by JoAnn Ross
Having dinner with Sedona and her friends in a familiar place was one thing. Going out in public with a man who drew attention wherever he went was a challenge she wasn’t sure she was prepared for.
“While you’re catching up on sleep, I’ll go track down something resembling a story for Winston,” Duncan suggested as her weary mind debated with her heart. “We can talk about what to do for dinner when I get back.”
As he carried her bags down the short hallway to the bedroom, Cassandra decided that as much as she wanted—needed—to settle matters, waiting until she was better-rested made sense.
After all, not only was Duncan stuck here for a month, she could work from anywhere, and it wasn’t as if she had a hard deadline. Dan Gagnon had been more than willing to take her stories whenever she turned them in.
The bedroom was as charming as the rooms she’d seen thus far. The interior stone walls had been painted white, the floor lake-blue. A black iron bed echoed the simple black frames of the photographs of local landscapes and children adorning the walls. A blue and white quilt on the bed had been turned down to reveal white sheets.
After stripping off her travel-rumpled clothing, Cassandra slid between those sheets that carried the clean, fresh scent of line drying she remembered all too well from their honeymoon, then fell like a stone into sleep.
8
Unreasonably distracted by his wife sleeping—alone—just down the hallway, Duncan headed into town to see what he could discover about the mythical Lady. Deciding that few would know what was going on in the town better than a bartender, he dropped back into the pub.
“So, has anyone in this town actually ever seen the Lady?” he asked Patrick Brennan, who was back behind his bar.
“I personally only know the stories second-and third-hand,” Patrick said. “But there are those who have more familiarity with the subject.”
“I don’t suppose you’d be willing to share names?”
“As it happens, I suspect Patrick would be referring to me,” a man sitting next to him at the bar commented. He held out a hand. “Michael Joyce. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”
The name was instantaneously recognizable. Duncan narrowed his eyes and studied the man dressed in jeans, work boots, and a black fisherman’s sweater more closely. His hair was shot with strands of silver, and his features were more chiseled than the ones on the back of his award-winning books, but it was a face that Duncan knew well.
“Word gets around fast.”
“It does, indeed,” Patrick said as he dipped a pint glass into some sudsy water in the sink behind the bar. “Though, in this case, it’s not so much local gossip as for the fact that you happen to be speaking with your landlord.”
Okay. That was unexpected. “You own Briarwood Cottage?”
“That and a few others,” Michael Joyce said as he lowered a heavy mug of coffee to the bar. “As much as I enjoy farming, during the winter months when the land lies fallow, I found myself getting restive. So, I began restoring—”
“More like rebuilding from a rubble pile,” Patrick Brennan interjected.
“I was fortunate to have your brother doing most of the building while I served as a laborer,” Michael responded to Patrick. “Bram’s more than just a contractor. The way he can re-envision a famine cottage, keeping the historical bones while making it livable again, reminds me of those cathedral builders of old.”
“Don’t be telling him that,” Patrick said. “He can be insufferable enough to live with.”
The laugh they shared suggested a long and close friendship. A revolving door of first boarding schools and later Duncan’s vagabond life had precluded such relationships. There were many other reporters he was friendly with, but none he could actually call friends. He’d always been a loner.
Until Cass. Who’d been not only the woman he loved but his one true friend. Which was why, on the anniversary of their meeting this week, he’d admittedly gone off the rails and ended up in that brawl. Yet, showing the serendipitous nature of life, hadn’t that tumble brought him here to Ireland? Even if he’d searched the entire world, he couldn’t have found a better location to remind his wife of the connection they’d once shared.
“I’m impressed,” he said, returning to the conversation. “It’s obviously not new construction, but no way would I have guessed that it dates back to the 1800s.”
“It does indeed,” Joyce said. “That cottage, like Fair Haven, which was the first I restored, once belonged to my family. As did the castle, in ancient times. Though it’s true enough that some of the famine homes Bram and I have been salvaging were little more than ruins from a tragic time.”
“When their occupants left either on death carts to be put in the ground or coffin ships across the Atlantic to Canada and America,” Patrick said.
“Or Australia, often for the so-called crime of stealing a loaf of bread or rasher of bacon to feed a starving family.” An apple-cheeked man who brought to mind an ancient leprechaun sitting on the other side of Joyce joined the conversation. From his sour tone, he could have been talking about an event that had occurred yesterday, which wasn’t all that surprising, since Duncan had discovered early in his career that displaced populations tended to have very long memories.
“There are also those who’d be telling you that many of the residents never entirely left,” the elderly man added. “That the cottages would be haunted.”
“I’m not going to be one to discount the possibility that, given their former circumstances, some spirits would have found moving on a bit challenging,” Michael Joyce allowed. “But I’ve yet to hear a complaint, so if there were to be any ghosts hanging around, they’re benevolent ones who aren’t into disturbing the guests.”
“The woman who booked the cottage didn’t mention your being the owner.” Duncan would’ve been a great deal more eager about this trip had he known he’d be meeting a man he’d admired for so many years.
“That’s because all bookings are done anonymously through a property leasing agent,” the old man piped up again before Joyce could answer. “Our Michael is one who enjoys his privacy. Why, when he first arrived back in Castlelough, didn’t he act like an old hermit monk, living out there all alone on his farm? Then his daughter appeared out of the blue from the North and—”
“That would be a story for another time, Fergus,” Joyce said firmly.
Duncan didn’t need his journalism instincts to realize that the topic of Michael Joyce’s daughter, whatever its nature, was a sensitive one.
“I’ve studied all your books,” he said, returning the conversation to its original track in order to fill in the silence that had fallen. “Especially those from your war photojournalism days.”
Joyce had reportedly died, he remembered, on the helicopter lifting him out of a marketplace massacre in Kosovo. After being brought back to life, he had seemed to disappear for a time. Until reinventing his career with photography books showcasing such topics as the courage of hospitalized children, daily life in the Irish West, and another, more recent one that followed the nomadic lives of Irish travelers.
“I’m more a television correspondent than a photographer,” Duncan said, “but there have been times in wars zones when I’ve been forced to resort to taking video with my cell phone, and while it’s a different medium, your work, the way you always knew how to capture the money shot that told the story, was like learning from a master.”
“It’s glad I am that my work proved helpful,” Joyce said mildly. “And I certainly tossed enough that never worked out… But that was another lifetime. Now I’m merely a family man, a farmer, a restorer of crumbling buildings, and an occasional photographer when the muse deigns to visit.
“And speaking of visits, I hope your romantic breakfast with your wife went well.”
Duncan wasn’t surprised, given his so-called celebrity and the size of the town, that his shopping expedition had already become news. “I don’t remember sayi
ng anything to Mrs. Monohan about romance.”
“While I may have been out of journalism for several years, I’m Irish enough to recognize an intriguing story when I hear one. It’s only a shame all the Lady seekers are in town, or you and your wife could have a picnic on the shores of Lough Caislean. The castle ruins are spectacular at sunset. It’s also when our beastie is most likely to appear.”
“Are you saying you believe in her?”
“I, myself, have always been agnostic on the topic. But I personally know some who do believe.”
“I don’t suppose you’d be willing to share names.”
“To a reporter?” Joyce shook his dark head and took another longer, considering drink of coffee. “No, although you seem like a good enough fellow, it’s not my story to tell. Nor my place to reveal a confidence.”
Duncan heard the finality in the former war photojournalist’s tone and knew he’d run into a dead end. Which only meant he’d have to find another source.
“Though I can speak with someone,” Joyce offered after a pause. “To see if he’d be willing to share his tale. If so, I’ll have him ring you.”
“I’d appreciate that.” Duncan dug into his pocket and pulled out a card. “Here’s my number.”
“I wouldn’t be holding your breath,” Joyce warned. “And because I’m personally very fond of him, I’d be needing your word that you wouldn’t be about making him look like one of those sad lunatics who wear tin foil hats and fret about space aliens landing in Castlelough. He’s most definitely sane and highly intelligent.”
“You have my word,” Duncan promised.
Michael Joyce gave him a long look that reminded Duncan that this was a man who was alive after years of living and working in war zones because he’d learned to see beyond the surface. As Duncan himself had.
“He’s in Galway at the moment. But he’ll be here tomorrow morning visiting family. I’ll talk with him then, and if he agrees, he can ring you. If he’s not interested in being part of your story, I’ll call you myself.”
“I can’t ask for any more than that.”
“Then it’s done.” He polished off the coffee and tossed a bill onto the bar. “Have a grand day.” He was nearly to the door when he turned back. “We’ll be having a seisiún here tonight with a few of the locals if you think your wife would enjoy a bit of craic.”
“I’ll ask her.” Truthfully, after the way she hadn’t jumped at his suggestion earlier, Duncan had no idea if Cass would be up for a traditional Irish music session. But if she happened to enjoy herself, he’d have a better chance of delaying any divorce talk for at least one night.
“After her long trip, it may take her a while to get up to speed,” Patrick Brennan said. “Why don’t I put your name on a snug? We’ve a fine one in the back that offers more privacy than those up here in front.”
“I’d appreciate that.”
The snug went back to those days when not everyone would want to be seen in a pub. Mostly having been originally frequented by ladies who weren’t allowed to drink in a bar, or a garda at the end of his policing rounds, a priest having his nightly whiskey before turning into bed, or lovers engaged in a clandestine rendezvous, they were also popular as a safe place for young children to sleep while their parents enjoyed the music and dancing. Once entirely private, the glass doors in Brennan’s allowed patrons to be seen while also providing a place for a private conversation.
Having achieved some measure of success, what with a possible source to interview tomorrow, as much as he wanted to return to the cottage and crawl between those fragrant white sheets with Cass, Duncan left the pub and went to Monohan’s again. After assuring the helpful storekeeper that his wife had definitely enjoyed her breakfast, he bought crackers, cheese from Michael Joyce’s farm, and wine for a pre-supper snack. Along with a box of spaghetti and a jar of imported Marsala sauce in the more likely event they’d be staying home.
Home. Although he’d been a rolling stone most of his life, once he’d met Cass, Duncan had begun entertaining thoughts of settling. Thoughts he’d kept to himself, because given her energy, which could make the Energizer Bunny look like a tortoise, he hadn’t gotten any impression that she’d been ready to set up housekeeping.
Yet, the moment she’d walked into Briarwood Cottage this morning, something had clicked. Something that had him thinking that perhaps that incident in the bar had been a wake-up call that a flameout was on a not very distant horizon.
As he’d scrambled those eggs, he’d thought how much pleasure there was in what was, to most people, an ordinary domestic task. The idea of eating breakfast with Cass every morning, after sleeping in the same bed with her at night, was more than a little appealing.
And although he was wary about getting his hopes up too high, the thought of starting a family admittedly added to that appeal.
Once they’d returned to New York from Egypt, Duncan had gone with Cass to all her doctor appointments. As a reporter, he’d always been single-minded in uncovering the story. The reasons why something happened. Or, as they’d taught in journalism class, the Who, What, When, Where, Why, and How of an event.
The thing about miscarriages, he’d learned, was that while the best doctors in the world might know those first four facts, those all-important fifth and six facts remained a mystery.
In Cass’s case, her injuries pointed to the most logical cause. However, the doctor had told her, her miscarriage could well have happened at any time. There was, they were told, often no rhyme nor reason.
As much as he’d grieved the loss of their child, what had been more heartbreaking was Cass believing he might think she’d purposely kept her pregnancy a secret so he wouldn’t try even harder to prevent her from going to Egypt.
He’d admittedly been sick with worry, but not for one instant when the Cairo GNN bureau chief had called him with the news had that suspicion even crossed his mind.
The doctor had gone on to explain that many women miscarry before they know they’re pregnant. That often what they mistake for a period is actually abnormal break-through bleeding.
Which must have happened with Cass, because she’d been ten weeks pregnant when she’d miscarried. Although they hadn’t learned the baby’s sex, Duncan would always privately believe she’d been a girl. With her mother’s expressive lake-blue eyes and hair the warm, golden color of honey. In his mind, he’d named her Skye. For his family’s ancestral lands and the warm, happy color of a sunlit summer day.
Because Cass had been so wounded, no, so shattered, he’d grieved in silence, trying to care for her. To support and comfort.
But he’d failed. And in doing so, had lost not only a child but the wife he loved beyond reason, as well.
But that was then. And this was now. And Cass was not only in Ireland, she was in his cottage.
Which was, Duncan thought as he headed back to Briarwood Cottage after some less-than-successful conversations with locals about the Lady, a start.
9
Cassandra awoke to find the cottage quiet. The only sound was the patter of a light rain on the roof. She called out, and when there was no answer, she decided Duncan must still be out digging up a story about the Lady seekers.
At least she hoped that was what he was doing. She hadn’t come all this way to end up bailing him out of Castlelough’s jail for pub brawling.
The little antique clock on the bedside table revealed that she’d been sleeping for three hours. Which at least partly made up for the sleepless night she’d spent trying to decide what to say to Duncan.
Despite the long nap, her head still felt fuzzy and a bit floaty. She was also stiff from long hours sitting crowded between two businessmen, both of whom had commandeered the armrests and the overhead bin, leaving her squeezed into the compact middle seat like a sardine packed into a can. Deciding to take a walk to explore her surroundings and work out the kinks, she wrote a note to Duncan, which she left on the kitchen table, put on her coat and a wool
hat she’d bought in a Shelter Bay dress shop, and left the cottage.
A rainbow arched across a rain-washed sky the color of the inside of an oyster shell and over stone walls studded with shamrocks and moss. Except for the rustling of leaves in the trees and the musical trill of hidden songbirds, Cassandra found herself surrounded by absolute stillness.
In the distance, framed by the shimmering rainbow, the lake shone like polished silver. Surprisingly, none of the Lady seekers she’d seen crowding the streets of Castlelough as she’d driven through the village had made their way to the reedy banks. Or even to the hills, topped by the crumbling castle ruins that, along with the lake, had given the town its name.
She was wondering about that as she passed a cemetery, a somber place of high Celtic crosses standing like silent sentinels. A few rounded gravestones, names worn away by salt winds and the ages, were covered with pale green moss. She was able to make out several Joyce family names among the stones.
She continued on, over ancient mountains crumbling their way to dust, pausing at a mound of earth blanketed with flowers and decorated with stones. Cassandra had read about cairns, burial chambers that archeologists dated to five thousand years in the past, but standing beside this one, she could almost imagine the voices of those who’d crossed through the thin curtain between realms.
And although it was undoubtedly only a figment of her imagination, stirred by being in such an evocative place, she thought she’d heard some of them whispering her name as she walked away.
After turning a corner, she came to a towering hedge ablaze with shockingly pink fuchsia entwined with white flowers attached to thorny limbs guaranteed to keep trespassers outside. Still, she considered as the impenetrable-appearing greenery stretched for as far as the eye could see, she would have expected at least a few of the more ardent Lady seekers to have shown up with hedge clippers in hand.
Dragonflies flittered around the bushes, performing aerial ballets as they spun and turned, their bodies gleaming like jewels, their wings a sparkling and iridescent translucence in the shuttering rays of the sun breaking through the clouds. The buzzing drone of fat bees flying from flower to flower added deep base notes to the high treble whirr of the dragonflies’ wings.