A Woman's Heart

by JoAnn Ross

  “His heart killed him,” Quinn repeated what everyone had already told her. Again and again. Unfortunately it appeared that no amount of arguing or well-meaning words of consolation could ease the guilt that had taken hold of her gentle heart. “Dr. Flannery said he’d recommended a bypass months ago.”

  “Dr. Flannery should have said something to me.”

  “Brady told him not to. And even out here in the back-of-beyond west, doctor-patient privilege has to be respected.”

  Her eyes were bleak and uncharacteristically empty, the purple smudges beneath them evidence of a lack of sleep. “If I’d only known, I could have done something.”

  Mindful of the way father and daughter had parted, Quinn, like everyone else in the family, had been treating Nora with kid gloves. Now he began to wonder if perhaps that had been a mistake.

  “What could you have done?” he challenged mildly, pulling up a wooden chair to sit beside her. “Hit him over the head with a shovel and drag him into the hospital for the operation?”

  “No, but—”

  “Perhaps you believe you could have changed his mind? Made him see the light of his folly, so to speak?”

  She sighed at that idea. “Da was, in his fashion, a hardheaded man.”

  “And nearly as stubborn as his lovely daughter,” Quinn said, taking her hand and lifting it to his lips. When she tried to tug it free, he tightened his hold. “Face it, sweetheart. Although he might not have always acted like an adult, your father was a grown man. Capable of making his own choices.”

  “I can’t believe it was truly his choice to die alone out on that road.” Words clogged in her throat, and emotions burned at the back of her eyelids in the form of unshed tears. “Without his family around him.”

  Giving up on retrieving her hand, she turned her gaze back to the bed. How strange it was, she considered, to see such a vibrant man lying so still and quiet. Brady Joyce’s presence had always energized a room, bringing with it a golden sparkle that made the air around him as heady as French champagne. Now he reminded her of a porcelain statue hidden away in a church niche.

  “At least he had a family.” Concern for Nora, as well as frustration at his inability to get through to her, had Quinn trying again. “People who loved him unconditionally. Without hesitation.”

  As he had come to love her. Unfortunately, before he’d had the chance to share that astounding little news flash with Nora, they’d gotten that telephone call and all Quinn’s plans had flown right out the window. There’d be time later to tell her how he felt about her—about the entire Joyce/Fitzpatrick clan—he’d kept reassuring himself over the past two days.

  After all, they were going to have a lifetime together. If Kate could be believed, several lifetimes, some of which they’d already experienced. And even if Nora’s sister-in-law’s reincarnation theory proved false, Quinn found himself more than willing to buy into Fionna’s belief system. Now, as the day of the funeral slowly, inexorably dawned, he decided that an eternity spent with this very special woman would definitely be no hardship.

  Despite the sorrow of the moment, Quinn considered the fact that this warm and generous woman had fallen in love with him the single miracle of his life.

  In the midst of death, we are life… Finn’s words, spoken during the funeral mass, kept ringing in Nora’s ears as, still keeping with tradition, Brady was carried on his last journey by his sons and closest friends. Although the day had dawned a soft one, Mother Nature—or ancient Celtic weather goddesses—had cooperated, too, causing the rain to cease before the mourners left the old stone church.

  Michael was at the front of the casket, Finn just opposite. Finn had come to resemble their father so closely Nora had heard parishioners say how looking at the priest was like looking at Brady Joyce himself thirty years ago. John had been assigned the other corner, and at Fionna’s request, Quinn served as the fourth pallbearer. Other men of the village filled in the middle spaces, taking turns as they slowly made their way along the road to the cemetery overlooking the sea.

  Looking at her younger brother in his somber dark suit, standing nearly as tall as Michael and a head taller than Finn, Nora was struck with how close John was to becoming a man. As she followed behind, with her grandmother, her sisters and her son along with Kate, Jamie and Brigid, she was reminded yet again that the family would soon have to say farewell to another, although John’s parting, thankfully, wouldn’t be permanent. But she knew that once he went off to university, he’d change. The family would change.

  She sighed as she glanced over at Mary, clad again in the unrelieved black she’d mostly abandoned after her little midnight chat with Quinn. Everything was changing. Sometimes, it seemed, too fast. This time next year, Mary would be gone, as well, hopefully to school rather than marriage.

  And as if Nora didn’t have enough to worry about, just when her concerns regarding the testosterone-driven Jack had begun to lessen, her sister had returned from the filming at the lake with the announcement that she wanted to be an actress.

  Nora still hadn’t made up her mind how she felt about that, and although she’d intended to ask Quinn more about the movie business, her father’s death had prevented them from having any private time to talk about anything personal.

  “Are you all right?” she asked Fionna, who was walking beside her. Although Nora had suggested her grandmother ride in a car to the cemetery, she’d insisted on making her way on foot with the others.

  “As well as can be expected under the circumstances, I suppose.” She did, indeed, look remarkably hale for her age, despite the sorrow that had created new lines in her face. “It’s not right, outliving your child.”

  Nora’s dark and guilty thoughts flitted immediately to Rory. “How do you bear it?” she asked, unconsciously reaching out to take her son’s hand.

  “Faith,” the elderly woman answered without hesitation. “I keep reminding myself that’s not my child in that wooden box. My darling Brady is in heaven with his own dear da. And his poor little brother Liam and his sister Katherine, as well.”

  Liam, Nora knew from family history, had died of a burst appendix shortly after a twelfth-birthday celebration at the beach. At the time, his pains had been tragically misdiagnosed as too much cake and ice cream. Nora’s aunt Katherine had died peacefully in her sleep the previous winter.

  “And, of course,” Fionna added, “most importantly, he’s finally reunited with his darling Eleanor, which should be cause for celebration here and in heaven.”

  Although Nora hoped her gran was right, she couldn’t stop the barrage of self-recriminations.

  They reached the gates of the cemetery where Castlelough residents had been laid to rest for more than five hundred years. Weaving their way past lofty high stone Celtic crosses adorned with bas-relief twining interlacings and spirals and ponderous gray tombstones, some of the names and dates worn away by wind and weather, they continued beneath mercurial gray clouds to the Joyce family plot.

  A grave had been opened for Brady beside that of his wife. When she saw the marble stone he’d bought so recently waiting to be set into place, Nora had to choke back a sob.

  The men set the casket on the ground and came to stand with the rest of the family. Although he was still concerned about Nora, Quinn took heart that when he put his arm around her waist, she did not move away. That she felt like stone beneath his touch was less encouraging.

  Finn concluded the graveside service, speaking as he had during the mass in Irish, which to Quinn’s untutored ear was incomprehensible. As soon as the gathered had made the obligatory sign of the cross, Fergus, Brady’s longtime pub companion, stepped forward and began to sing.

  It was a song like none Quinn had ever heard. Performed solo and without accompaniment, the elderly man’s voice actually became an instrument in itself, the lyrics and meter as fluid as the curling lines carved into the surrounding crosses. Fergus stood as still as those silent stones, his gaze directed over the cli
ff, looking out to the sea. Or, Quinn thought, toward eternity.

  Below them a herd of white horses suddenly appeared from the mist to gallop through the frothy white surf at the sand’s edge, looking like the ghost stallions from last year’s book.

  While the Irish lyrics rode the breeze like sea birds, wheeling, diving, climbing even higher into the salt-tinged air, the singer’s expression remained absolutely detached from the obvious emotional content of his song.

  Quinn was obviously not the only one enthralled. Tears streamed unashamedly down female cheeks, and a few male ones, too, as the mesmerizing singing continued, constantly changing, seemingly improvised variations on a theme.

  And then, suddenly, without any warning whatsoever, the plaintive tune ended, and the spell was broken.

  “Lord, that was amazing,” Quinn murmured to Nora, who’d continued to stare at the gaping dark hole all during Fergus’s performance.

  “It’s sean-nos singing,” John volunteered when his sister failed to respond. “It’s mostly the old men out here in the west, who speak the language more naturally—not just learning it in school—who know how to do it properly. But it’s becoming popular among the young, too. I have a friend who’s been taking lessons and hopes to make his living performing with a group.”

  “My son and Fergus occasionally performed together,” Fionna informed him. “At fairs and weddings and the like.”

  “That must have been something to hear,” Quinn said, wishing too late that he’d thought to film—or at least tape-record—Brady telling his stories. “Brady with his tales and Fergus with his singing.”

  “Aye. There were quite a few times when they paid for the seed potatoes. My son may not have been much of a farmer. But in his own way, he supported his family as best he could.”

  Quinn heard another choked sound from Nora. Unlike most of the others, her eyes remained dry, and he wondered at the battle she must be waging within herself to rein in her tumultuous emotions so tightly.

  They drove back to the farm, Quinn sitting on one side of Nora in the back of the undertaker’s limousine, Rory on the other. Somehow she managed to carry on a conversation with her young son, agreeing that yes, the flowers had been truly lovely, yes, wasn’t it fortunate that Brady had thought to buy that lovely marble headstone, and yes, wasn’t the singing the loveliest anyone had ever heard Fergus perform.

  She was saying all the right words, answering at all the right times, but when he exchanged a glance with Kate, who was sitting with her children on the seat opposite them, Quinn knew they were thinking the same thing. That Nora’s mind—and her heart—had disengaged.

  If he’d hoped to get an opportunity to talk with her any time soon, the crush of people who’d returned to the farm for the after-funeral supper forestalled those plans. Quinn found himself constantly being cornered by villagers wanting to know all about the filming.

  Had he seen the Lady? Did he believe in her existence? And even occasionally, though not nearly as often as in America, how much money could a person make from writing one of those books? They were all questions he’d been asked numerous times, and under normal circumstances, he wouldn’t have minded the constant interruptions. But these were far from normal circumstances.

  Once, when he ducked into the kitchen to retrieve another platter of ham at Fionna’s request, he’d found himself cornered by a woman who introduced herself as Mrs. Sheehan and informed him that her butcher shop had just gotten in a nice supply of French pâté.

  “That’s good to know,” he answered obligingly, wondering why she felt moved to share this bit of information.

  “I just thought you’d want to keep it in mind,” she said, glancing across the room at Nora, who was nodding in seeming agreement to something Father O’Malley was saying. Quinn, who’d come to know her well, could tell that her mind was somewhere else. Back at the cemetery? Or, dammit, he thought with building frustration, back on the road where Brady had died alone?

  “In case you and Nora will be planning a formal wedding supper,” the woman tacked on.

  Quinn could only stare at her, not that surprised by her mention of a possible marriage, but at her inappropriateness in bringing up the subject on the day Nora’s father was buried.

  “Or perhaps I should be discussing this with Nora,” she suggested, looking as if she was about to do exactly that.

  “No. I’ll discuss it with her at a more opportune time.”

  When he tried to move away, she sidled back in front of him. “I could be getting fresh pheasants, as well.”

  He was wondering if he was going to have to resort to physical force when Kate suddenly appeared by his side. “I was hoping, Quinn, you could help me carry in some trays from Mrs. Duggan’s car. I hurt my wrist riding yesterday,” she lied blithely, “and the trays are quite heavy.”

  “No problem.” Nodding a brisk goodbye to the now-frowning Mrs. Sheehan, Quinn made his escape. “If you weren’t a married woman and if everyone in Castlelough wasn’t here to witness it,” he murmured after they’d left the kitchen, “I’d kiss you, Kate O’Sullivan.”

  “You definitely had the look of a man who needed rescuing. Mrs. Sheehan is a bit of a harridan, but I suppose she means well enough.”

  “She was trying to sell me pâté. For my wedding supper.”

  “Ah.” She looked up at him. “And does Nora know about this yet?”

  “The goose liver? Or the wedding?”

  “You’re definitely an Irishman, Quinn. I swear you’re getting better and better at avoiding a direct answer. What would I be caring about pâté? What I’m curious about is whether or not you’ve proposed to our Nora.”

  “It’s complicated,” he said, hedging.

  She followed his gaze across the room to where Nora was now talking with Brendan, from The Rose. “Love usually is,” she remarked sagely. “But when it’s right—as it is with you and Nora—it’s well worth the risk.”

  Concerned that if she could see in all the dark corners, she might warn Nora against him, Quinn was grateful when someone on the other side of the room called out to her, effectively forestalling his need to respond.

  Finally the crowd began to disperse. Unfortunately Nora seemed to have disappeared, as well.

  “The last I saw, she was in the parlor, with Devlin Monohan and his fiancée,” Fionna, who was wrapping the multitude of leftovers in white waxed paper, told Quinn when he went searching for her.

  “Devlin’s already gone,” Mary offered, looking up from cutting slices of breast off a roasted hen. Her eyes were weary and red-rimmed. “About twenty minutes ago.”

  “Did you try upstairs?” This from Sheila Monohan, who’d stayed behind to help with the cleaning up. “She looked as if she might have had a headache. Perhaps she decided to have a little lie-down.”

  Unfortunately that suggestion proved to be as fruitless as the others.

  “It’s my guess she’s gone to the lake,” he told Kate after learning that Nora had asked her sister-in-law to stay at the house with the children for a time.

  “She’s always found comfort there before,” Kate agreed.

  “Will you stay with the kids until I can bring her home?” Quinn did not find it at all unusual to be asking such a question—as if he’d assumed the role of the man of the house—until he saw her faint smile.

  “Of course.” Her eyes filled with affection. “All night, if need be. And tomorrow, as well, if it comes to that. You’re a good man, Quinn. Nora’s an extremely fortunate woman to have you in her life.”

  “I’m the fortunate one.” He plowed a hand through his hair, worried that guilt may have caused Nora to believe she didn’t deserve a second chance at happiness. Even more worried that he still might do something to screw up what they had together. “I just hope I can get through to her.”

  “If anyone can, it will be you.” She went up on her toes and kissed his cheek. “Good luck.”

  “Thanks.” Taking hold of her shoulde
rs, he kissed her smooth fragrant cheek in turn. “I wouldn’t object if you’d burn a candle, or do a few twirls with your daughter in the circle of stones, or whatever you druid witches do to cast your love spells.”

  She laughed at that, a rich throaty sound that lifted a bit of the gloom from the day. “And didn’t you already cast your own love spell, Quinn? That night you first stepped into Nora’s parlor?”

  She patted the cheek she’d kissed, rubbing at the faint smear of pink lipstick. “Now, you’d best be getting to your lady. And don’t worry about Nora’s car. We’ll send someone to fetch it.”

  As he drove down the twisting narrow road to the lake—to Nora—Quinn tried to remember a time when he’d been more nervous and came up totally blank.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Dreamers and Believers

  Nora sat alone on the bank of the lake, looking out over the black satin water, thinking back to the time she’d been in this private place with Quinn and explained to him the old Irish saying, ciunas gan uagineas. Quietness without loneliness.

  Well, it had certainly never been more quiet. There wasn’t even a nighttime breeze to sigh through the reeds or ripple the glassy waters. There were no cheerful clicks of crickets, no deep croaks of bullfrogs calling for their mates. The clear April night was almost eerily still. But for the first time in her life, Nora felt absolutely devastatingly alone.

  She reached into the pocket of her black dress and pulled out a small smooth stone inscribed with ogham. Kate had given her the stone this morning before Brady’s funeral mass.

  “It’s a wishing rune,” she’d explained as she’d curled Nora’s fingers around the black stone. “I know you feel as if you’ve left things unsettled with Brady, Nora. If you open your heart, this stone will help you contact him.”

  In truth, Nora hadn’t really believed that at the time, but not wanting to hurt her sister-in-law’s feelings and knowing the gesture was born out of love, she’d slipped the stone into her pocket and promptly forgotten it.