by Lila Dubois
Before you leave.
Tim took a long sip, then hugged Caera to him. He didn’t like to dwell on the future. As a musician, he couldn’t plan years ahead, the way he could if he were an accountant. He’d learned to take each day, each moment, as it came. He sang songs from the past, finding that losing himself in the world that had created the music he loved was easier than planning for a future of sold-out arenas that might never happen.
That had spilled over into his relationships. He knew he’d broken more than a few hearts because he hadn’t wanted to think about the future, to discuss where the relationship was going. He’d loved, and been loved, but he’d never given anyone rights to be part of a future he refused to plan for.
Maybe he’d been waiting, searching, for a day when he’d find a love, a love who loved him so, as the song said. His time with Caera was finite. She’d said she would take him to Galway, then return to Glenncailty.
He couldn’t imagine her leaving. He knew almost nothing about her and the shadows behind her eyes, and yet there were times he felt as comfortable with her as if they’d known each other, been with each other, for years. He worried about the sadness she seemed to carry, was frustrated that she wasn’t pursuing a musical career and wanted her with a ferocity that bordered on sex addiction.
He had no idea what he’d do when she said goodbye.
The song ended and the pub broke into applause. Rather than applaud, Tim leaned down and kissed the top of Caera’s head, the ball of dread that now sat in his stomach making him queasy.
The chatter level in the pub rose again. Over it, Tim could hear the young man with the soulful voice picking out what sounded like the first chords of “Take Me Home, Country Roads”.
Setting his drink on the bar, he made his way over to the musicians. He could feel Caera’s gaze on him as he left her.
Caera watched Tim speaking with the young man. After a few moments, the guitar was passed and Tim pressed his fingers to the strings, pointing at the placement of his fingers with his other hand. The boy nodded along. Tim handed the guitar back and the boy bent his head over the neck, watching his fingers as he played. Tim clapped him on the shoulder.
From seemingly out of nowhere, another guitar appeared before Tim. He accepted it with a nod of thanks. He watched the boy for a second, then joined in. As the sound of the dual guitars rose, the pub quieted again. A cheer started up as everyone realized they were listening to an American singing John Denver’s “Take Me Home Country Roads”.
Tim’s fingers flew along the strings, playing the steel guitar piece as he sang while the young man held down the melody.
“Everyone now,” Tim called out. A ball of emotion filled her as Tim led the pub in the chorus, singing about country roads and that aching need to go home.
“Once more,” Tim called out, and the singing swelled to a crescendo.
As the chorus ended, Tim pressed his palm to the guitar strings, silencing his music, leaving the final musical bit to the young man.
When the room started to applaud, Tim shook the young man’s hand. He went to hand the guitar back.
“Hey now, you’re an American?” someone in the crowd called out.
“Yes, sir, I am.” Tim rested his hip on the table, the guitar settled on his upraised knee.
He was a natural performer, owning the room as if he’d been booked to play here, rather than just been handed a guitar.
“Will you play a little something for us?”
“I will. Any requests?”
“Some of that good country music.”
Tim nodded thoughtfully. He hung his head for a moment, then set his fingers to the strings, his right hand strummed quick and light as he played “If I Had a Hammer”. His voice was clear and strong, enunciating the words so the audience could understand, while still making it melodious.
Heads nodded as he sang. His eyes scanned those who listened, his gaze inviting them into the hope, the power of the song. Hands clapped along with the down beats as he sang about the need to create change in the world.
He played, then repeated, the musical bridge, looking at her. Her heartbeat jumped in her chest. When he sang, there was nothing easygoing about him—he was intense and dark, as if the laughing, smiling man were just a mask for a much older soul. “Caera, will you sing this verse?”
She sucked in a breath when he said her name, then nodded.
He repeated the bridge a third time, nodding to let her know when to come in.
Caera took a lower octave than she normally started at and sang the next verse. Then Tim joined her, humming a background melody, their voices blending perfectly. When she reached the chorus, he too started singing. It was seamless, as if they’re rehearsed it one hundred times, and yet they’d never sung together before. They communicated with their eyes, small head motions, and most of all, with the music. She knew when he held a note, drawing it out longer than normal, that he was cuing her for a new verse or a tempo change.
Tim dropped out, leaving her to sing the last of the verse alone. Caera felt the pub patrons’ attention on her. Claws of doubt caught her before she remembered that she was a stranger here. No one in this pub knew Caera Cassidy, no one would judge her for what they knew of her past or her present.
There was freedom in that, and Caera felt her heart blossom open. Rather than abandoning the song after the verse she’d been asked to sing, Caera turned it into a duet with Tim, her voice soaring to the rafters above.
When the song ended, the applause was thundering. Tim handed back the guitar, his eyes on hers. Before he could make his way back, a sea of friendly people surrounded her, complimenting her, asking her to sing another song. Rather than run, as she would have at Glenncailty, Caera accepted their words.
Fresh pints appeared at her elbow, for both her and Tim. When he made it through the crowd, she handed him his new drink.
“Thank you,” was all she said.
He tapped his cup to hers.
“Play something lively! I need to dance.” The demand came from somewhere in the back. There was a pause while instruments were redistributed and then a tin whistle started “The Beggerman Jig”.
Taking Tim’s drink from his hand, Caera set them down and drew Tim into the little bit of free floor space.
Feeling freer than she had in a long time, Caera linked arms with Tim and led him in a jig, laughing and smiling with a condition-less joy she’d forgotten existed.
“Shut up, woman. She’ll hear you.”
That just made Caera giggle harder. It was past midnight. They’d stayed in the pub, dancing and drinking, until the last orders went in to the bar. It was cold out, the clear skies glittering harshly overhead as they quick-stepped it back to the bridewell.
The front door of the bridewell had been locked, but after a panicky moment they’d used their room key, which luckily also opened the ancient lock on the front door.
The parlor was dark, only an electric sacred heart picture casting a red glow for them to navigate by.
The stairs creaked and groaned as they climbed them, Caera in front.
She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so light or had so much fun. Actually, she could, and it was back when she had that job in the pub, and playing and singing was something she found joy in, before her desire to sing professionally had led her to destroy her future and her family’s heart.
“Move, woman, move.”
Tim smacked her ass, and Caera paused on the step to wiggle her butt at him.
“The faster you get up these steps, the faster we’ll be having sex.”
Caera started up again. “Having sex, not making love?”
“I’m going to fuck you until your eyes cross, then I’ll make sweet, sweet love to you.”
Caera broke into peals of laughter even as her blood heated. Tim’s straightforward approach to sex was new to her, as freeing as the music in the pub had been.
Once in the hall, she raced for their room,
Tim right behind her.
Together, they fumbled to open the door, spilling into the room. The windows let in light from the town and stars above.
Their jackets and gloves hit the floor, shoes were kicked off and fingers plucked at shirts and pants.
Wanting to show herself, and Tim, that she wasn’t afraid, Caera dropped to her knees. Undoing his jeans, she jerked them down, freeing his cock. He wiggled his legs, kicking off his pants as he pulled his shirt off.
“Caera, you don’t have to do this, come up here and let me kiss you.”
“I want to. I do.” She laid her hands on his taut belly, exploring his skin, his muscles, as her fingers worked towards the apex of his groin.
“Okay, but if you—”
“I’m glad you’re back!”
Caera froze, her right hand around the root of Tim’s cock, her open mouth poised over the tip.
“Holy fucking shit,” Tim whispered, his head whipping towards the door.
Judging by the sound of her voice, Mrs. Reilly was just outside.
“I put towels in the bathroom for you. Breakfast is at 8 A.M. You’ll have something before you go on your way.”
Caera slapped her hands over her mouth to hold back the horrified laughter. Tim was staring, open-mouthed, at the door. Quiet as she could, she stood.
“You wouldn’t be one of those vegetarians, would you, boy? I’ve nothing for that. A good sausage is the thing for the morning.”
Tim backed up and collapsed onto the bed, which groaned and squeaked.
Caera cleared her throat. “No, Mrs. Reilly, he’s not a vegetarian. Thank you for the towels.”
“I’ll see you in the morning, then.”
Caera heard her footsteps as she left. When she was sure Mrs. Reilly had gone, Caera tiptoed to the bed and eased down beside Tim.
“I just want to clarify something—did she do that on purpose?” Tim’s voice was flat.
“Wait for us to come home, then make it clear she was spying on us so we wouldn’t have sex because we’re not married?”
“Exactly.”
“Probably.”
“Fuck.”
Caera urged Tim off the bed, then pulled back the covers so they could get beneath them.
“No sex tonight, I’m afraid.”
They climbed in together. Tim pulled her close, his body radiating heat.
“Tomorrow, tomorrow we’ll fuck like rabbits,” he promised
She giggled, her disappointment turning into pleasure of a different sort as they drifted to sleep wrapped around each other.
Chapter Ten
Tipperary
They stopped for petrol, bottles of water and sweets in Clogheen. Cahir—and Mrs. Reilly—were miles behind them on R668. They would drive over half the south of Ireland before reaching their stop for the night, Miltown Malbay.
Tim cracked open a bottle of water and chugged it as they left the petrol station, headed south out of Clogheen.
“Where are we headed today?” Tim asked when he lowered the bottle.
“We’re going to the Vee, then on to Miltown Malbay.”
He flipped open his guidebook and checked the map. “What’s the Vee?”
“The Vee is just that, a V-shaped break in the mountains, with a view that stretches across four counties. It’s sometimes called the Vee Valley.”
“Ah, so this is definitely something I would never have seen on my own.”
“Probably not.”
“Well, then thank you, again.”
“It’s my pleasure.” She meant it.
“And Miltown Malbay, I feel like I’ve heard of that before.”
“It’s famous for its music.”
This morning over breakfast while Tim argued, unsuccessfully, with Mrs. Reilly over what he had to eat, Caera had gone over a map. They’d set out from Glenncailty with only Caera’s determination to show him Ireland as it was meant to be seen. Now they needed a firm plan.
She wouldn’t take him all the way to Galway; it was too close to home for her liking. Tomorrow after lunch, she’d drop him in Limerick and he could take a bus to Galway while she returned to Glenncailty.
That meant they only had one more night together.
“So what county are we in now?”
“Tipp.”
“Tipp?”
“Ah, sorry, Tipperary.”
Tim grinned, opened his mouth—
“Don’t!” Caera yelped, but it was too late.
“It’s a long way to Tipperary.” he said, then cleared his throat and started singing the war song.
“Of course you know all the words.” Caera sighed, then joined in.
They sang as the car climbed the Knockmealdown Mountains. When the song ended, they did it again, this time no words, just whistling. Caera’s need to smile made it hard to whistle. Tim was bobbing his head side to side, tapping his fingers on his knees, looking for all the world like a fool who didn’t care that the world thought him a fool.
Caera was so engrossed in their silliness she almost missed what they’d come to see. She caught a glimpse of the flatland and held up her hand.
“Look.”
They came around a curve and there was the Vee, as clean as if a giant or God Himself had cut a wedge from the mountains. Caera slowed so they could take in the view.
“It’s beautiful.”
The land was beautiful. Those who saw this view never questioned why so many who left Ireland to find their way across the seas longed to return home.
Like a quilt, the fields of land were stitched together in uneven patches, each shade of green slightly different. Ribbons of streams, tree lines and roads melded the patchwork together.
At a wide shoulder, Caera pulled over, parking behind another car that had stopped to take in the view. Tim grabbed his camera, and they jumped out.
“What am I looking at?”
“Tipperary, Waterford, Cork and Limerick.” Caera pointed in the direction of each county as she said it.
The people at the car in front of them appeared from a path just up the slope. Tim got them to take a picture, then asked them where they’d been. While he talked, Caera looked out over the counties. The air here was different, somewhere between the smell of the west and her home and the east where she lived now.
“Caera.”
“Yes?”
“You okay?” Tim wrapped an arm around her shoulders.
She nodded.
“Do we have time to stop here for a while? There’s something I want to do.”
“All right.”
Tim grabbed his borrowed guitar and fiddle from the car. He passed her the fiddle case. “Will you carry this?”
“Of course. Where are we going?”
“Up there.” He pointed to where the other people had come from and the pale line of the path that cut across the ground.
Caera nodded, then grabbed her purse out of the car and locked the doors behind them.
Tim led them up the path, which was easy hill walking. They passed a few paint-marked sheep, which Tim took pictures of. The further they walked, the more the sound of cars on the road receded. Soon it was just them, crisp air, and a view that went for miles.
At the crest of a small rise, Tim stopped. His gaze was intense as he handed her the guitar and motioned for his fiddle. Moving quickly, he took out the instrument, flexed his fingers around the frog and pad, then set the hair to the strings.
Music spilled out, rolling down across the hillside of the Vee, rising up on gusts of wind to the blue sky above. The tune was low and slow, its simplicity familiar but unknown. The notes grew quick and sharp, turning into a jig so lively that the very air seemed to dance.
Caera sank to her knees, laying the guitar carefully to the side. The easygoing man who’d been her companion these past days was gone. In his place was the intense man she saw only through his music. A man who, when he saw something breathtaking, wanted to express it with his instrument. This song was his h
omage to the beauty before him. She understood his need, his expression. She felt the reverence in each note, even those that jumped with life and gaiety.
She fell in love with him.
She’d been fighting it, trying her best to take her pleasure where she could and not involve the depths of her heart. Kneeling there on the hillside as his music flowed around her, Caera fell helplessly, and irrevocably, in love.
“Ah, no, please,” she whispered. She couldn’t, shouldn’t love him. She’d lost everything once, for the sake of foolishness and something she’d called love.
The sliding, aching feeling within her now was a thousand times as strong as what she’d felt all those years ago when she’d abandoned everything and run off.
She’d loved once as a foolish girl, and it had broken her.
She loved now, as a woman grown and wary, and she feared it would be the end of her.
He tossed his hair off his forehead, opening his eyes. Their gazes met.
Oh yes, she loved him.
Tim’s song slowed, quieted until his bow moved lazily, coaxing only a thin thread of sound from his fiddle.
“Will you sing for me, Caera Cassidy?” His voice was deep and rich. Her name on his lips made her shiver with longing.
Caera closed her eyes, swallowed, then nodded. Feeling old and fragile, she stood.
Tim flipped his bow in his hand and plucked the strings with two fingers. She knew the tune. It was “The Last Rose of Summer”, a love poem written long ago by Thomas Moore.
She took a breath, facing out towards Ireland, and started to sing.
Tim had never seen or heard anything so beautiful. She stood slim and tall atop the mountain, the land spread at her feet. Her hair fluttered across her face, but she didn’t seem to notice. Her voice was pure and clear, a lovely soprano, hitting the high and low notes of the ballad with equal intensity.
Tim gave up plucking and flipped his bow in his hand, setting the hair to the strings. She turned to face him, her eyes the deepest blue.
He fell in love.
He’d loved before, but was never in love. He’d loved because he’d been with women who were kind, funny and smart, but they never reached deep into his soul.
