He put his hand to the door of the barn, hesitated, then took a deep breath and opened it.
The lantern was low, rendering her silhouette ghostly in the dark of the barn. She was as he had held her in his memory, and yet utterly changed at the same time. Time, babies and grief had altered her lines subtly, so that he knew he was seeing the interior changes more than the physical ones.
He said her name, quietly, not wanting to startle her. “Pamela.”
She turned slowly, the movement causing her hair to spill over one shoulder like ink diffusing through a gelid winter pool.
“Jamie.” She was pale, her eyes burning in her face, even here in the flickering lantern light. And then again, as though she didn’t quite trust his appearance, “Jamie.”
He crossed the barn floor to her, the hay fresh and releasing the scent of clover and summer sun.
“Pamela, I—”
She shook her head, her eyes pleading with him not to say the words. And then she put her arms around him, and he held her tightly for a moment. He could feel the terrible strain in her, as though she were trembling glass, delicate and blown to its limits. And then she pulled back, sensing, he thought, that he could read her too well. She could not afford the vulnerability of that just now.
“I’m so glad you’re home,” she said, and the words were sincere, though her face remained that set terrible white. He could hardly have hoped otherwise.
They stood mute for a moment, for there were things to be said, but each understood there weren’t words for them just now. They had been so many things to one another, and now all the parameters had shifted, leaving them strangers, without a map by which to guide themselves in this new and raw territory.
“I understand you have a son,” she said finally, sitting down on a bale of hay and looking up at him.
“Two of them it would seem,” he said, but his voice faltered on it, for there had not been time yet to absorb the idea of Julian. “I’m sorry, I understand he caused you no small worry with the company.”
She shook her head. “It’s all right, it’s done now and we managed to keep most things safe. How old is your boy?”
“He turned one this month. And you have both a son and a daughter.”
“Yes, we do.” The emphasis on the word ‘we’ was soft, but unmistakable.
He could feel him suddenly, the big, dark Irishman who would never have left this woman bar the finality of death. His presence was here, strong, stubborn and with an emphasis that left his imprint behind, long after he had left any room or building.
“Who told you about Julian?” she asked, voice quiet.
“My grandmother broke it to me in her own inimitable fashion.”
“I’m sorry for that, I had intended to tell you myself.”
“It’s all right, Pamela, I don’t think there was a good way to tell me. I can’t quite take it in.”
“You need to be careful, Jamie. Julian is a puzzle, and I don’t know what his motives may be concerning you.”
“And we are so certain that he is actually my son?”
“Jamie, if you had seen him in the flesh, you would have no doubts. He even moves like you. Genetics is a funny thing.”
“Pamela, we don’t need to talk about this right now.”
“No, it’s a relief to talk about something other than the fact that everyone seems to believe my husband is dead.”
He did not reply to her words, for she would not want platitudes and empty phrases of comfort right now, they could not reach her in the far country in which she now dwelt. She, perhaps more than anyone, would know what an absence this long likely meant. She would either understand it or reject it, but it was not for him to push her in either direction.
She took a deep breath, as though she were turning away within herself, from knowledge it was too soon to face.
“Come sit. I could use the company. Tell me how you managed to get out of Russia and I will tell you what I can about Julian.”
He sat on a bale of hay opposite her.
“Tea?” she asked.
He raised an eyebrow.
“I have a thermos of it. I can’t seem to get warm since—since—”
“I’d love some tea,” he said softly, forestalling her, so she would not have to speak the words.
It was hot and strong, and it did taste as good as he had remembered it. Pamela had always made a good cup of tea.
And so, there within the precincts of the lantern light, the smell of horse and hay surrounding them, he told her in outline of his time in Russia, the things that had led, he believed, to his imprisonment, and how he had escaped in the end. It was stark in the telling, just outlines, no brushstrokes to fill it in, for there were not words for that yet.
As he spoke, another part of his mind took in the woman before him, how she had changed and how she had not in the time that separated them. The strain was evident in her, her eyes dark and refracted as they were when she was deeply upset. He had seen her so before. She was still unsettlingly beautiful, though he had not expected that to change. Motherhood had only brought that beauty to its full fruition, for there was something softer about her, even now in her grief.
And when he was done, she told him about Julian. It wasn’t, he thought, the most flattering description he had ever heard of a boy, but he thought even at that, she was holding something back. There was time enough to discover what that was.
They discussed the distillery, and the plans she had put in place to have it rebuilt. The death of his Uncle, and whom she believed was behind that death and why. And then they spoke of things more personal—children, friends, the loss of their mutual friend David, who had been a British agent. Very suddenly they came to that place where there were no words left that did not contain Casey and his lack, for it drenched the very air around them.
He took her hand, giving what small comfort the warmth of human touch could give her right now. The tension sang through her bones, her flesh chill to the touch and wires of fear strung tightly along every inch of skin. Her composure, fragile as the sheathe of frost that crept up to the barn door, was very dearly bought, and it was in danger of melting away completely right now. He took his hand away.
The horse laid his silver muzzle against Pamela’s head, as though he knew her sorrow, and would comfort her if he could. Her hair coiled dark against the long pewter nose, glimmering soft in the dimly lit barn. She put her hand up and stroked Phouka’s long nose absently.
When she looked up her gaze was naked, and like a knife, cut sharp and short across his chest. Her honesty had always disarmed him.
“I feel like I can’t breathe, Jamie—how am I ever supposed to breathe again, if I don’t know where he is or what has happened to him?”
He would not lie to her, he was too good a friend for such things.
“I don’t know, Pamela. But I will tell you this, I promise to do whatever I can to find him.”
They both knew the words that were left unsaid, for they hung between them like a weight of sand.
Alive or dead.
About the Author
Cindy Brandner lives in the interior of British Columbia with her husband and three children, as well as a plethora of pets. She is currently working on the continuation of the Exit Unicorns series.
www.exitunicorns.com
[email protected]
Praise for Exit Unicorns
Here is a riveting read filled with the politics of conflict, the drama of the human condition, the depth of character, and the story of mid-twentieth century Northern Ireland struggling from freedom and peace amidst the rubble of armed conflict and the politics of terrorism and suppression.
- Midwest Book Review
‘Exit Unicorns’, unlike many contemporary books on the subject, brings colour and energy to the Irish struggle… The reader is caught up in the intertwined lives of these characters, each of which pursues their own agenda in the struggle for personal, religious and cultural f
reedom.
- The Cariboo Observer
The contrast of these wonderful characters propels the one story forward from many interesting directions - book-smart and street-smart, rich and poor, old and young, Irish and American. Regardless, the dreams of freedom and equality remain the same. This is a story of passion and loyalty to one another, to ones heritage and to a country. Mix in a bit of warmth and humor, Celtic legends, exquisite poetry and you've got one hell of a book.
- Amazon reader reviews
Praise for Mermaid in a Bowl of Tears
‘Mermaid in a Bowl of Tears’ quickly immerses you into the vicious inner circle of 1969 Irish-American politics of South Boston, leaving you desperate for the shores of a gem across the Atlantic; those of the Emerald Isle. However, Ireland remains much the same as generations past, presenting beloved characters with trials and tribulations of love, life and fierce reality. Cindy Brandner skillfully plays an emotional tug-of-war with your heart strings on Irish and American shores, creating a roller coaster ride that you will not soon forget.
- Shannon Curtis, Shamrocks and Stones
Praise for Flights of Angels
Winner of the Dan Poynter's 2012 Global Ebook Awards
Cindy Brandner has written Exit Unicorns, Mermaid in a Bowl of Tears and now Flights of Angels in this Irish series and I am already anxiously awaiting the fourth book. You MUST read the first two books if you have not already! Flights of Angels is a novel to be cherished not only for the authentic portrayal of the struggles of Ireland and Russia as nations, but also the personal, emotional, and mental struggles and triumphs of each of the beloved characters - in particular Jamie Kirkpatrick, Casey Riordan, Pamela Riordan and Patrick Riordan. Cindy writes with such a wonderful, descriptive fluency that minutes of reading turns into hours of reading and without knowing, you are whisked away to a gulag in Russia or a cottage in Ireland. You will enjoy how the history and politics of Ireland and Russia are weaved throughout the story and lives of the characters along with the intrigue of how enemies and friends play amongst each other in high stakes games. Cindy Brandner's writing is masterful and I highly recommend Flights of Angels for the captivating page-turner it is. The only downfall in the reading experience is that you will not want the story to end!
- Amazon reader review
Spindrift (Exit Unicorns Series) Page 16