by Debora Geary
Evening dark approached. The gloaming.
Cass looked again at the picture of Nan, sitting in the Irish hills of impossible green and light. And knew that no one would have less patience for a confused witch feeling sorry for herself.
Or for one who tread heavily on a kind heart.
It was time to find the part of this song that knew where it was going. Or an ending and an exit Cassidy Farrell knew how to play.
-o0o-
So peaceful when she slept. Marcus reached a hand down to Morgan’s curls, smiling when she cuddled into his hand.
She hadn’t been nearly so happy when he’d tossed her into their cold and clanky tub to rinse the split-pea soup out of her hair. It was green—he should have known better. Punk girlchild.
He had no idea how he’d ever breathed without her.
Aunt Moira had that much wrong. He was already happy.
Not sparks-and-pipe-dreams happy, but the kind of everyday contentment that still astonished him when he thought of it. Even when the bathroom was drafty, his daughter was cranky, and the kitchen still had cold soup congealing on the floor.
He’d lived with pristine floors and faultless plumbing. It hadn’t held a candle to this.
One last look and Marcus backed out of Morgan’s bedroom, doing the automatic dance that would keep him off the two floorboards that squeaked. And shook his head ruefully. Fear was a damn stupid reason to be avoiding a sorely needed bathroom renovation. It wasn’t the ramshackle cottage that held the secret to his happiness.
She was sleeping in her bed.
He slipped into the kitchen, wanting the cup of tea that heralded his precious solitary hours in the dark. Come summer, he would sit out on his porch and watch the colors light up the sky. This time of year, that was still courting frostbite.
He reached for the light and then paused, attention caught by the shadows moving outside the window. Well-lit shadows tonight—the moon must be full.
It was strangely beautiful, the row of practical, commonsense cottages down each side of the road, punctuated by the occasional weathered tree and a whimsical trellis or two. It still amused him that the fanciest of those belonged to Uncle Billy, the village’s best fisherman. Said he used it to repair his nets.
Nobody said anything about the pretty clematis that trailed up it the rest of the time.
Two human-shaped shadows walked down the road arm in arm, pausing now and then to peer at something in the moonlight.
He watched them, his two shadows, oddly caught by the ease between them. And then the taller of the shadows turned and Marcus saw the lumpy shape on his back. Ah. Mike and Sophie. Their son liked to be outside.
He’d seen less of the two of them out on the road lately. The village whispers said it was Cassidy’s magic.
For the sake of the two shadows on the road, Marcus hoped not. He felt her mind far too often. And the part that loved this little fishing village by the sea was at war with the one that had twenty-six years of practice being a fiddler on the eternal bardic road.
He knew from painful experience that the happy parts rarely won those kind of fights. And how miserably hard it could be to try to look in the mirror and see someone new.
He imagined it was that much harder if the current person in your mirror was the talented, buoyant, vibrant Cassidy Farrell. Giving up Marcus Buchanan, crusty old bachelor, was hard enough.
Sophie and Mike leaned into each other outside his window, their shadows merging briefly into one.
It occurred to Marcus that he’d had that, once. A twin. One half of something greater.
He couldn’t stop the small voice wondering what it might be like to have that again.
Chapter 17
This was going to make her crazy.
Cass reached for her phone, hit the name at the top of her contact list, and hoped like hell this wasn’t an enormous, life-smashing, idiot-worthy mistake.
The man on the other end of the phone muttered something unintelligible.
She took long enough to roll her eyes and then got down to business. “How flexible is the schedule for the next few weeks, Tommy?”
Silence at the other end as her long-suffering manager digested the words. “Depends, lover girl. How badly do you need it to be?”
She ignored the concern streaming over the cell-tower waves. “Whatever you can get me.”
“Sweetheart, I can clear the decks if you need me to. What the hell is going on?”
Her fingers clutched the phone, suddenly adrift in a world with no schedule. No place to go. “Hell, no. I’m fine. I was just hoping we could keep things mellow for a week or two. Tiptoe back in slowly. Give the guys an easy stop or two.”
“The people up there believe that kind of bullshit?” Tommy’s tone was thoroughly aggrieved now. “The guys can’t wait for you to get back.”
Her roadies worked yeoman’s hours—and to a person, they loved it.
Dammit. Cass stopped her pacing and turned, face-planting into a pile of pillows. She barely held in a pitiful teenaged-girl wail. “I don’t know, Tommy. Stuff’s kind of changing around on me. I’m feeling a little lost.”
Those were big words to toss at a guy proud of his Mafia roots.
“You having yourself a midlife crisis?”
He sounded skeptical, and she could hardly blame him. “No idea—what do those feel like?”
That earned a chuckle. “Fast cars, hot babes, and really bad judgment. Not that I’d know for sure or anything.”
She snorted. Tommy bunked down every night with the taciturn woman who ran her road crew. “Gail would never let you get away with that.”
“Don’t I know it.” Spoken by a guy utterly convinced he spoke truth. And one who worshipped every step Gail’s cowboy boots took. He paused. “So what’s going on up there, anyhow? You’re not in Margaree, so it’s not some sexy fiddler tempting you.”
That was a little too close for comfort. “I don’t know, really. There’s a boy who wants to learn to play the violin. And a cute baby who likes to fall asleep listening to Rosie’s lullabies.” It sounded absurd, out there in the open. “The innkeeper makes a killer Thai curry.”
Her manager laughed. “That sounds more like you.”
It did. And yet it wasn’t the part that was holding her here. “Sorry—I think I’m just kind of at loose ends. I’ll try to get them tied back up.”
“You have a bigger work ethic than anyone I know.” For Tommy, the tone was absurdly gentle. “You need a little space to clear your head, you just let me know how long.”
It felt like more than head clearing that she needed. “I’ll let you know, okay?”
“Anytime, doll.” Words meant to make her laugh. And then a rough clearing of a throat far more used to sarcastic wit than anything else. “You’ve been doing this for a really long time. It’s okay to stop—you know that, right?”
Tommy had a lot in common with a certain pair of Irish grandmothers. She wished she believed any of them. “I’ll call you.” She hoped like hell he couldn’t hear the tears starting.
They ran down her nose onto the pillow, hot wet streaks disappearing into the soft white cloud. Not everything in life had such a soft landing. She loved the music, and her crew, and the chance to see the world on her own terms. And whatever tiredness might occasionally land between her shoulder blades, she loved the road and touring and the strange life she and Rosie had built.
If walking away was easy, she’d have done it long ago.
Cass picked up her violin, confused, sad, and out of sorts. And let Rosie find the words she couldn’t.
-o0o-
He’d never heard her play like this.
Marcus stood in the kitchen, frozen, his fingers whitening around the borrowed eggs. Wailing notes assaulted his soul, scrambling what little balance he’d begun to regain.
The music sang of tears. Of the empty spaces in a heart and the impossible task of filling them. Of flailing against a world that asked
too much and gave too little.
He knew the words. He’d spent forty-three years of his life feeling that way. And not once had he been able to tell his story with any kind of eloquence. Hearing it out loud twisted his insides like storm-wracked seaweed. And it broke his heart.
Cassidy was full of life and light—she shouldn’t know this story.
The notes slowed now, gulping tears making way for melancholy. The light, opening to the dark. He reached for magic, knowing, even as he did, that nothing healed what came from the shadows.
And froze, power swirling, as the story shifted yet again. Cass fought back now, sneaky, quick notes of dancing light poking at the things in the dark. Daring them.
His throat clenched. Only fools made that kind of dare.
And then, just like Morgan’s silly daffodils, the notes, so bright and pure and defiant, abruptly died. Swamped by the heavy tides of a sad heart.
He felt his own defiance beating against the will holding it in.
The world needed Cassidy Farrell bright.
Marcus listened to the somber march—and felt something cracking inside. He’d spent his whole life wishing for the impossible. To do it again was unthinkable. No matter what was trying to flutter to life deep in his heart.
Her journey was hers to walk. And no damn female, right down to his tiny daughter, gave any thanks for being carried. He clutched the eggs and headed for his boots at the inn’s front door. Morgan. And an omelet for Lizzie with “nothing gross” in it. He had his own road to walk.
One last time, he tipped his head to the sounds coming from above.
The music had shifted again—and this time, there were only tears.
Marcus paused, a lifetime of invaded privacy weighing down his feet. And then, very carefully, he set two brown eggs down on the side table in the foyer and started up the stairs.
-o0o-
It wasn’t Aaron.
Cass had that long to think when she opened her door—and then her brain switched off altogether.
His eyes were so gentle.
Marcus Buchanan stood outside her room, every hulking, cranky inch of him—and looked at her with a kindness that took her breath away.
“Hello.” It pained her to speak, knowing it would shutter his eyes.
“I came for some eggs.” His face held confusion now—a small boy who had woken up from a dream and found himself on a strange planet.
She was no more immune to the boy. “Those would be downstairs in the kitchen.”
He nodded slowly. “I heard you playing.”
“Ah.” Cass stopped, unsure what to say. Rosie’s song had been deeply personal today—but most people would hear only the talent. The well-played notes.
The answer hit his eyes long before he spoke. He wasn’t most people. “You sounded sad.”
She swallowed, unable to lie to his kindness. “I was. I am.” He saw so much.
“I’m sorry.” Simple words, meant deeply by someone who clearly knew what it was to be in such a place. He stared at her for the longest time. “Does playing like that help?”
“Sometimes.” Usually. “It’s like a good cry. Takes some of the energy away from my bad mood, at least.”
He’d turned, looking at random things down the hallway. “It was beautiful, you know.”
He meant it. “People on this side of the ocean always want to chase away the sadness. The Irish are a bit different. We tell the stories of our sorrow. Wallow in it a bit, I guess.”
He nodded, silent now. But she could read his face—he had found his own story in Rosie’s notes. She reached out to touch his arm, needing some connection with the kindness that had come to her door. “I hope it helped you to listen.”
“I have to get back to Morgan.” He shifted away, her fingers sliding off the warm wool of his sweater. And then stopped. “You could come have tea with us.”
It was obvious he meant it. And just as obvious that he’d shocked every inch of himself with the offer.
For a moment, she only looked at him, drinking in what had come to her door. And felt the echo of Rosie’s sad notes make way for something new.
She was done standing still. You didn’t find a new song moping in your room. Cass slid her fingers into his. An anchor in a world that was suddenly bereft of them. “That would be lovely, thank you.”
She didn’t miss his acute embarrassment as their fingers touched.
But she fully intended to ignore it.
-o0o-
What in tarnation had he done?
Marcus stood at the stove in his ramshackle cottage, mutely wishing for the huge kitchen of his coastal retreat. The one that had about an acre of granite countertop to put between himself and the woman sitting casually on a stool awaiting her tea.
They’d walked down the road companionably enough, the wind blowing hard against their cheeks. Something about putting one foot in front of the other had made conversation unnecessary.
Putting a kettle on to boil was having exactly the opposite effect. He swung around to the fridge. Time to make lunch.
And dammit, the eggs were still at the inn.
He looked over at their seven-year-old watcher, eyes wide with curiosity and well-developed gossip radar. “Lizzie, I left the eggs sitting on the table by the inn’s front door. Why don’t you go pick them up? See if Aaron will spare another two or three.” The fridge’s other lunch options ran to strained carrots and teething biscuits.
“Okay.” Lizzie jumped up, suspiciously agreeable. “Want me to get some bread and peanut butter, too?”
That might suit seven-year-old palates. “That would be fine. And a container of stew from the freezer.” Aaron would forgive them the theft. He looked over at Cass. “You like stew?”
“I like anything Aaron cooks.” She grinned at Lizzie. “But peanut butter works for me, if that’s easier.”
It wasn’t easier—sandwiches took about three minutes to make, and then he wouldn’t have anything left to hide behind.
He watched, mute, as Cass helped Lizzie into her jacket and boots, chatting easily with the young girl. Morgan sat on the floor watching, suspiciously calm about her playmate’s imminent departure.
And Marcus felt the impossible tugging on him again.
Which finally helped him find his voice. He bided his time, waiting until Cass returned to her stool in the corner of his kitchen. “So when will you be leaving?”
She jerked a little—and her mind snapped in pain.
Damnation, when would he stop kicking at other people to deal with his own hurts? “I’m sorry. You don’t need to answer that. I’m not used to having company over the age of seven in my kitchen.” And he hadn’t meant to be cruel.
“No, it’s okay.” Her mood lightened a little. “It’s a question most people would be able to answer.”
His brain stuttered to a shaky halt. He didn’t have to ask. The truth of it was clear in her mind—she really didn’t know.
That was new.
She watched him now. “I was on the phone with my manager just before you heard me playing.”
Marcus had the sudden urge to run a sword through a man he’d never met. Visions of sharks in suits swam through his head. “He’s pressuring you?”
“Tommy?” Cass shook her head, chuckling. “No. Usually I do that to myself just fine. He did his best impression of a mother hen and promised to clear my schedule for weeks if I wanted him to.”
Again, he didn’t have to ask. Rosie had made the answer clear enough.
“I don’t know what I want,” she said softly. “I’m forty-four years old, and I don’t know where I want to be next week.”
He wanted to tell her the answer. He wanted to rail against her not knowing.
Instead, he felt sympathy slinking in. “When Morgan arrived, I didn’t want to stay.” He pulled all the cooking utensils out of their canister by the stove, needing something to organize. “Heck, it started earlier than that. I came for a visit. Stayed to hel
p with Moira after her stroke.” The Buchanan household had far too many slotted spoons. “It took me more than a year to stop telling people I was just here for a visit.”
“How did you know?”
He wasn’t entirely sure. “I guess it just grew on me. And one day I wasn’t standing with one foot on the road anymore.” Which sounded like a pathetic way to choose a life. He looked over at his daughter. “She helped. A baby needs a good place to grow up.”
“This is a good place.” The smile in her voice had him unable to look. “And you love her very much.”
That had kind of snuck up on him too. “Yes.”
“Do you miss your old life?”
And there, the gap between them yawned greater than the Grand Canyon. The old Marcus Buchanan hadn’t been living. He’d only been marking time. “I thought I did.” His big kitchen and his bathrooms—all three of them—with the heated floors. “Sometimes I still miss the solitude.”
“Not much of that in a small village.” She spoke with the sureness of someone who had lived it.
“No, there isn’t.” A constant stream of humanity, dropping by and talking and borrowing anything he hadn’t nailed to the floor. Except his slotted spoons, apparently. He stopped himself from enumerating Fisher’s Cove’s many virtues. Cassidy Farrell wasn’t going to change her life for the world’s best lobster stew. “Perhaps it was what I needed.”
Cass stroked the edge of his well-worn counter, almost talking to herself. “It isn’t at all what I imagined I needed.”
He had no idea what to say.
And no time left to say it. The cheerful sounds of a returning child clattered in his back door. Marcus went to rescue the eggs, feeling exactly like he had in the days right after Morgan had arrived—dazed, confused, and blindsided by feelings he’d thought long dead.
He reached for the bag Lizzie carried. “What did you do, rob the pantry?”
“Nuh, uh.” His food courier pulled off a mitten with her teeth. “Uncle Aaron packed it. There’s fried chicken and some kinda soup and grilled cheese sandwiches and brownies if we eat the rest of our lunch up first.”