by Lila Dubois
“You’re more the Galway Girl than ever before. Maybe we’ll have to warn your young man,” her father teased. His smile was tight, as if he wasn’t sure if he could or should tease her. Caera hated that he wasn’t comfortable with her.
“Maybe you will,” she said with a wink. Her father grinned and relaxed. Caera tapped her foot to find the beat, then strummed the guitar. Her brothers sang the verses, and they all joined in on the chorus.
Caera whooped with happiness as music and laughter filled the room. Little Brian and Lizzy were soon jumping in circles in the middle of the room, while Aisling stood and danced side to side with the baby on her shoulder.
She was finally home.
She stayed in Galway through lunchtime the next day. Once they started talking, there were years’ worth of things to tell her family, particularly her mother. She’d spent time in her father’s shop down the road and gone over to Aisling’s house to play with the kids.
She pulled herself away after they had a nice lunch of chicken, fruit and bread. She left amid hugs and promises to return to the west soon and demands that her family come to visit her at Glenncailty.
Feeling lighter than she had in years, Caera hopped into Sorcha’s car and started back to Glenncailty.
By the time she arrived in the glen three hours later, she was in tears. The return trip was quick—Galway to Glenncailty was no great distance if you went straight from place to place on the motorway without detouring down into the south.
There had been too much sadness in Caera’s life—she didn’t trust this new happiness she’d found with Tim or the reconciliation with her family.
There was no way Tim really wanted to be with her. He was just an exceptionally nice guy who was letting her down easy. Maybe he’d call once or send her an email, but it wouldn’t work out. How could it?
And her family was just being kind, too kind. She didn’t deserve their forgiveness, didn’t deserve to be a part of such a kind, loving family.
If they—Tim and her family—knew the full truth of what she’d become all those years ago, they would leave her in horror. She’d hidden the details from everyone but herself. That was fine as long as there was no one in her life to be horrified and disgusted by her.
But now there were people who cared for her or, in Tim’s case, might come to care for her. Letting them into her life exposed them to the darkness of her past. She should shut them out, protect them from what she was, but she didn’t want to. She longed for the comforting love of her family and the exciting love she felt for Tim.
She wanted to be whole, to be happy, but she was scared.
The conflicting feelings clawed at her, making her feel sick and feverish. With fumbling fingers, she opened the car door and stumbled to the cottage. Once in, she dropped her bag, lay the guitar on the table and threw herself onto her bed. She drew the duvet over herself, pulled a pillow to her face and sobbed.
“Caera? Caera, are you here?”
The bed dipped as Sorcha sat down.
“Caera, what happened? Are you all right?”
She opened her eyes to see Sorcha sitting beside her, pretty face creased with alarm.
“Oh, sweet friend.” Sorcha lay down beside her and took Caera’s hands in her own. “Tell me.”
“I love him.”
“And he left? I’m so sorry.”
“He, he wants to be my boyfriend.”
Sorcha blinked, then smiled. “As well he might. Why are you crying, then? America is not so very far away, and he’s a musician—he can live anywhere. You’ll make him love you in no time.”
“But I don’t deserve him,” Caera whispered.
“What foolishness is this?”
“I don’t. I don’t deserve any of it.” In spurts broken by hiccupping sobs, Caera told Sorcha about visiting her family.
“What a time you’ve had of it, but Caera, these are good things—Tim, your family, these are good things.”
“No, they don’t know me, don’t know what I’ve done.”
“And you think that if they knew they wouldn’t love you anymore?”
“Yes.”
“And what if they do? What if they do love you, no matter what mistakes you’ve made in the past?”
“I…they…”
“Caera, you must decide what you’re scared of, your past or your future.”
Caera had spent so long not thinking about her future that the idea terrified her. She couldn’t see a future for herself, unless she and those she loved could accept her past.
“Anything else happen?” Caera examined the calendar and spreadsheets they’d laid across her desk.
Rory checked the pad on his knee. “That’s the lot of it. Believe it or not, the place didn’t go to rack and ruin without you.”
“I had every faith in you.”
“Did you now?” Rory raised a brow, his smile wide and devilish.
“I did. And I told Elizabeth so.”
“Well, I’d say we’re all glad your back, and we’ll be more glad when we hear details about your mad affair with the American.”
“I gave him a tour. It was good for me to get away.”
“Ah, well then, I’ll just make up my own details and spread them about.”
“Don’t your dare. You’re worse than an old lady.”
“Worse? Yes, an old lady would have the details from your very lips.”
Caera groaned and turned to her computer. Rory rolled his chair away, to his own desk.
For a moment they worked in silence, before Rory said her name, his voice no longer teasing.
“Caera.”
Something about his tone made her tense, but Caera looked up. “Yes?”
“You stand at a crossroads, and your choice here will decide your happiness.” Rory’s brown eyes were dark pools in pale face, and Caera knew that he was speaking more than his own thoughts.
She looked at her desk, pushing the top paper around with two fingers. “I know.”
When she looked up, Rory seemed normal, and his smile was in place.
“If your American didn’t satisfy you, I’d be happy to sacrifice myself,” he said cheekily.
Caera rolled her eyes and went back to her computer, glad to be on familiar ground with Rory. The time with Tim had opened her eyes, and she wondered if Rory’s interest had ever been real or if it was his shield from the world, the same way her silence and reserve was.
Musing on that she opened her email, which she hadn’t checked in days.
The first email was from Tim.
Subject: Wish You Were Here
Caera,
Miss you. I do wish you were here, because it’s Amsterdam and if you were here we could go to a freaky sex club and do dirty, dirty things to each other. The gig in Galway went well, though it would have been better with you singing with me. I hope you made it back to the haunted castle. Let me know you got home. When I get better wifi I’ll send pics.
-Tim
Caera felt herself blushing even as she grinned like a fool. Tim had said he’d email her, and he had. The part of her that had broken down crying last night had been sure that she’d never get an email from him, never hear from him again.
Fingers trembling, Caera replied.
Tim,
I made it back, and if you keep calling it the haunted castle I’ll tell Sorcha. Then you’re in trouble.
I went to see my family after I left you. I know I didn’t really explain my relationship with them, but the point is that I had a really nice time. I stayed with them, in the room I used as a child. It felt good. I don’t know that I would have done that if it hadn’t been for you, so thank you. The bad part is that I told them about you, and if you come back to Ireland they’ll expect to meet you, so avoid the west at all costs.
She puzzled over how to end the email. She almost wrote out tá mé i ngrá leat, but realized that he’d probably be able to translate it on the Internet. As long as she only said it, there’d be
no chance of him spelling it out and figuring out what she’d said. In the end she settled for—
I miss you too.
Caera
She only got through two other emails before a new one from Tim popped up. Feeling like a teenager with a cellphone, she excitedly opened the message.
Not if, when. Unless you don’t want me to come back. If you did say that I’d just have to come back anyway and seduce you all over again.
I can’t wait to meet your parents. I bet they’re great.
Here’s a picture of a delicious pastry I’m eating. I have no idea what it is, but it’s good. What size shoe do you wear? I’ll buy you clogs.
This time she laughed aloud. Rory turned, brow raised.
“If you’re going to giggle like a mad woman, the least you could do is share.”
“It’s private.”
“Are you having email sex with the American?” Rory leapt out of his seat and reached for her computer. Caera lost the fight, despite landing a few blows to his side, and Rory scanned her email.
“Leave off! That’s private.”
“Cute, but not as interesting as I’d hoped for.” Rory, wearing an unrepentant grin, allowed himself to be pushed away. “You should send him a naked photo.”
“I most certainly will not.”
“Men love naked photos.” Rory leered. “I’ll take it for you.”
“Go stack chairs or something.”
“I’ll go have some lunch, give you private time with your email.”
Caera was flush with embarrassment by the time he left, but that didn’t stop her from dashing off a reply email to Tim as soon as Rory was out the door.
No clogs.
And who seduced who? The way I remember it I seduced you the first night. I like your photo, though it would be better if it had you in it, not just food. You’re going to Belgium next, aren’t you? Bring chocolate. We could do interesting things with chocolate.
Feeling both devilish and stupid with her innuendo, Caera tried to get back to work.
Talking to him by email made it seem that they weren’t so far apart, especially because he was responding almost immediately. Maybe Tim was right, maybe they could have a relationship, no matter how impossible it seemed.
Assuming her past didn’t get in the way.
“How’s the tour?” Skinner Jones’ voice cracked over the Internet-based phone call.
“Really well. You wouldn’t think there would be that many people into American folk in Brussels, but you’d be wrong.”
“The ex-pats are everywhere,” Skinner agreed. “And how’s my man treating you?”
“Great. He’s a huge help.”
Across the small cafe table from him, Tim’s guide/roadie gave him a thumbs-up. His name was Marco, he was Italian and he wanted to be a talent agent or manager. He was only nineteen and on the low end of the totem pole at a major European music management firm, which was how he’d gotten the less than glamorous job of shepherding Tim through the European leg of his tour.
“Good, good. I heard back from Amsterdam, and they were thrilled at the turn-out, so good job.”
“Thanks. Hey, listen, did you get my email about changing my flight?”
“I did, yeah. It’s going to be about $600 to change it, and that’s outside your contract, so you’d have to cover it. Plus, as far as I can tell, this new ticket would leave you stranded in Ireland.”
Tim winced at the cost, but said, “No problem, if you could make the changes, that would be great. I won’t be stranded in Ireland—there’s someone I’m going to see.”
Skinner’s thin chuckle echoed oddly in his ear. “A woman? Nice, man, nice.”
“Did you get that recording I sent you?”
“I did, but I haven’t listened to it.”
“You should. Then you’ll see what I mean.”
“Tim, you know I’m always looking for good talent, but now isn’t the time to take on—”
“Just listen, Skinner.”
The line hummed and hissed, then Tim could faintly here fiddle music, then voices. Yesterday, John, the owner of The Fiddler’s Way in Miltown Malbay, had sent him two of the audio recordings he’d taken when Tim and Caera sang there. He’d promised to mail Tim a CD of the full event, but he’d wanted to get Tim’s approval on the two songs he’d selected to use on his next CD.
Tim had forwarded them on to Skinner. He wanted his agent to hear Caera sing.
“Who is she?” Skinner’s voice was low, intense.
“Caera Cassidy, the woman who organized the Free Birds Fly concert. She had a bad experience at the start of her music career and gave it up. And that recording was made at the spur of the moment. Imagine what she’d be like in a studio.”
“What does she look like?”
“Gorgeous,” Tim assured him. Looks were just as important in music as singing talent was, unfortunately.
“And she’s Irish? You can catch the accent on a few of the words.”
“Yep.”
“Tim…” He clenched his hand on the table, waiting for Skinner to tell him that there was nothing there. “…she is really something special. And not just her, but you together. Your voices blend beautifully. You know there’s a big market for Irish folk music—all over the world.”
“I know.”
“When you go back to Ireland, are you going to see her?”
“Yes, now that the ticket is changed.”
“Good, good, have her send me her demo. I want to know more, but I’m definitely interested.”
“I was thinking maybe she could be on my next CD. I know we’d contracted for Civil War songs, but what if it was war songs, or rebel songs, and we did both American and Irish?”
“I like that, I like it. I could sell that. Can you record me something? Even if it’s just on your damn phone, get it to me so I can send it to the label.”
“I will.”
“And get me her demo. I want her signed if you’re bringing her on to your record.”
Tim let out the breath he’d been holding. He could feel the grin splitting his face.
“Skinner, thank you.”
“Absolutely. Good luck with your next show.”
“Thanks.”
Tim hung up the phone and grinned at Marco.
“Good news?” the Italian asked.
“He liked the recording and agreed to my idea of changing my next record to include her.”
“What are the terms of this deal? I would like to know details,” the young man said earnestly.
“I will tell you everything I know over a beer. Let’s go celebrate.”
Tim rubbed his thumb over the face of his phone, pushing down the temptation to call Caera and tell her. He wanted to see her face when he announced that her music career was back on track, and they were going to be singing together.
Instead, he dashed off a quick email while he and Marco left the Internet cafe in search of celebratory drinks.
Caera,
Was able to change ticket. I’m coming back at the end of the tour. See you soon.
He almost signed it “Love,” but then held back.
He wanted the moment to be perfect when he did tell her, not a throwaway followed quickly by him getting on a plane. She deserved that, and more.
Chapter Fourteen
Music
The rain beat down on the roof of the car. Outside the window, the world was a gray wash and the streets of Navan ran with rivulets of water. Caera rubbed her arms and stared up the road, willing the Dublin bus to arrive. Tim had insisted that he’d take the bus to Navan rather than her driving all the way into the city to pick him up from the airport. The bus was late, which wasn’t unexpected, and the rain wasn’t helping.
She wanted that bus to arrive more than she’d wanted anything in a long time. Though they’d been emailing and talking every day since he left, Caera felt as if Tim had been gone for a year rather than two weeks. He’d spoiled her in the time he’d
been here, and now she missed being made to feel special, beautiful. It was as if he’d brought color and music back into her world, and when he’d left he’d taken them away too, leaving her with only pale shadows.
Headlights appeared, and Caera sat straighter in her seat, leg jiggling in nervous excitement.
The lights grew closer, and she could see it was the bus. She smiled and grabbed her brolly from the passenger seat, ready to jump out of the car. The bus stopped on the opposite side of the street.
Caera jumped out, opening her umbrella. The wind-whipped rain lashed her face and pinged against her stockings. She’d dressed up, much to Sorcha’s delight, and wore black stockings, elegant boots and a wool dress. The clothes were dark, but she had nothing brighter, and they fit the rainy day.
She dashed across the street, her heartbeat so loud and hard she could feel it in her throat. Her skin tingled with nerves. She stopped in front of the bus and scanned the departing passengers.
Tim leapt down, looking just as handsome and wonderful as she remembered. Rain pattered on his cheeks and darkened his hair. His fiddle case was tucked under his arm, inside his jacket.
Caera’s brolly dropped from her numb fingers. Oh yes, she loved this man.
Leaving her umbrella in the street, a single patch of color in the beam of the bus headlamps, she ran to Tim. He turned at the last moment, a smile already on his face. She jumped on him, her arms going around his shoulders, legs around his waist. Tim caught her with his free hand, and for a moment they staggered. But Tim held his footing, held her.
Their lips met as rain sheeted down their cheeks, plastering their hair to their heads in wet ropes.
His lips were firm and wet against hers. He tasted like rain.
“I missed you,” he whispered.
“And I you.” She rested her forehead on his as she slowly lowered herself to the ground.