by Lena Loneson
“It was really nothing.” How was she supposed to explain it? How had the dress got here? Had Eamon found their home and met her mother? What had he told her?
Nora had to assume he’d told her everything. “I was down by the beach.” Eamon hadn’t seen her go into the water though. He didn’t know she’d waded into the sea intentionally, guided by a part of her mind she couldn’t control. “I was playing, working out a new reel. I slipped and fell—it was an accident.” Slipped and fallen on the beach? There was no dock, and she hadn’t been up by the cliffs. “I mean, I was wading in the water, and that was when I tripped. You know how the sandbars change so easily. It was an accident. I swear it to you. I didn’t do it on purpose.”
“I’ve told you to stay away from the water.” Mary Catherine’s voice shook with betrayal. “I’ve told you that all your life, Nora.”
“I’m not eight years old anymore, Ma. I’m twenty, I can swim—”
“Apparently not, if a foreigner has to pick you out of the water and send you back to me—what, naked? Were you wandering the streets of the village stark naked, girl?”
“No, of course not. I had my bra and knickers.” Well, now. That didn’t sound great either.
“You had your bra and knickers.” Her ma’s voice was tired.
Nora nodded helplessly.
“Well, doesn’t that just make it all right, then.”
“I didn’t mean it that way, Ma.” She crossed the room and wrapped an arm around her ma’s shoulders, wiped a tear from her cheek. “It really was just a stupid accident. I promise you that.”
Mary Catherine’s face began to relax. Her eyes still leaked, but Nora had calmed her for now.
“I’m not like him, Ma.” The question “Like who?” wouldn’t be asked, Nora knew. They never mentioned his name—Nora didn’t even know it. She’d never referred to “da” or “my father” in this house. “Him” was the closest they got.
“You’re half his DNA, child, and half his spirit.” Mary Catherine took Nora’s hand in hers. She traced just outside the webbing between her fingers. Nora flinched. Mary Catherine would never touch—had never touched—the webbing. No one did. It hadn’t seemed strange to her before, until Eamon had done it so carefully and so unselfconsciously.
“That doesn’t mean I’ll end up like him.”
“And it doesn’t mean you won’t.”
What could Nora say to that, really? Could she even be certain she could keep the promises she made her mother? She didn’t know why she’d jumped into the sea. She didn’t know why the man had been there at the right time to save her. Maybe to give her a second chance. But a second chance at what? To live her entire life with questions, never knowing what was out there if she just swam far enough?
Breakfast was burning. She could smell charred fat from the bacon. Without another word, Nora finished off the cooking, the cast-iron frying pan heavy in her hands, while Mary Catherine sat at the kitchen table, staring out of the window. They enjoyed the rest of the meal in silence until the end, when Mary Catherine cleared the dishes and turned to ask, “Who was the man?”
“The one who rescued me? A traveler, I suppose. I think he’s from Canada.” Nora selfishly chose not to share his name. No, she was going to keep that for herself.
“You won’t see him again?”
“Why not?” Eamon was the one who had rescued her, after all. Her ma should be grateful. Nora was grateful. “I have to thank him. I should at least get him flowers or something.”
“Nora, my bonnie one, please promise me this. You won’t see him.” Mary Catherine’s eyes were frantic. She leaned back against the cupboards, which matched the walnut table, with briars painted around the handles. She looked tired and a hundred years old.
Why did it matter? Why forbid her from seeing Eamon? Her mother’s rules usually made sense, except when it came to the water, and even then they made sense if she listened to the whispers of the townsfolk. The selkie curse. Which was ridiculous, of course. Nora wasn’t a seal-woman. She had no pelt. She’d only ever swum with human legs and human arms. She’d only ever felt fur in her dreams.
Mary Catherine’s hands clutched at the countertop. She looked so frail. She only came up to the top of Nora’s nose, and Nora was a mere five feet three inches. It was strange to look down at her own ma. Nora moved closer in case the other woman stumbled.
Ma’s rules could suffocate her sometimes, just as this tiny cottage did, but the rest of the time she was sweet, supportive, loving. Logical, unless the conversation turned to supernatural elements, but then, many members of her ma’s generation behaved in ways Nora and her friends couldn’t comprehend.
Still, why was Eamon a problem? He was older, yes, but Mary Catherine hadn’t said anything about that. He was a foreigner, but he’d been born in Ireland and understood the old ways. Why did it matter? But it did seem to matter to her ma. After having nearly drowned herself and the terror she’d clearly put her mother through, Nora didn’t have the heart to argue. Nora nodded, knowing as she opened her mouth that she was lying. “I won’t see him again.”
“And you won’t go near the sea?”
“I won’t go near the sea, Ma.” How easily the lie rolled off her tongue.
Chapter Ten
The sea churned and roiled. Nora could smell another late summer storm in the air. It was coming whether they wanted it or not. In a few days, perhaps. The wind was strong enough to clear the beach of happy strolling couples. It was deserted. She had the sandy shore to herself.
She carried her clogs in her hands and let her toes dig into the sand. She kept back at least five meters from the water. That was almost honoring her ma’s request, enough so that she wasn’t a total hypocrite.
She had to come down here before the show. The water relaxed her. It gave her energy. It did both at the same time—a deep, soothing energy that she could draw on as she played for hours. Besides, she wanted to see if her silver D whistle had washed up. There were a few reels she wouldn’t be able to play without it.
Was it stuck out there in the sand, just below the surface of the water? Maybe she could wade in and just take a short walk to see. Run her feet across the sandbars, pushing pebbles and shells aside, feeling for her whistle.
She craved the touch of water on her feet.
Perhaps if she just took a short swim, she would find it. Nora felt close to the water tonight, as if she could read its mood—it was seductive and curious. It beckoned her. It promised her answers. If she just went closer, it would take her to her missing instrument. It would take her deeper, farther than she’d ever swum, all the way out to where her father lived.
Ridiculous. She didn’t really think her father lived in the sea, with the seals. He’d probably drowned, as she almost had, leaving his lover and baby girl behind. Or worse yet, he’d run away because he wanted to leave them behind and still lived out there on the land somewhere, never thinking of her.
She shook her head, chasing away foolish notions of myth and magic. She only clung to them because they were better than the likely truth. Her ma was right. There was nothing for her in the sea.
She couldn’t help sneaking a look back at the waves as she walked toward the castle. Nora told herself she was checking for the glint of her pennywhistle in the moonlight. Not looking for her father, said to be pale and dark like she was. Not looking, either, for the red-haired man.
Chapter Eleven
He’d found her.
When she first caught sight of him at the entrance to The Cave, Nora’s fingers slipped on the holes of her pennywhistle. Molly, the good friend and musician she shared the stage with, gave her a penetrating look.
Now the Canadian Irishman stood meters from the stage, his gray eyes boring into hers. She’d recovered from her slip but her mind was still racing. Was he here for her? It was arrogant to think so. But his small smile was private, especially formed for her. The wrinkles around his eyes lent gravity to his gaze, making it more
than merely flirtatious.
He’d been there for their whole first set, near to an hour. They never took a break in the first set—best to get the customers hooked for a long one, then let them buy drinks and work up the tips. Then two shorter sets. The last would transform into a céilí, when the audience joined in the playing and the dancing reached its full exuberance. A few instruments in their cases leaned against the back wall by the bar, brought by excited patrons—guitars, a fiddle and something that, by the shape of the case, was likely an accordion.
So she hadn’t had a chance to approach Eamon yet. But the set had to end sometime. Would she buy him a drink? Casually say hi? Keep staring at him like a bloody fool?
Nora’s fingers danced over her whistle. She lost track of the tunes they played. The sound flew forth from her soul, a merry jig that harnessed feelings she sometimes thought could never be hers. Desire. Happiness. Freedom. The women on stage beside her echoed back the energy. Auburn-haired, freckled Molly assaulted her fiddle until it squealed like a banshee, summoning forth screams that shouldn’t have sounded as good as they did, while she stamped in time with her absurdly high-heeled boots. Zoe, with dark skin, eyes and hair, smoldered in front of them, hitting her bodhran in time with her voice, holding the large Irish drum steady. Zoe belted out a tune in Gaelic into the microphone. The three of them made up the Grainne O’Mailles, her band and best friends in the world.
The whistle’s voice bounced off the ceiling of The Cave. Medieval restraints that hung from the ceiling shook with the stomping of the crowd. Nora’s skirts felt heavy on her legs, weighing her down, until she spun in place and they freed themselves, flying high around her. As she twirled, her eyes came to rest each time on his again, his face a balance point. The room was dark and stifling, the way she loved it. The Cave held Nora to this Earth more than anything she’d found in her twenty-three years. The rhythm of Zoe’s bodhram matched her heartbeat. It moved through her body, pressing her feet into the stage.
Nora danced to the beat of it. Sweat trickled from her forehead to her lips, salty-sweet. As she took a breath between measures, she licked at the sweat. Her tongue flicked at the whistle’s mouthpiece, keeping time with the beat. More sweat rolled down her neck, past her collarbone and between her breasts, dripping, plastering her blouse to her skin.
She flicked a strand of damp black hair from her eyes and looked back out at the audience.
The edge of Eamon’s hair brushed the collar of his kelly-green shirt, slicked with sweat as clearly as her own. Nora’s fingers twitched on the tin body of her whistle. Wouldn’t it be nice to run those fingers through his hair? To move her hands downward to his shoulders.
Ah, she couldn’t get rid of the memory of his strong arms pulling her from the waves. The way the water had pressed his shirt against his defined pecs.
It wasn’t only she who noticed the foreigner. Tara and Kerry, two local girls, had moved forward to dance in his vicinity. Nora wrinkled her nose in disgust. They were half his age.
Best to ignore the fact that she, too, was nearly half his age.
The jig ended abruptly. Her fingers played the last note and her lungs sucked in air. Molly’s hand firmly slapping her shoulder made Nora jump. She’d been so caught up in the music. Okay, the music and staring at Eamon. Could she be any more obvious?
“That’s him?” Molly hissed in her ear.
Apparently, no, there was no need to be more obvious. Nora nodded shyly, refusing to look back at her friend. The night before, downing stouts at practice, she’d been gleeful and ribald in telling her story—these women, unlike her ma, didn’t judge her for her inadvertent swim or the subsequent locking of lips with her rescuer. But now, seeing him in person, where her friends could evaluate him, catalog his attributes and faults, she felt cautious.
“He’s gorgeous. You didn’t mention he was gorgeous.” Molly rested her chin on Nora’s shoulder and exaggerated a sigh.
“I think I did.”
“Well yeah, but there’s a reason we don’t let you write the lyrics. Your description didn’t do the lad justice.”
Nora turned and stuck her tongue out at the fiddler. Molly reciprocated. When Nora turned back, Eamon was standing closer to the stage, wiping sweat from his brow and laughing at them. Lovely—now he knew how genuinely mature she really was.
Molly dashed in front of her and whispered something in Zoe’s ear. Maybe it wouldn’t be about her.
Zoe threw her head back with laughter and passed Molly her drum. She leaned forward, crooking her finger at Eamon. He moved closer to the stage, grinning. At least she was far enough away that she couldn’t hear. That spared her some embarrassment.
Zoe spoke into the microphone. “Lads and lasses, we’re taking a short break. We’ll have a céilí in a bit, so if you’ve forgotten your instrument, now’s the time to buy a beer or offer sexual favors to someone with a better memory. If you’re smoking hot and play fiddle, Molly’s your girl, but if you’re looking for a whistle partner tonight, you’re out of luck—our own Nora seems to be taken. Or is it will be taken, later this evening? Buy her a pint and help her on her way!”
The crowd hooted.
Nora hid her face behind her pennywhistle. Why didn’t she play a larger instrument? She should have taken up the tambourine or tuba. The pennywhistle was too small to provide adequate cover. She tried anyway. The thin instrument blocked most of her nose and part of her lips. Bloody fantastic.
The din in The Cave grew louder. Voices called for new pints. Women squealed in flirtatious glee.
Might as well make the best of it and pretend the flirting by proxy was her own idea. She stepped off the stage, her feet hitting the floor in a graceful leap. Her skirts rustled around her, taking on a life of their own. She picked her way forward to the red-haired man. “Did you enjoy the music?”
He nodded. “Very much. The fast pieces really show off your tongue.”
Ugh, her skin must be a bright shade of crimson. The heat of it filled her. At least his own skin matched as the man flushed at his overly flirtatious words. One of the plusses of dating a man as pale as she.
Were they dating?
Did one rescue from the water, one kiss, count as dating?
“Thank-you,” she said. Where was her clever tongue now?
“It sounded better in my head,” he admitted.
“What brings you down to The Cave on this fine night?” she asked.
The look he gave her was baffled, as if she should know. “I’d heard you played here regularly.”
Ah, she hadn’t been wrong, then. He had sought her out. Even after she’d hurled an insult and run out on him.
It wasn’t that unusual. Foreigners were drawn to her music. Some were even drawn to her mystery, for a while. All part of the tourist experience. Until they realized it went deeper than a few strange markings on her fingers and a natural affinity for folk music.
“I do. It’s a grand place, Tullamore.” What a simply boring thing to say. Was that who she was now? Nora Connelly, boring?
Not on her life.
Whatever it was about this man that made her hesitant, that made her care about what he thought, she vowed to be rid of it. He was a visitor, nothing more. So he’d saved her life. A nice thing to do, yes. But he’d done it of his own accord. She didn’t owe him anything.
If she wanted something from him, something in addition to that life-saving accomplishment, she could take it without feeling guilty. Hell, she was the young one. She was the naïve one. It wasn’t her fault if he got hurt.
It wasn’t her fault if she used him then drowned herself anyway.
Not that that was her plan. Her mouth pursed involuntarily and she folded her arms in front of her, a defensive posture.
“May I offer you a pint?” He touched a gentle thumb to her cheek. Her face had given away her troubled thoughts.
“I’d love one.” Nora followed him to the bar at the end of The Cave, accepting good-natured slaps on
the back and compliments to Eamon along the way. She kept her ears keen for whispers. But no one warned him away or whispered selkie. It wasn’t like in the village at the grocery or local pub. Here in The Cave, she was among kindred souls—musicians and those who recognized the strange spirit of the place. They had always been kind to her, even the tourists.
Zoe had been right to make her silly announcement. The good nature from the crowd bolstered Nora’s spirits enough for her to follow him without hesitation. Eamon ordered them beers and led her to a quiet corner opposite the stage where there were chairs for lounging in different colors. They sat next to each other on a sofa. Nora awkwardly piled pillows behind her back.
“Your music is incredible.”
She nodded, accepting the compliment. He’d said that already, so he must be leading up to something else.
“The other night there was something between us, wasn’t there? I know it wasn’t just me.” He rested a hand on her bare leg, just below where the hem of her skirts fell to her knees.
Nora nodded. If by “something” he meant sex, then yes, she was willing to admit it. Even though her heart pounded in her chest and her brain felt all weird and jittery, like black pudding shaken in a bowl.
“Then I’ll kiss you again.” His thumb stroked her kneecap. Her body shuddered. Unknowingly he’d picked the perfect spot to work her into a frenzy.
She wasn’t going to say no.
His other hand touched the side of her face. His fingers slid over her cheek, slippery with perspiration. Even the castle dungeon got hot during the summer, stuffed with people dancing and stage lights. The crowd milled about them, moving back and forth from the bar to the stage. Were any of them watching? The electricity that crackled from his fingers to her skin had to be visible.
His mouth caught hers. Though her lips parted, he didn’t press forward. He captured her with light kisses, one, two, three, to the leftover beat of the jig that thumped in her body, deep in her stomach, throbbing between her legs. On the third beat, he took her lower lip between his teeth.