by JoAnn Ross
“Aye.” Rory lifted the binoculars to his eyes again and scanned the teeming crowd, looking for Quinn Gallagher.
“You’re lucky, having the American staying at your house. You get to hear all about the moviemaking.”
“Mr. Gallagher’s hardly ever there, except to sleep.” The truth was, Rory had only caught sight of him one other time after that first Sunday. It had been early in the morning, when Rory had been taking the cows out to the field before going to school. He’d seen the writer practically sneaking out of the house by the front door, as if he wanted to avoid running into the family gathered each morning in the kitchen. “I guess moviemaking is hard work.”
“I guess so.” Both boys fell silent, enthralled to be watching a piece of Castlelough history unfold before their very eyes. “Shall we go closer?” Jamie asked.
Rory hesitated, mindful of his mother’s words not to disturb their boarder. But then again, it wasn’t as if they were the only townspeople who’d come to watch the movie being filmed. The hills were covered with onlookers, including, he’d noticed with surprise, that gossipy old Mrs. Sheehan.
“I suppose there’d be no harm in that,” he decided.
Ten minutes later they were sitting atop a large rock, watching as a man in a green baseball cap opened the back door of a large truck.
“It’s the creature!” Jamie exclaimed as a trio of bulky laborers hired from the village unloaded a huge green fiberglass sea serpent. “Did you think it would be so large?”
It was enormous, nearly the size of three lorries. And as green as emeralds. But it was all wrong.
“It’s not the Lady,” Rory said with a frown. He knew that movies were only make-believe, but it bothered him that his best friend should be portrayed as being so vicious-looking. This one had a huge yellow snout, like all the dragons in the picture books he’d liked to look at when he was a little kid. “I wonder if they’re going to make her spout smoke and fire?”
“Something wrong with smoke and fire?”
The deep voice, coming from behind them, made both boys jump.
“Jaysus!” Jamie exclaimed, ducking his head.
Rory didn’t—couldn’t—say anything. He felt the heat flooding into his face and wished he was at the bottom of the lake.
Maeve, obviously delighted with her new friend’s arrival, pushed herself to her huge feet and stretched forward, then back. Then bounded the few feet to Quinn, tail wagging, tongue lolling.
“I—I’m sorry.” Rory’s apology came out on a croak. His mam was going to kill him if she found out about this! “I didn’t mean to offend you, Mr. Gallagher.”
“No offense taken.” Quinn obligingly rubbed the huge furry head Maeve had stuck beneath his hand. “I suppose I’m just surprised. I would have expected boys your age to enjoy special effects like fire-breathing dragons and explosions.”
“Will there be explosions?” Jamie asked, his enthusiasm for that idea overcoming his timidness toward Quinn.
“Toward the end, when the scientists are trying to take the Lady’s baby away for their research and the soldiers set charges into the lake to distract her. The director thought it would be dramatic.”
“It sounds cruel,” Rory murmured.
Quinn took in the furrowed brow and saw Nora in the boy’s worried face. “Life isn’t always cakes and cream,” he said.
“That’s true, sure enough,” Rory agreed glumly. Beside him, his freckled face far more serious than a small boy’s should be, Jamie solemnly nodded. “But I was hoping that the movie Lady might look more like the real one.”
“I suppose you’ve seen the real Lady?” Quinn asked with amusement. Deciding Rory must be a chip off Brady Joyce’s block, he folded his arms and prepared to hear a tall fanciful Irish folktale.
“Aye.” Rory lifted his chin in a way that once again reminded Quinn of the boy’s mother and met Quinn’s teasing gaze straight on with nary a flinch. “I have. And she doesn’t look at all like your monster.”
“Creature,” Quinn corrected absently, remembering Nora’s distinction. “So…” He sat down beside Rory, drew his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them. The wolfhound lay down beside him with a huge sigh of pleasure. “Why don’t you tell me a little about her?”
Rory paused, as if remembering his mother’s admonition not to bother the American writer.
“Well, in the first place, she looks more like a sea horse than a dragon,” he said warily. “But you do have the color right. Her scales are as green and shiny as emeralds.”
The ice broken, he began warming to his subject. For the next twenty minutes, Rory rattled on, describing the supposedly mythical creature in amazing detail, and although it went against every logical bone in his body, Quinn began to wonder if the stories could possibly be true.
It wasn’t that he didn’t believe in monsters. After all, he’d certainly suffered more than his share of them. The difference between him and Rory Fitzpatrick, it seemed, was that his monsters had all worn human faces. And not one of them had possessed as benevolent a nature as the lake creature with whom Rory claimed close acquaintance.
“That’s quite a story,” he said when Rory finally ran down.
“It’s the truth.”
“I’m not disputing your word. I’m just rethinking my script.”
“You’d not be taking out the explosions?” Jamie asked, openly alarmed by that prospect.
“No. I think the director would ban me from the set if I suggested getting rid of those. They work too well on the trailers.”
“Trailers?” Rory echoed. “Like a traveler’s caravan?”
“No, the type of trailers I’m talking about are movie previews.”
“Ah,” Jamie agreed shyly. “The comings. They’re my favorite part.”
“Sometimes mine, too,” Quinn said. “And getting back to our problem with the Lady, perhaps I could make the creature a bit less vengeful.”
“I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.” Rory was plucking out handfuls of bottle green grass as he looked down at the fiberglass creature that had cost a small fortune and kept a team of special-effects artisans busy for months. “If the bad scientists are trying to take away her child, she’d probably fight back. My mam sure would.”
“Mothers are like that, I suppose,” Quinn murmured. Though he’d never shared such maternal devotion firsthand, he had no doubt Nora Fitzpatrick would fight like a tigress for her only son.
“My ma says she’d never let anyone hurt me, either,” Jamie said somberly.
Remembering the fear Rory’s cousin had displayed on Sunday morning and the bullying behavior of Cadel O’Sullivan in the pub, Quinn suspected that this was a promise Kate O’Sullivan felt she needed to make to her son. Unfortunately, he suspected, it wasn’t one she’d be able to keep forever.
“As I said, mothers are like that,” he repeated with more certainty than he felt. Experiencing that sinking feeling again and wanting to get off this topic that was suddenly hitting too close to home, he rubbed his hands together and said, “So, although our creature looks more like a dragon than the Lady she is, how would you boys like to get a look at her close-up?”
Needless to say, neither lad needed to be asked twice.
They stayed the rest of the afternoon, enthralled by everything. Not wanting Kate or Nora to worry, Quinn had his assistant phone both mothers, assuring them their sons were fine and he’d be bringing them home later that evening. While neither argued against the plan, the young woman reported back to Quinn that Nora Fitzpatrick had sounded less than pleased.
Rory displayed interest in every detail, asking a continual litany of questions. His cousin remained far more reserved, and once, when Quinn absently placed a hand on the O’Sullivan boy’s shoulder, Jamie had frozen in obvious fear. Understanding that response all too well, rather than take his hand away, Quinn had allowed it to linger another significant moment. The next time Jamie had merely flinched. Then, as the stron
g male hand proved harmless, he’d relaxed. By the end of the day, he seemed almost willing to trust Quinn, and while not nearly as outspoken as his cousin, he’d begun asking his share of questions, as well.
“It’s going to be a grand movie,” Rory enthused as the trio drove home. It was twilight and the air was soft and still. The only sound was the light snoring coming from Maeve, asleep in the back seat.
“If it isn’t, it won’t be for lack of trying,” Quinn said. “Unfortunately, unlike westerns or thrillers, which have clearly defined good and bad guys, horror has always been difficult to do on film.”
“My mam says the things we imagine are always scarier than real things.” Rory wasn’t about to admit that when he’d been little, he’d made his mother check under the bed every night for monsters before he’d let her turn off the light.
“Your mother is a wise woman.”
“Aye, Grandda always says she’s the smartest girl in the county,” Rory agreed with renewed enthusiasm. “She’s pretty, too.”
“She is that,” Quinn agreed.
“Great-grandma Fionna says there are lots of men in Castlelough who’d give their eyeteeth to marry her.”
“I don’t doubt that for a minute.”
“But maybe there’d be those who might not want to get married to someone who already has a son.”
Hearing the obvious question behind Rory’s question, Quinn slanted him a glance. “I’d say any man worth considering would find a son a bonus.”
“Would that be true?” The little face brightened.
“Absolutely.” Suspecting he knew where this conversation was going and wanting to head it off at the pass, Quinn decided he was going to have to be totally honest. “If I were interested in getting married, I think I’d like the idea of getting a ready-made family.”
“But you’re not? Interested in getting married, I mean?”
“No.” Quinn’s tone was friendly but firm. “I’m not.”
“Oh.”
When Rory fell silent and took a sudden interest in the misty fields flashing by the passenger window, Quinn felt like the lowest kind of jerk. But he also knew that holding out false hope would be even crueler.
He slowed down as a collie dashed out of a break in the hedgerow up ahead. He’d already discovered that this time of day, whenever you saw a dog, a herd of cows on their way from the pasture to the milking barn were close behind.
“My father died when I was a kid,” Quinn said into the lingering silence. He did not add that Jack Gallagher had been in prison at the time of his death, or that Quinn had practically done cartwheels when the authorities had telephoned his mother with the news. “So I know how hard it is sometimes not having a dad.”
“Like for the father-and-son trek,” Rory agreed glumly.
Quinn braked, allowing a boy only a bit older than Rory to pass in front of the car. He was leading a herd of white-faced black cows, while the collie ran back and forth, seeming to keep cows and boy in a close-knit bunch.
“The father-and-son trek?”
“Yes. It’s put on by the school and it’s for a weekend,” Jamie piped up. “All the boys will be going. My da’s even taking me.” The uncensored joy in his expression was a distinct contrast to the shadow that had moved over Rory’s young face at the subject of the upcoming trip.
“Perhaps Brady could take you, Rory?” Quinn suggested hopefully.
Damn. He wasn’t going to fall into this trap. After all, hadn’t he done enough, giving the kids the grand tour today? Why should he be surrogate dad to the world’s fatherless boys?
“Grandda said he would. But my mam said he’s getting too old for such things.” Rory bit his lip and looked steadfastly out the front window. “I don’t mind. I’d just as soon catch up on my chores, anyway.”
Quinn wondered why none of the myriad books he’d read about Ireland while trying to research The Lady of the Lake had bothered to mention that the damn emerald isle was covered with quicksand. Buckets of it. Everywhere a guy stepped. Or spoke.
“When is this trek?”
“A couple of weeks from now,” Jamie said. “It goes from Saturday morning to Sunday evening. We even have a dispensation from Father O’Malley to miss mass.”
“Imagine that. It must be a big deal.”
“It is,” Jamie assured Quinn. Rory didn’t say a thing.
“Does the man have to be a member of the boy’s family?”
“Oh, no.” Jamie shook his head. “In fact, I told Rory we could share my da, but—”
“How about me?”
“What?” That captured Rory’s attention. He turned toward Quinn, his eyes filled with that same guarded hope Quinn had witnessed in Nora’s during the brief stolen interlude at the lake.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve been on a camping trip. Sounds like fun,” he said with a casualness unlikely for a man who could feel the quicksand closing in around him.
“You’d come? With me? Like a da?”
“Like a friend,” Quinn corrected, wanting once more to get this essential point straight. “And sure, I’d like to come. If you’ll have me.”
Dark blue eyes glistened suspiciously, and for a moment, Quinn feared he was going to have to deal with a flood of tears. But apparently Rory Fitzpatrick was, like his mother, made of sterner stuff.
“Thank you, Mr. Gallagher,” he said formally. Only the merest tremor in his voice hinted at suppressed emotion. “I’d very much enjoy having you come on the trek with me.”
“Well, then, it’s settled.”
As the boys began excitedly making plans for the upcoming adventure, Quinn was surprised that he didn’t find the prospect of an overnight camping trip with Nora’s son all that hard.
Here there be dragons.
Oh, yes, Quinn thought with grim irony, remembering how that thought had struck momentary dread in him right before he’d entered the Shannon terminal. Dragons were indeed alive and well in Ireland. He’d just never expected one of them to have taken on the benign appearance of a freckle-face six-year-old boy.
Chapter Nine
Oft in the Stilly Night
The moon had risen high in the cloud-darkened sky when Nora stood outside Quinn’s room, listening to the faint tap-tap-tap of computer keys that told her he was still awake and working. She knew he’d been avoiding her ever since their time at the lake, and although she found his behavior faintly vexing, she’d also been grateful that he’d stepped back from what she kept telling herself would have been a dreadful mistake.
Oh, Jesus, Mary and Joseph, Nora could almost hear her mother complaining in her head. Isn’t that all I need, a coward for a daughter?
Although Kate might be a believer in talking with those who’d passed on, Nora had always felt her little chats with her mother were more a case of her mind simply tapping into what she knew Eleanor Joyce would probably say in any given situation.
“Shut up, Mam,” she muttered now, just in case her mother truly could be listening to her. She really was in no mood for an argument tonight, imaginary or not.
After returning from the village this afternoon, her day had taken a sharp downhill slide. John had remained late at school working on some end-of-term science project, forcing her to go out to the fields and bring in the cows herself. Mary was in the throes of yet another teenage funk, and Fionna, undeterred by the threat of more violence that had been reported on the news today, was still planning her trip to Derry.
Her father, never one to be counted on to pitch in with farm work, had outdone himself, arriving home from McLaughlin’s Stoneworks inordinately pleased with his new purchase: a marble headstone.
“What in the name of all the saints were you thinking?” Nora had lost her temper and shouted at him. “Spending hard-earned money for such a thing?”
“The American has provided us with a profitable little windfall,” Brady had reminded her without heat. “Surely you wouldn’t begrudge your poor old da a proper stone for h
is final resting place.”
Of course she wouldn’t. But that wasn’t the point. Her recent conversation with the doctor concerning her father’s heart made the idea of someday losing the man who’d always remained a bit of a child too painful to contemplate.
“You won’t be needing a headstone for years and years,” she’d insisted.
“Ah, but it makes me feel better, knowing it’s taken care of,” he’d responded.
It was not such an unreasonable thing. Nora knew that the Irish need to have some funds put aside for a pleasant final resting place in the church cemetery and, for those lucky enough to afford it, a proper headstone, dated back to the days of the Famine. If the admittedly lovely piece of fog gray marble etched with an ornately carved Celtic cross made Brady feel more secure, she had no right to begrudge him the purchase. Just the same, it had put a pall over an already trying day.
Then, if all that hadn’t been vexing enough, when she’d finally finished up in the milking shed, she’d spotted sparks coming from behind the barn and had discovered that Celia and her best friend, Peggy Duran, had wrapped a Barbie doll in burlap, tied her to a stake and set her on fire, reenacting the martyrdom of Saint Joan.
With the acrid scent of melting plastic still in her nostrils, Nora had one more problem to deal with before she could drag herself off to bed. The business of Rory’s trek.
She took another deep breath, fought the anxiety that was flapping huge wings in her stomach, then rapped on the plank door.
“It’s open,” the deep male voice called out. “Come on in.”
Nora paused in the open doorway, her heart tumbling in a wild series of somersaults at the sight of Quinn sitting in bed—her bed, mind you!—bare to the waist. And even perhaps, she feared, beyond.
It had turned cool and wet after sundown, the spring weather predictably unpredictable. He’d lit a fire, and the light from the glowing peat made his tanned skin gleam copper.
“I’m sorry.” Nora told herself she should look away, but like a starving child gazing at hand-dipped chocolates in the sweet-shop window, she couldn’t. She took another deep breath meant to calm. “I don’t mean to be interrupting your work.”