Mermaid in a Bowl of Tears (Exit Unicorns Series Book 2)

by Cindy Brandner

  And yet, despite the years together and the shared experiences, she knew that to him this was their first home, the one that mattered, because he’d given it to her with his own two hands, because it had been formed, every nail and board and stone of it, with love.

  “It’s the home I’ve been waiting for all my life,” she replied softly, and knew that it was true.

  “Wishing you always...

  Walls for the wind,

  A roof for the rain

  And tea beside the fire.

  Laughter to cheer you,

  Those you love near you,

  And all that your heart may desire.”

  Casey said, reading from the cross-stitch sampler that Peg had made for them shortly after their marriage. Pamela had placed it on the mantel, alongside a set of pewter candlesticks and a pair of doves Casey had carved.

  “You seem happy,” she said.

  “Aye,” she could feel his smile against her neck, “I suppose I am. I’ve a house, a wife and,” he looked over the lit yard where Finbar had ambled out and was nosing around a guilty looking Lawrence, who was surreptitiously trying to roll his illicit tobacco up his sleeve, “a family. I guess ye could say I’m a man who has everything he wants.”

  “Everything?” she asked quietly, taking his callused palm and placing it over the still flat plane of her stomach.

  “Aye,” she could feel the smile stretch further, “everything.”

  Chapter Thirty-one

  ... And Everywhere that Mary Went

  THE VILLAGE OF COOMNABLATH CONSISTED of some one hundred souls, five pubs, several hundred sheep and a Catholic Church whose spires could be seen poking above the tops of the existing trees. It also boasted a hardware store, a post office and a defunct railway station that had shut down service some twenty years earlier.

  In true Irish fashion Casey had quickly established which pub was the one he would frequent on a regular basis. At first glance, Pamela had not seen the charm of the place. The front end was a grocery and news stand, and a small snug at the back the limit of the licensed premises. The seating admitted no more than six patrons at a go, but after meeting Owen and his wife Gert, Pamela quickly understood why Casey was so comfortable there.

  Owen was roughly the size and shape of a gnome, with a slow amiable manner that put his patrons at ease. Gert, in true Mutt and Jeff fashion, was the epitome of the large German housefrau, though her wit was nimble and her tongue unsparing of those who mistook Owen’s mannerism for a debility of mind. Both grocery and pub were simply called Gallagher’s, that being the surname of Owen and Gert.

  When she’d queried Casey about the lack of picturesque names on Irish pubs—for one rarely ran across a Green Dragon or Pig and Poke in the plethora of pubs that dotted the country, as one would every other half mile in England—he ruminated for a moment before replying.

  “I’ve never given it much thought, but I suppose it’s because when ye’ve had most everything stripped from ye an’ ye finally manage to get something to call yer own, ye want to stamp it with yer name. If it couldn’t be the land then at least it could be on the buildings. It’s a way I would think of sayin’ ‘this here is mine, my property an’ make no mistake of it.’”

  For a city boy Casey had settled into the countryside without apparent effort, as if he’d spent his entire life digging gardens, building sheds and hoeing lazy beds in the dusk of summer nights. He came to bed at night smelling of wood shavings, freshly dug earth and the peppermint soap he favored for bathing. He slept soundly, awoke energized for the day’s tasks and all in all was a man at one with his surroundings.

  His contentment was contagious it seemed, for she herself, despite a frisson of underlying tension about her pregnancy, was happy. All the time in Boston she’d been like strung wire, ready to sing with tension at the slightest touch. But now she could feel herself relaxing, with a soft bubbling well of happiness at her core. She found herself lost in small moments, realizing she’d been standing in place for twenty minutes watching Casey work, watching the look of concentration on his face as he shaved long creamy curls of wood off of a plank that would become a door.

  He’d a touch with the wood that was magical, within a pile of it he could pick out the one piece that would form itself to his hand and knife and become a wee bird, a puzzle box, a tiny boat made to float on childhood seas. She knew the entire shape of the house was there in his mind, translating itself to his hands as he worked his way through the plans. He wore an absentminded look, always had a pencil tucked behind his ear and often muttered to himself as he scribbled things on bits of grubby paper. In short, he was a man in a state of bliss.

  Lawrence, on the contrary, seemed to think the countryside something specifically designed to either terrify or bore him to death. He escaped to Belfast at every opportunity, even taking a job with Pat after school running errands and helping paint the tiny office space that was the entirety of the Fair Housing Council. And where Lawrence went, so went Finbar—down the lanes, in the car, through the narrow Belfast streets, leaving a path of toppling paint cans, muddy paw prints and disgruntled humans in his wake. Happily, both he and his boy were oblivious to these worldly concerns.

  Casey had only a few rules where Lawrence was concerned, but on these few points he was adamant—he would be home before dark, or would be lodged in town with Pat, who would make certain there was no crawling out of windows past bedtime. He would attend the local school on weekdays when it resumed in the fall and would only be allowed into town with either himself or Pamela on weeknights. He would respect those whose roof he lived under and do his chores with minimal complaint. And he would be honest at all times about his whereabouts and activities. Casey also reserved the right to say no to any of the above activities and all whereabouts were subject to prior approval. Lawrence submitted to these conditions with a grace so meek as to arouse Casey’s immediate suspicions. For now they were living in a good-humored détente, with each keeping a wary eye upon the other.

  Casey’s weekdays were still divided between his construction job and the youth center. Weekends, however, when he wasn’t picking up extra shifts or sorting out ruffian boys, were completely absorbed into the simple routine of home repairs and yard work.

  This morning he’d been up with the sun and out working on a small shed he wanted to convert into a workshop for his tools and garden implements. Pamela had heard him humming on his way out, his step light on the stairs, and had smiled to herself before falling back into a heavy sleep, one of the side effects of early pregnancy.

  It was possible that his early rising was due in some small part to the cat that had set up house on their front porch, and who howled most mornings from the time dawn cracked the sky until Casey—with curses and imprecations both dark and threatening—went out with the bowl of cream that was the only thing that silenced the howls. They had named him Rusty, due to the rather dirty and unattractive reddish hue he sported. He was also missing half an ear, generally had at least one swollen eye from his latest brawl, and his whiskers sported a terminally singed look.

  It wasn’t uncommon to see this ragged-arsed creature—as Casey called Rusty- following Casey about the yard as he did his chores. Casey, despite vehemently insisting that he’d no use for cats, had developed the habit of talking to the cat and conferring with him on various aspects of their work. She could have sworn that only the other morning she’d heard him reciting Pangur Ban whilst Rusty sat on top of the lumber pile, blinking out of his one good eye at Casey.

  Saturdays had acquired their own rhythm for her as well. She generally had tea and breakfast with Casey and Lawrence, though mostly she just watched them eat of late, being that nausea had taken a strong hold and didn’t seem inclined to leave. Then if she didn’t have to drive Lawrence into the city, she would venture down to the small farmer’s market that was set up near the church. Here there were always treasures to be found and brought away for the week ahead—fresh vegetables and count
ry bread, honey taken from the combs only days before, home brewed jugs of cider and if one knew where to ask, poteen, though other than as a disinfectant or a swift method of blinding oneself, Pamela didn’t see its charms. The wee market was also the hub of village gossip, and a way of quickly summarizing the past week’s events in the moil of one hundred and some odd lives.

  People had kept their distance at first. She was a stranger to their world with an even stranger accent. But slowly, as she showed up each Saturday, the women began to chat with her and enquire after the well-being of her family. The men would tip their caps and mutter a brief salutation, which was how they greeted everyone.

  She had found an immediate friend in the gruff old Swede whose land bordered their own. Shortly after moving in she’d gone in person to thank him for the gift of the sideboard. The thanks he’d shrugged off, but had invited her in for tea. The ancient farmhouse was alarmingly cluttered, not terribly clean and rather strong with the smell of the four wet dogs that trailed them in and then flopped down beside the fire. However the tea was strong and hot—though the biscuits didn’t bear contemplation—and the company surprisingly good. Though he wasn’t possessed of a glib tongue, Mr. Guderson was a kind man in his own homely way and was happy to show her about his farm, introduce her to his many sheep and his small shaggy donkey. As well as showing her the bits of furniture he was restoring in what she supposed was meant to be the parlor of the farmhouse.

  When she’d left he had given her a small wheel of goat cheese, which he’d made himself, and silently patted her hand. Now on Saturdays she would drop by with a loaf of bread, some freshly baked scones and a pot of jam and he would be out in the yard, or the outbuildings, but always near enough to stop and take tea with her. Today he’d a gift for her, and while she hadn’t seen a way to refuse it, she wasn’t looking forward to Casey’s reaction to said offering.

  The gift reposed in a large, smelly box in the back seat of the secondhand Citroen that Casey had found at a farm auction. It was, at present, still and quiet, though her ears were still ringing with the noise the box had made all the way home.

  She dug the box out of the back seat with great trepidation. It shifted alarmingly in her arms and Finbar came galloping across the yard, long legs getting knotted halfway there and bowling him over in his excitement. His outraged woofs drowned out the plaintive noises the box was now emitting.

  She struggled up the front stair, shifting the box to one hip in order to have a free hand with the door. The door however swung open, Casey on the other side of it, a tea towel slung over his shoulder and a hammer in hand.

  Pamela smiled weakly and opened her mouth to speak, only to be pre-empted by the box letting out a startlingly loud, “MEEEHHHH!!”

  “Ye’ve been at Guderson’s place, haven’t ye?” Casey asked, in what seemed to Pamela, a rather accusatory fashion.

  “I have and before you say anything, just let me explain—he’s an orphan.”

  Casey raised a sarcastic brow. “Well of course he is. Do we have any other sort about here?”

  Pamela sat the by now quaking box down near the hearth. A small black face emerged from the top, followed by a skinny, wrinkly neck. Then came a set of long gangly legs with great knobby knees. The owner of these abundant charms let go of another “MEEEEHHHH!!!” Only this one sounded distinctly distressed.

  “He’s hungry,” Pamela said.

  “Who the hell is he?” Casey asked.

  “He’s not got a name just yet. Lewis thought we might like to name him ourselves.”

  “Is this his idea of a housewarming gift?”

  “No, the poor thing’s been orphaned. Lewis tried to foster him with the other ewes, but they showed no interest. So he thought we might like to take him in.”

  “He did, did he? And how are we to feed the little beggar?”

  “Bottles, I’ve got the milk replacement powder.” She went to the sink and quickly whisked the powder into warm water.

  “They need their feed the same temperature as blood,” she said over the rapidly escalating cries of the hungry lamb.

  She turned, bottle in hand, testing the temperature against the inside of her wrist. The lamb, recognizing salvation when he saw it, tipped the box over in his panic to get out of it. He spilled across the floor, hooves clacking as he scrambled and slid his way over to the bottle. He butted his nose against the nipple, sending a warm spray of milk over his tiny black face. Then he settled to sucking with the desperation of all newborn creatures.

  Casey shook his head. “I see I’ll not be able to let ye roam about freely here, ye’ll bring every disreputable abandoned creature ye stumble across back with ye.”

  “Lewis said he’d die without anyone to look after him, what could I do?”

  “Pah,” Casey infused the one syllable with a great deal of scorn. “He knew a soft touch when he saw one. He’d not have let the wee thing die. Ye just happened along at a fortuitous moment for the man, Jewel.”

  “I’ve been had, haven’t I?” she said ruefully.

  “Afraid so.” He sighed, “I suppose I’ll need to build a pen now, won’t I?”

  Lawrence shambled past smelling rather strongly of Polo mints and Casey grabbed him by his grubby shirtsleeve.

  “Ye might,” he said plucking the cigarette from the boy’s rolled cuff, “try hiding them a little better. Ye’d one behind yer ear when ye came in with the dog last night.”

  “I’ll quit when youse do,” Lawrence said boldly, and Pamela had to bite her cheek to keep from laughing. This was the one place he had Casey over the turnstile and the lad knew it well, though he’d not dared to challenge him with it before. Which she took as a healthy sign he was getting comfortable and secure in the knowledge that he had a home.

  Finbar, the following wave to Lawrence’s riptide, was now nose-to-nose with the lamb, both wagging their respective tails vigorously, despite the furrow of hair that stood high upon the dog’s back.

  “Who’s that?” Lawrence asked, with the suspicion of one who viewed farm animals as merely cutlets, shanks and ribs.

  “That would be the sheep that yerself an’ I are buildin’ a pen for this afternoon,” Casey replied gloomily. “Come on lad, an’ bring yer cigarettes with ye. I’ve a feelin’ I’ll need them before the afternoon is out.”

  Chapter Thirty-two

  The Tears of Saint Lawrence

  CASEY’S BIRTHDAY DAWNED in a breathless heat. Pamela awoke when he rose from the bed. The night hadn’t cooled off much and so the blankets lay on the floor, except for the one thin sheet that lay lightly over her bare skin. She stretched luxuriantly, feeling like a contented cat in a patch of sunlight. She turned her head to the side and encountered a twig, as well as the strong scent of greenery on the linens. She smiled to herself, and blushed at the memory of the previous night.

  She’d awakened in the middle of the night to find Casey standing at the window naked, a soft glow of moonlight turning him silver. Despite the still of his body, she could feel his restlessness as though it were a separate entity pacing the room.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Mmm,” he turned from the window. “I couldn’t sleep. I woke up wantin’ ye, but ye were so peaceful it didn’t seem right to rouse ye.”

  “Come back to bed then,” she said, raising a hand in invitation. Due to the nausea of early pregnancy and his own fears of endangering the baby or herself, Casey had been enduring a state of deprivation that didn’t suit either of them.

  He shook his head. “The night is fine, come outside with me where we’ll not wake anyone.”

  “Are you planning on there being a great deal of noise?”

  “Aye,” Casey replied and there was no mistaking the gleam in his eye, “I mean to make ye scream, an’ I’d just as soon the dog an’ the sheep an’ the boy didn’t come to investigate the reason why.”

  “Think you can make me scream, do you?” she asked, arching a challenging brow at him.


  He grinned smugly. “Ye know I can, Jewel. But if ye’ve doubts about my current ability to do so, perhaps ye’d like to accompany me outside.”

  The air was still thick with heat, warm as bathwater on their skin as they stepped over the doorsill and into the night. Even the moonlight fell in a warm cascade over the trees, pouring a sleepy light onto the path they took down to the water.

  The ground was warm beneath her as Casey laid her back amongst the soft mosses.

  Heat sprang up on her skin at the touch of his hands. Night was the only time she was completely free of the nausea that plagued her during the day. Her breasts were swollen and extra sensitive to touch and when he put his mouth over one she shuddered, desire flooding her entire body, mouth dry with want.

  There was restraint in his body, she could feel it in the way he held himself above her, upper arms trembling visibly.

  “It’s okay,” she whispered, wrapping her legs around him to pull him close. Too close for hesitation. “You’re not going to hurt us.”

  He slid inside her, with a sighing breath that sounded very much like the relief of a starving man. Consciousness of her surroundings slid away, the moon a soft blur of melted opal above her. He moved inside her with slow deliberation, careful and yet determined to push her to the limits of her desire. Which he did again and again, only to draw back at the crucial moment, leaving her panting, nails biting through the dark band of his tattoo.

  “Have mercy, man,” she managed to gasp out, entire body slick with a fine dew of sweat.

  “Aye,” he said, grazing his teeth along the arch of her neck, “I’ll have mercy—when ye scream for it.”

  The smell of water and earth was heavy in her nostrils. Above her Casey moved one last time, his shoulders blocking out the moon. The last thrust took her beyond thought, to where everything seemed to rush away like flotsam before floodwater. She came back to her senses slowly to feel Casey removing his hand from her mouth.