by Debora Geary
He reached the door, offered a quick prayer to the patron saint of bachelors, and entered as quietly as a man clad in rubber boots and winter wear could move.
And discovered not only was Moira home—but she had company. Old Irish witch company.
The elderly woman with Cass’s eyes looked at him, bright interest shining from her mind. “Well, hello there. You must have come to save me from eating this whole plate of scones by myself.”
Marcus scowled—the scones were probably made from his blasted eggs. “I’m not hungry, thank you.” A lie, but an expedient one. He focused in on his amused aunt. “I need an egg, if you have one to spare. Morgan wants waffles.”
“I’m all out, I’m afraid.” She didn’t look at all sorry. “But I’ve two dozen coming back with Aaron this afternoon. You’re most welcome to as many of those as you need.”
He had his own coming back from the weekly village shopping trip, but that wouldn’t procure his daughter waffles for lunch.
“Perhaps a wee bit of porridge?” The visitor smiled mildly. “My little ones always liked a bowlful for lunch.”
Morgan hated oatmeal. With a floor-heaping, wipe-it-in-her-hair vengeance. “I’ll go raid Aaron’s cupboards for crumbs.”
“You won’t.” Moira looked thoroughly horrified. “I have a tureen of split pea soup in my fridge and I can whip up some biscuits in a jiffy. Those don’t need any eggs at all. Why don’t you go fetch my sweet girl and bring her back here? We’ll share a bit of lunch together.”
He’d learn to cook his own biscuits in the fires of hell before he ate lunch with two meddling Irish grannies. And given Morgan’s recent penchant for decorating her hair with the contents of her bowl, he wasn’t touching green soup, either. “We’ll manage. I’ve got Lizzie, Kevin, and Sean to feed as well.” Maybe some of the evil macaroni and cheese powder in a box. They all consumed it with unholy glee.
“There’s plenty of soup.”
“Sean and Kevin don’t eat runny green stuff.” He had it on very good authority.
The stranger laughed. “Neither did my Cassidy as a girl. Avoided green food in all its forms.”
He didn’t want to think about Cass as a girl, a woman, or anywhere in between. “She probably knew one too many healers who tried to slip things into her soup.” He eyed his aunt as he spoke. No telling what she’d done to her split peas before she turned them into food.
Her mind only chortled at him. Which by no means meant she was innocent.
“We’ve a duty to keep those we love well and strong.” Moira smiled in communion with her visitor.
Damnation—two healers? Marcus picked up the mental undercurrents. “Those you love can darn well doctor their own immune systems.”
Two sets of eyes regarded him skeptically.
“Heal the sick.” He wasn’t only speaking of coughs and colds now—the room reeked of meddling. “Leave the well and happy alone.”
Smart Irish grannies didn’t miss conversational subtext. Both of them graced him with impressive glares.
He glared right back. “She’s here to relax and eat some good food. She’s got a right to do that without a couple of old witches deciding to help fate throw her a curveball.” He ground to a halt, mystified by his sudden need to defend Cassidy Farrell.
The visitor from Ireland watched him for a moment, face as still as a world-class poker player. And then she picked up her cup of tea, mind leaking satisfaction. “Well, then. It looks like fate might not need a hand at all.”
She smiled at him over the brim of her tea—and he knew the trouble he’d landed in was deep indeed.
-o0o-
Cass walked the beach and tried not to sulk. Nan had wanted her daily communion with the rocks—and a granddaughter’s temper tantrum wasn’t allowed to get in the way.
She kicked a pebble or two. Walk she would, but be damned if she was doing any communing.
“The rocks beat strongly here. Perhaps they’re what called our ancestors to these shores.” Wise eyes looked her direction. “How has the road treated you this year, my girl?”
The same as always. “It’s been good. Too many shows, but I still get to play my little bars and pubs.”
“Good.” Nan hopped nimbly over a big driftwood log. “Those have always sustained you.”
Something no one else in the world really understood. “The audiences are better there.”
“But finally not enough anymore, are they?”
It wasn’t really a question. Cass frowned, not sure where the conversation was headed.
“Music has always been your one true love.” Nan touched her hand to a cold gray boulder as they walked by. “Until I got here, I thought it might stay that way.”
Something uncomfortable jiggled against Cass’s ribs. “This is just a road trip.”
“Hardly, stubborn girl. It’s the beginning of the rest of your life.”
The jiggling turned to earthquakes. Cass eyed her grandmother sharply. “And how would you know that?”
“The same way you know it, child.” The words carried love—and chiding. Nan was no pushover. “The rocks talk to me, same as they talk to you. And since you’re here, I assume you’ve done at least a passable job of listening.”
“I came for the food.” It was truth, at least in part. “I’m doing my annual walkabout—nothing more, nothing less.”
Nan’s grin was pure mischief. “That’s the story you’re telling yourself, is it? You always were a good one with a tall tale.”
A lecture she could have pushed away. Nan’s insistent good humor had always been able to hold her face to the mirror. “I’m not looking for a different life.” The one she had suited her just fine. Most days.
“Aren’t you?” Green eyes met hers and didn’t look away. “You grow weary, Cassie mine. The rocks can feel it, and so can your heart. When are you going to set down your sweet Rosie long enough to listen?”
The idea of putting down her fiddle literally closed Cass’s throat. “I can’t give up my music.”
“Of course not.” Nan sounded offended that the idea had been given air. “Why on earth would you even consider such a thing?”
Cass threw her hands out over the waters and the rocky, empty beach. “Who would I play for here?”
“Ah, child.” A warm, strong hand touched her cheek. “That’s a brave and good question to be asking, isn’t it now?”
Cass grasped the fingers. And pleaded, mute, for the woman who had always been her biggest and best rock to make some sense of the shambles in her head.
“Music is your heart and soul, a leanbh mo chroí.” Nan walked them down the beach again, just as she’d done when Cass had been a small, boisterous child. “You were smart enough to know that when you were a wee one. I believe you’ll still dance with Rosie even when you’re an old crone like me.”
The stranglehold on Cass’s throat loosened. “Then why am I here?”
The answer was a long time coming. “Perhaps to see if your heart is ready to make space for other things to love.”
She’d spent twenty-six years believing that was impossible.
“Marcus looks a wee bit like your grandda.”
Cass wasn’t fooled by the apparent change in subject. “It’s not about him.”
Nan only chuckled and stepped out of the way of a chasing tongue of water. “He’s part of the mix, child, and I’d venture you knew it the moment you saw him.”
Grinding her teeth into dust was probably a dumb idea. Cass tried anyhow.
“Don’t hide from the truth, child. There’s more than one reason you’re here.” Green eyes met hers and spoke from a lifetime of everyday courage. “And you’ve the delight of seeking each of them out when they’re ready to be found.”
She didn’t want to look. “I came here for some peace and quiet.”
Nan’s chuckles rolled out over the beach. “Hardly. But even if you had, that wouldn’t matter at all now. You’re here, and that’s all that mat
ters. Let’s go on inside, and you can work on the first answer you’ve found.”
Cass frowned. “And that would be?”
An eyebrow danced, amused. “I assume I didn’t travel all the way over here with your old fiddle just to keep Rosie company.”
Ah. “No. Samantha’s for Kevin.”
The sideways glance was oddly casual. “Going to teach him, are you?”
Cass blinked—she hadn’t really thought that part through. “Maybe you can show him a little.” Nan had been the perfect teacher—funny, patient, and tough.
“I will not.” The woman making her way over the rocks up to the road didn’t look remotely her age. “I’d never deny you the pleasure of sharing what lives in you with another open and yearning heart.”
That described the look in Kevin’s eyes perfectly. “Maybe he won’t like it.”
Green eyes met hers—and dared. “You’re far more afraid that he will.”
She hadn’t fooled Nan for a moment. The squeezing in Cass’s throat was back. “And if he does?”
The hands that squeezed hers were old and fragile—and still sang beautiful music. “Then you will have found a new question, my lovely girl. And being the brave soul that you are, you’ll have a need to answer it.”
Chapter 13
Her belly was full, her hands were warm, and she was out of excuses. Cass leaned over and slid her old student violin up onto the bed, the case battered from one too many shortcut corners and barn-door squeezes.
Samantha, her first true love.
She ran her fingers over the dents and scratches, well aware several more had made it past the case. Not a perfect instrument—those were far too hard to live up to. She gave the handle a tug. Time to get it over with.
Down the stairs she went, a fiddle case in each hand. Kevin sat in the parlor, a stack of dusty books on the small table beside a chair big enough to swallow him whole. He gave no sign he’d heard her enter.
It was the kind of focus that made for very good musicians.
She took a seat on the couch, pleased when a squeaky spring got his attention. With casual hands, she laid both cases on the coffee table. “Nan brought my old violin, if you’d like to give it a try.”
He stared at her, eyes huge.
She nudged one of the cases his direction. “Her name is Samantha. Go on—open it up.”
“I’ll be really careful.” His whisper was reverent.
“That would be a shame.” She grinned and freed Rosie from her velvet prison. “Fiddles are meant to be played, and careful musicians miss out on half the fun.” Very few in Ireland fit that description, but she’d met many here in North America. Excellent technicians, but no soul.
Kevin was barely listening. He’d opened Samantha’s case, a tentative finger tracing her lines and curves.
Cass tried to be patient. Joy shouldn’t be rushed.
Eventually, the boy looked up, his eyes bright with wonder.
Now she could push. Cass picked up her bow. “Just like the last time. A nice, easy sound on that top string.” She demonstrated on Rosie, waiting for him to join her.
His grip on the bow was much better this time—he’d been watching. Unhurried, she moved into the five-note scale, nodding in approval as he followed her. Samantha sang in her look-at-me tones.
She’d never been a humble violin.
Cass switched strings, curious if Kevin could follow.
He did, and with more skill than she’d shown in a month of lessons. And then flashed her a grin that said there was a little of his brother’s spunk hiding under the calm exterior.
Cass grinned back—and played the first four bars of a very simple baby reel. At turtle speed.
His eyes got a lot bigger—but his first effort wasn’t all that terrible.
She played it several more times, heeding his unspoken request, her movements on Rosie’s fingerboard slow and exaggerated.
Kevin finally nodded once. And picking up his bow again, played a very competent eight notes.
There was no need for praise—his grin was the size of a small continent.
One short measure at a time, she walked him through the simple shape of the reel’s first four lines. Slowly, giving his awkward fingers time to find each note. He worked with intense concentration, picking up the notes with increasing fluidity. A good ear to go along with his quick brain.
When they hit the end of the third time through, she stopped, assessing how much focus he had left. And decided the eyes staring back at her had plenty.
She touched her bow back to Rosie’s strings. “One line at a time. I’ll play it, you play it back to me. Like a conversation.” Or, knowing Samantha, a fist-fight. Time for Kevin to discover his fiddle’s personality.
She kept to turtle pace the first time through. Four lines, each echoed back to her with careful beginner imprecision. And then she headed back to the start and began picking up speed. Not a reel yet—but not a funeral dirge, either.
Kevin managed two lines, and then his fingers tied up in a Chinese knot. He looked down, bow dangling. “I’m sorry. I can’t keep up.”
“I think you can.” She waited until his head tipped back up. “Don’t think so hard. Trust your fingers.” Not usually a lesson for the first day.
He nodded slowly and put his bow back on Samantha’s strings. “Okay.”
Cass began at turtle speed again—but this time, she stepped on the gas pedal after the first line. Inched toward first gear and teased her student to follow.
Kevin’s eyes widened, but he managed. One line. Two.
And then the magic happened. His fingers got ahead of his brain.
Cass played on, her eyes glued to his fingerboard. He had it now, the rhythm and the cadence. Dancing with Samantha, who had clearly waited her whole life for just this moment.
It wasn’t even close to perfect. A fast turtle could have played faster, and there were missed strings and double ones, errant notes and flat ones. But Kevin and his fiddle had found their voice. Samantha’s fiery attitude blended with something steadier, but no less fierce.
Delighted, Cass pushed the new duo through one last time, playing harmony under Kevin’s strings. And then she caught his eyes and fiddled them to a stop.
The applause nearly had two violins clattering to the ground. Kevin spun around, cheeks red with something that wasn’t only embarrassment.
Assorted people flowed into the room, bringing a tumbling creek of praise and pleasure.
The boy took it all in for a long moment, and then turned away from his admirers, Samantha cradled in his arms. “I have to put her away now.” With careful hands, he set the violin in her battered case, and then picked it up, looking at Cass. “I can go put her in your room if you like.” He glanced at the sudden throngs. “It might be safer than down here.”
He was just lovely. Cass grinned. “Don’t worry about that. Samantha loves crowds.”
“Thank you.” His eyes were shining again—and this time, it wasn’t all happiness.
Oh, crud. She was a great, grand eejit. Cass reached a hand to his shoulder. “She’s yours now, Kevin. You can take her anywhere you want.”
He sank slowly to the floor, his arms wrapped around a feisty and somewhat battered violin, eyes full of disbelief. “Mine?”
No one better. Cass sniffled, suddenly a bit overwhelmed herself, as a gangly boy sat on the floor and fell in love.
And then looked up to see Nan standing in a quiet corner—eyes full of approval.
One answer, found.
-o0o-
Something was up.
Sophie slid past the gathering crowd in the inn’s front hall, picking up little bits of chatter as she went. Kevin had a violin now. And Cass was going to play some more.
That was plenty of reason for an impromptu party in a sleepy fishing village.
Aaron walked in the door behind her, bags of groceries in his hands. He grinned at Sophie. “Looks like I better get cooking.”
> Moira patted him on the shoulder. “No need, dear. Nan and I have that under control—we’ll have a good Irish stew bubbling on the stove in no time. You go listen to our Cass play.”
Sophie didn’t miss the casually chosen words. Cass was “theirs” now. And the Irish grannies would have themselves a wonderful time taking over Aaron’s kitchen. It was a mark of his true love of music that he only nodded, distracted, and let them.
Music started up in the parlor. An invitation. Sophie stepped under the archway, looking for somewhere to sit. Mike had taken Adam off for a long walk, and she felt as lazy as a well-fed kitten.
Kevin sat in the middle of the room, a beat-up violin case in his lap, as star struck as Sophie had ever seen him. And more than one inhabitant of Fisher’s Cove was wiping away a tear or two. Something very right had obviously happened.
How lovely.
The music fit her mood. Not dancing tunes today—Cass was keeping it gentle. Lyrical.
Spying an unoccupied spot on the window seat, Sophie detoured long enough to grab one of the many hand-knit throws that lived in the inn—and nearly tripped over a very sleepy new arrival.
Aervyn rubbed his eyes, faced glazed in confusion.
Sophie sat down and cuddled him into her lap. “Hi, sweetie. What are you doing here?”
“I dunno.” His eyes were clearing, but he still looked fairly befuddled. “Mama put me in bed for a nap because I was a grumpypants, and that nice lady was playing her music for me. I wanted to hear it better.”
She brushed a hand across his forehead. Tired magical channels. “Was Kenna doing tricks at night again?” Aervyn had been dragged out of bed more than once to help with his baby cousin.
“Yup.” He shook his head, five going on forty. “She’s trouble, that one.”
Sophie hid a smile—Kenna Sullivan came by her troublemaker genes very honestly.
“I heard that.” Nell crouched down at their side, eyes on her son. “I wondered where you’d gone, munchkin.”
“The music said I should come.” Aervyn buried into Sophie’s shoulder. “And my head hurts.”
The first was a mystery—the second was easily helped. Sophie pushed a light clearing spell up his channels, and followed it with a gentle push toward sleep. She smiled as the five-year-old powerhouse curled up in her lap like a baby.
