?”
“I thought…” The words were out before Caera could stop them. She’d always assumed the Rory’s protectiveness was due to his personal interest in her.
“I love you,” Rory said, “like a sister I don’t need.”
“Then why do you…” She couldn’t count the number of times he looked at her, touched her, made it clear—she’d thought—that he was interested.
“I’m not saying I wouldn’t sleep with you.” Rory shrugged casually. “But I can tell you think I’m jealous. I’m not. I’m worried.”
“About the event?”
“No, about you.”
“Why?” Caera was starting to feel like a broken record, starting to wonder if the whole day would be like this.
“Because you’re about to deal with your past, and it’s going to hurt you.”
Caera sat up, her eyes wide. Rory’s eyes were intense under his straight brows. This time she didn’t ask why he said that or what he knew. There was a tingle in the air, a feeling similar to the electric hum in the air at the Hill of Tara, the seat of the ancient High Kings of Ireland.
Caera nodded slowly, telling Rory that she’d heard him and that she understood what he was saying and what it meant.
The intensity faded from the air and Rory relaxed back into his normal self. He held up the paper she’d given him, studying the timeline and diagrams.
“You never told me,” she said, wondering how she could have missed that Rory was touched by the sight. Caera had a grandmother who knew things before they happened. She would get the same look on her face that Rory had just had.
“Do you think three valets will be enough?” he asked, gesturing to the page. The set of his shoulders indicated he didn’t want to talk about it.
After they went over the details, Rory took off to check in with the hotel. Caera returned to her place at the back of Finn’s Stable. Tim was seated with a guitar on his lap, head tilted to the side so his hair fell across his forehead as he listened to the Australian musician. The music stopped, and Tim and the other musician conversed in voices too quiet to be heard. Tim nodded and repositioned the guitar before he started playing. It was only the two of them and the sound tech, the others having wandered off.
Caera watched with envious admiration as they worked out the mash-up of two related songs. Their skill and musical knowledge was beyond her. Maybe she could have done what they were doing if she’d gone to Trinity, but she’d destroyed that dream when she left. It was good to remember that whatever skill she had with her harp or voice was a product of practice and a lifetime of music, not training and knowledge.
Caera leaned against the wall, soaking up the music. Her movement must have caught his eye, because Tim looked up. The sun was up today, light flooding the stable from the windows at Tim’s back. Caera froze, caught, before she reminded herself she had every right to be here.
Tim said something to the other man. The song they were playing cut off.
“Hey, Johnny, can you turn the mics on?” Tim shouted to the sound tech, though his gaze never left Caera.
Tim set down the guitar and picked up his fiddle. He remained seated, the fiddle tucked against his neck. The first notes stared, a familiar song that it took her a moment to place—“Shenandoah.” The Australian musician
joined in with a guitar.
Tim changed the notes slightly, raising the tempo even as he layered the notes. Then he started to sing. Caera felt herself go soft, everything but the music fading away. It was always that way with great music. It reached into the body, touched a place of truth and emotion so raw that all the walls people built to keep that raw truth inside crumbled away.
Tears filled her eyes, tears of pleasure at the music, of sadness for the lovers in the song, divided by a great river.
“‘For her I’ve crossed the rolling water. Away, I’m bound away.’”
Tim was looking at her, their gazes held, as if there were nothing and no one in the world but her. He took the simple song to new places, adding swelling crescendos as the lovers were at their happiest, lowering and slowing the tone and tempo when he sang of their parting.
“‘And in the seven years since, I’ve longed to hold her. Away, I’m bound away, across the wide Missouri.’”
For the second time in the past twenty-four hours, Caera felt a tear escape her watery eyes, sliding down her cheek.
The intensity of the emotion he drew forth with his instrument, his voice, his gaze, frightened her even as it delighted her. The song ended and before she thought better of it, Caera clapped wildly. Tim smiled. He put his fiddle aside, standing. Caera knew, with a certainty that frightened her, that the song had affected him the way it had her. They were connected now, bound by the power of the music, of the shared experience.
He jumped from the stage, striding down the aisle towards her. His face was intense, as if there was nothing in the world but her. As if he had to touch her, now.
On the stage, the other musician started playing again, stopping to check in with the tech. They were moving on as if nothing had happed, and is the world hadn’t just been set back on its heels.
“Tim.” He was only five feet away. Some part of her wanted to run, to avoid his touch when she was so raw. She backed up, into the storage room where she couldn’t be seen. He followed her.
They were alone, the sounds from the stable now muffled.
“Caera.” His touch was gentle, as if he knew she couldn’t have borne more than the touch of his hand to her cheek.
“That was beautiful.”
“You inspired me.”
Caera smiled, his silly compliment helping her center herself.
“I’m going to kiss you.”
Caera pressed a finger to his lips. “No.”
“Woman, you’re killing me.” His lips caressed her finger as he spoke.
“Later.” The moment she’d heard him sing she knew she wanted him to kiss her again. The caution of the previous night was forgotten.
Tim touched her cheek, wiping away the track of the tear.
“Later,” he agreed.
“Go back to sound check,” she told him, before hurrying away from Finn’s Stable.
“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming to this very special event. Tonight we can look forward to an evening of traditional music from some of Ireland’s best young musicians, and a few special guests from America and Australia. Traditional music has seen a rise in popularity since…”
Caera stood in the back, hands folded before her as she surveyed the audience. The camera platform had been rolled halfway down the aisle, obscuring the view of some of the attendees in the back rows. The plan had been to have the camera in the back, where she now stood. The last-minute change in setup had left Caera with few options to rearrange the seating. She was sure she’d hear about it from those guests who could now only see half the stage.
As the TV personality from the national broadcaster continued the introduction, Caera assessed the rest of the room with a practiced eye. Everyone was seated, the side aisles provided guests with a way to exit and the lighting was good. Trees on the other side of the windows were beautifully lit against the night sky, providing a black, gold and green backdrop for the stage.
“Please welcome Mr. Paddy Fish.”
The crowd clapped as Paddy, who’d been standing to the side of the stage in the shadows, stepped up. He nodded to the crowd, his guitar hooked over his back with an Irish flag strap. He plugged in his guitar, took his place before the mic.
The room fell silent, as if everyone were holding their breath, waiting, hoping. Paddy stared at his guitar, fingers positioned on the strings, holding the attention of the crowd for a long, silent beat. Strum. He started simple, the chords vibrating in the still air. The room let go their collective breath, giving themselves over to the catharsis of the music.
He sang “Ar Éireann Ní Neosfainn Cé Hí”, his Irish strong and pure. Caera saw heads nodding in approval. As he switched to English, a woman slipped out of the storage room, which Caera had set up as a green room, and made her way silently down the side aisle.
“‘It’s for Ireland I’d not tell her name.’” Paddy’s voice rose, strong and pure, as the woman—another of the Irish musicians—joined him on the stage, a tin whistle already to her lips. Paddy fell silent as she took over the melody, the coppery bright notes of the whistle strong but delicate.
Caera wanted to be on that stage with them more than she could say. Swallowing down her desire she watched the crowd as Paddy took up a livelier tune, “The Black Velvet Band”.
As the crowd sang along to the chorus, she slipped out the main door, closing it quickly and silently. The cold air bit through the black blazer she wore, her nametag on the lapel, and Caera wished for a jumper.
A line of torches lit the path between the stable and the hotel, their flames casting pools of orange light every five feet. As a figure hurried down the path, Caera put her hand on the door, ready to hustle the latecomer into a seat. When they were closer, Caera recognized Sorcha. She stepped away from the door so their voices wouldn’t be heard.
“Is it started?” Sorcha rubbed her upper arms. A breeze whipped the cold air around them, cutting through their clothes.
“Just. The RTE crew moved the camera at the last minute and the back rows can’t see all the stage.”
“Feck.”
“Exactly. What about you? How’re things in the castle?”
Socha frowned. “We had a few people arrive looking for a room. We’re full except for two rooms.”
“Full? You didn’t put people in the west wing second floor.”
“I did.” Sorcha looked worried. “I can only hope that nothing happens, or that everyone goes from here to the pub and is too drunk to notice.”
Caera winced.
“I know,” Socha said, seeing her face. “But Elizabeth insisted. I would have turned them away before putting them there.”
“And how was the reception?”
They’d hosted a reception prior to the event for all guests, musicians and RTE crew. Caera hadn’t had time to run over and check on it because of the relocated camera.
“It was grand. I only wish we’d been able to have it in the ballroom instead of the restaurant, but it’s nowhere near done.”
“I’m sure it was beautiful.” Caera knew Sorcha wouldn’t have let anyone into the room if it weren’t perfect. Though receptions and events were outside Sorcha’s list of job duties, she was brilliant at them.
“It was, but it was to Elizabeth’s credit, not mine. If she doesn’t slow down or hire the additional staff we need, she’s going to do herself harm.”
Caera nodded. Glenncailty lacked catering and banquet sales reps, bell captains and dedicated event crews. She’d worked in hotel catering and events departments all across Europe and could do any job. That didn’t mean she wanted to. Caera was happy with Finn’s Stable and the few music-related events they hosted in the main hotel. She didn’t want to be in charge of meetings, weddings and catered ladies’ luncheons, but as the hotel’s business grew, she’d have to oversee those things too unless Elizabeth brought in other staff.
“Can we go in?” Sorcha asked, rubbing her arms.
Shaking herself from her brown study, Caer
a eased the door open, pushing aside the black fabric she’d hung inside the doorway to protect the back row from gusts of cold and to keep out the torchlight.
The show had progressed, and there were now four musicians on stage. As Caera eased the door shut behind them, she heard the first strains of a familiar tune, one that every good Irishman knew.
By the time the singer reached the chorus, the entire room was singing “The Fields of Athenry” with much better results than the crowds at rugby and Gaelic football matches ever managed. “The Fields of Athenry” was Ireland’s rally song, a sad tale that reminded them of tragedies in the past but not forgotten, as a husband was taken from his wife and children for stealing bread and sent to Australia, leaving the wife to raise children in famine and sorrow.
Leaning back against the wall, Caera gave herself over to the music. She had the schedule memorized, so she knew she had a few minutes to enjoy herself. “The Fields of Athenry” ended and the group immediately starting up another song. Someone on the stage was playing an Irish harp. With her eyes closed, Caera could pretend it was her rosewood harp, the strings stiff and hard under her fingers while the stage lights heated her skin. The crowd’s pleasure was palpable. The purely musical number melted away. A new song, sans harp but with vocals was up next.
The deep voice called to her.
Caera breathed deep, her eyes opening. Tim was at the mic, his fiddle held loosely at his shoulder, a guitar, second fiddle and upright bass accompanying him as he sang.
Caught in his spell, Caera stood away from the wall. Like moth to flame, she walked forward, desperate to feel the music. She wanted to be swept away in it, let the music fill her until it pushed out the darkness inside her. She knew Tim couldn’t see her because of the lights, but she could see him.
He wore a black T-shirt under a battered denim jacket. His hair fell across his forehead as he tipped his jaw into the fiddle, raising the bow to finish the song.
The applause broke Caera from her spell. She jolted back into herself, embarrassed to find she was standing at the rear of the camera platform. Caera retreated, almost falling in her haste and embarrassment. Someone grabbed her. Sorcha’s hands were on her arms, drawing her back against the wall.
