by Nora Roberts
"Thank you. Please call me Jude."
"I will, then, and you call me Mollie. It's nice to have a neighbor in Faerie Hill Cottage again. Old Maude would be pleased you've come as she wouldn't want the house sitting lonely. No, none for you, you great lump." Mollie addressed this to the cat who leaped onto the arm of her chair. She nudged him off again, but not before scratching his ears.
"You have a wonderful house. I like looking at it when I'm walking."
"It's a hodgepodge, but it suits us." Mollie poured the tea into her good china cups, smiling as she set the pot down again. "My Mick was always one for adding a room here and a room there, and when Brenna was big enough to swing a hammer, why the two of them ganged up on me and did whatever they liked to the place."
"With so many children, you'd need room." Jude accepted the tea and two golden sugar cookies. "Brenna said you have five daughters."
"Five that sometimes seems like twenty when the lot of them are running around tame. Brenna's the oldest, and her father's apple. My Maureen's getting married next autumn, and driving us all mad with it and her squabbles with her young man, and Patty's just gotten herself engaged to Kevin Riley and will, I'm sure, be putting us through the same miseries as Maureen is before much longer. Then my Mary Kate's at the university in Dublin, studying computers of all things. And little Alice Mae, the baby, spends all her time with animals and trying to talk me into taking in every broken-winged bird in County Waterford."
Mollie paused. "And when they're not here, underfoot, I miss them something terrible. As I'm sure your mother's missing you with you so far from home."
Jude made a noncommittal sound. She was sure her mother thought of her, but actively miss her? She couldn't imagine it, not with the schedule her mother kept.
"It-" Jude broke off, goggling as harsh, vicious curses erupted from the rear of the house.
"Damn you to fiery hell, you bloody, snake-eyed bastard. I've a mind to drop your worthless hulk off the cliffs myself."
"Brenna takes after her dad in other aspects as well," Mollie continued, topping off the tea with a serene grace as her daughter's curses and threats were punctuated by banging and crashing. "She's a fine, clever girl, but a bit short of temper. So, she tells me you've an interest in flowers."
"Ah." Jude cleared her throat as the cursing continued. "Yes. That is, I don't know much about gardening, but I want to keep up the flowers at the cottage. I was going to buy some books."
"That's fine, then. You can learn a lot from books, though for Brenna she'd rather be tied facedown on a hill of ants than have to read about the workings of a thing.
Prefers to rip it apart for herself. Still, I've a bit of a hand with a garden myself. Maybe you'd like to take a walk around with me, take a look at what I've done. Then you could tell me what it is you've a need to know."
Jude set down her cup. "I'd really like that."
"Fine. Let's leave Brenna alone so she can raise the roof without us worrying it'll crash down on our heads." She rose, hesitated. "Could I see your hands?"
"My hands?" Baffled, Jude held them out, found them firmly gripped.
"Old Maude had hands like yours. Of course, they were old and troubled with the arthritis, but they were narrow and fine, and I imagine her fingers were long and straight and slender like yours when she was young. You'll do, Jude." Mollie held her hands a moment longer, met her eyes. "You've good hands for flowering."
"I want to be good at it," Jude said, surprising herself.
And Mollie's eyes warmed. "Then you will be."
The next hour was sheer delight. Shyness and reserve melted away as Jude fell under the spell of the flowers and Mollie's innate patience.
Those feathery leaves were larkspur that Mollie said would bloom in soft and showy colors, and the charming bicolored trumpets were columbine. Dancing around as they chose were flowers with odd and charming names like flax and pinks and lady's mantel and bee balm.
She knew she'd forget names, or mix them up, but it was a wonder to be shown which bloomed in spring, what would flower in summer. What was hardy and what was delicate. What drew the bees and the butterflies.
She didn't feel foolish asking what she was certain were almost childishly basic questions. Mollie would just smile or nod and explain.
"Old Maude, we would trade back and forth, a clump or a cutting or some seeds. So most of what I have here, you have at the cottage. She liked romantic flowers, and me the cheerful. So between us we ended up with both. I'll walk up your way one day, if you wouldn't mind, and take a look to see if there's something you need to be doing that you're not."
"I'd appreciate that so much, especially knowing how busy you are."
Mollie cocked her head; her face was bright, as cheerful as her gardens. "You're a nice girl, Jude, and I'd enjoy spending some time with you now and again over the gardens. And you've a pretty bit of polish on you. I wouldn't mind seeing some of it rub off on my Brenna. She's a wide heart and a clever mind, but she's rough on the edges."
Mollie's gaze drifted over Jude's shoulder, and she sighed. "Speaking of it. Have you finally killed the beast, then, Mary Brenna?"
"It was a struggle, a battle of sweat and tears, but I won." Brenna swaggered around the side of the house. There was a smear of grease on her cheek and a dry crust of blood over her left knuckles. "It'll run for you now, Ma."
"Damn it, girl, you know I've my heart set on a new one."
"Ah, that one's years left in it." Cheerfully, she kissed her mother's cheek. "I've got to get on now. I've promised to go by and see to fixing the windows in Betsy Clooney's house. Do you want to ride back with me, Jude, or would you rather stay awhile?"
"I should get back. I really enjoyed myself, Mollie. Thank you."
"You come back whenever you want a bit of company."
"I will. Oh, I left my purse inside. I'll just run in and get it, if that's all right."
"Go right on." Mollie waited until the door shut. "She's thirsty," she murmured.
"Thirsty, Ma?"
"For doing. For being. But she's afraid to drink too fast. It's wise to take things in small sips, but once in a while-"
"Darcy thinks Aidan has his eye on her."
"Oh, is that so?" Amused, Molly turned to wiggle her eyebrows at her daughter. "That would be some fine and fast drinking now, wouldn't it?"
"Darcy told me she once spied on him while he was courting the Duffy girl, and when he'd finished kissing the lass, she staggered like a drunk."
"Darcy's no business spying on her brothers," Mollie said primly, then slid her gaze back to Brenna. "Which Duffy girl? Tell me later," she added quickly when Jude came out again.
"So you had a nice visit then," Brenna began when they slid back into the truck.
"Your mother's wonderful." On impulse, Jude swiveled to wave as Brenna pulled out of the drive with her usual speed and enthusiasm. "I'll never remember half of what she told me about gardening, but it's a good start."
"She'll like having you to talk with. Patty has a hand with flowers, but she's got her head in the clouds over Kevin Riley these days and spends most of her time sighing and looking moony."
"She's awfully proud of you and your sisters."
"That's part of a mother's job."
"Yes, but it doesn't always glow out of them," Jude decided. "You're probably used to it, so you don't really notice, but it's a lovely thing to see."
"Being what you are," Brenna mused, "you pay more attention to such things. Do you learn that, or do you just have it in you?"
"I suppose it's both-like the way I noticed that she was proud you'd been able to fix the refrigerator, even though she was hoping you couldn't."
Brenna turned her head to laugh into Jude's eyes. "Nearly didn't manage it this time, frigging temperamental heap. But the thing is, my dad's wheeled a deal for a brand-new one, oh, and a beauty it is, too. But we can't seal the bargain and have it delivered for another week or two. So if we're to keep the pleasure
of the surprise, that wheezing son of a bitch has to last a bit longer."
"That's so lovely." Jude embraced the idea of it, then tried to imagine her mother's reaction if she and her father surprised her with a new refrigerator.
Bafflement, Jude imagined, and not a little insult. Amused by the idea, she chuckled. "If I gave my mother a major appliance as a gift, she'd think I'd lost my mind."
"But then, your mother's a professional woman, as I recall."
"Yes, she is, and she's wonderful at her job. But your mother's a professional woman, too. A professional mother."
Brenna blinked, then her eyes gleamed with amused pleasure. "Oh, she'll like that one. I'll be sure to save that for the next time she's ready to kick my ass over something. Well, look here at what's strolling up the road, handsome as two devils and just as dangerous."
Even as Jude's lovely relaxation sprang into one sticky ball of tension, Brenna was braking at the narrow drive of the cottage and leaning out to call to Aidan.
"There's a wild rover."
"Never, no more," he said with a wink, then took the hand she'd laid on the window to examine the skinned knuckles. "What have you done to yourself now?"
"Bloody bastard refrigerator took a bite out of me."
He clucked his tongue, lifted the scrape to his lips. But his gaze drifted to Jude. "And where are you two lovely ladies bound for?"
"I'm just bringing Jude back from a visit with my mother, and I'm off to Betsy Clooney's to bang on her windows."
"If you or your dad has the time tomorrow, the stove at the pub's acting up and Shawn's sulking over it."
"One of us'll have a look."
"Thanks. I'll just take your passenger off your hands."
"Have a care with her," Brenna said as he walked around the truck. "I like her."
"So do I." He opened the door, held out a hand. "But I make her nervous. Don't I, Jude Frances?"
"Of course not." She started to climb out, then ruined the casual elegance she'd hoped for by jerking back again because she'd forgotten to unhook her seat belt.
Before she could fumble with it, Aidan released it himself, then simply nipped her by the waist and lifted her down. Since that tangled her tongue into knots, she didn't manage to thank Brenna again before that young woman, with a wave and a grin, took the truck barreling down the road.
"Drives like a demon, that girl." With a shake of his head, Aidan released Jude, only to take her hands. "You haven't been down to the pub all week."
"I've been busy."
"Not so busy now."
"Yes, actually, I should-"
"Invite me in and fix me a sandwich." When she simply gaped at him, he laughed. "Or failing that, go walking with me. It's a fine day for walking. I won't kiss you unless you want me to, if that's what's worrying you."
"I'm not worried."
"Well, then." He lowered his head, got within an inch of his pleasure when she stumbled back.
"That's not what I meant."
"I was afraid of that." But he eased away. "Just a walk then. Have you been up to Tower Hill to look at the cathedral?"
"No, not yet."
"And with your curious mind? Then we'll walk that way, and I'll tell you a story for your paper."
"I don't have my recorder."
Slowly, he lifted one of the hands he still held and brushed his lips over the knuckles. "Then I'll make it a simple one, so you remember it."
CHAPTER Eight
He was right about the day. It was a perfect one for walking. The light glowed like the inside of a pearl. Luminous, with a slight sheen of damp. She could see, over the hills and fields rolling toward the mountains, a thin and silvery curtain that was certainly a line of rain.
Sunlight poured through it in beams and ripples, liquid gold through liquid silver.
It was the kind of day that begged for rainbows.
The breeze was just a teasing shimmer on the air, fluttering leaves growing toward their summer ripeness and surrounding her with the scent of green.
He held her hand with the careless, loose-fingered grip of familiarity and made her feel simple.
Relaxed, at ease, and simple.
Words rolled off his tongue to charm her.
"Once, it's said, there was a young maid. Fair as a dream was her face, with skin white and clear as milk and hair black as midnight, eyes blue as a lake. More than her beauty was the loveliness of her manner, for a kind maid was she. And more than her manner was the glory of her voice. When she sang, the birds stilled to listen and the angels smiled."
As they climbed the hill, the sea began to sing as backdrop, or so it seemed, to his story.
"Many's the morning her song would carry over the hills, and the joy of it rivaled the sun," he continued, and tugged her along the path. As they walked on, the breeze turned to wind and danced merrily over sea and rock.
"Now the sound of it, the pure joy of it, caught the ear and the envy of a witch."
"There's always a catch," Jude commented and made him chuckle.
"Sure and there's a catch if the story's a good one. Now this witch had a black heart and the powers she had she abused. She soured the morning milk and caused the nets of the fisherfolk to come up empty. Though she could use her arts to disguise her vile face into beauty, when she opened her mouth to sing, a frog's croaking was more musical. She hated the maid for her gift of song, and so cast a spell on her and rendered her mute."
"But there was a cure-involving a handsome prince?"
"Oh, there was a cure, for evil should always be confounded by good."
Jude smiled because she believed it. Despite all logic, she believed in the happy-ever-after. And such things seemed more than merely possible here, in this world of cliffs and wild grass, of sea with red fishing trawlers streaming over deep blue, of firm hands clasped warm over hers.
They seemed inevitable.
"The maid was doomed to silence, unable to share the joy in her heart through her songs, as the witch trapped it inside a silver box and locked it with a silver key. Inside the box, the voice wept as it sang."
"Why are Irish stories always so sad?"
"Are they?" He looked sincerely surprised. "It's not sad so much as- poignant. Poetry doesn't most usually spring from joy, does it, but from sorrows."
"I suppose you're right." She brushed absently at her hair as the wind tugged tendrils free. "What happened next?"
"Well, I'll tell you. For five years the maid walked these hills and the fields, and the cliffs as we walk them now. She listened to the song of the birds, the music of the wind in the grass, the drumbeat of the sea. And these she stored inside her, while the witch hoarded the joy and passion and purity of the maid's voice inside the silver box, so only she could hear it."
As they reached the top of the hill with the shadow of the old cathedral, the sturdy spear of the round tower, Aidan turned to Jude, whisked her hair back from her face with his fingers. "What happened next?" he asked her.
"What?"
"Tell me what happened next."
"But it's your story."
He reached down to where little white flowers struggled to bloom in the cracks of tumbled rocks. Picking one, he slid it into her hair. "Tell me, Jude Frances, what you'd like to happen next."
She started to reach up for the flower, but he caught her hand, lifted a brow. After a moment's thought, she shrugged. "Well, one day a handsome young man rode over the hills. His great white horse was weary, and his armor dull and battered. He was lost and injured from battle, and a long way from home."
She could see it, closing her eyes. The woods and shadows, the wounded warrior longing for home.
"As he moved into the forests, the mists swirled in so he could hear nothing but the labored breathing of his own heart. With each beat counted, he understood he came closer to the last.
"Then he saw her, coming toward him through the mists like a woman wading through a silver river. Because he was ill and in need, the maid to
ok him in and tended his wounds in silence, nursed him through his fevers. Though she was unable to speak to comfort him, her gentleness was enough. So they fell in love without words, and her heart almost burst from the need to tell him, to sing out her joy and her devotion. And without hesitation, without regret, she agreed to go with him to his home far away and leave behind her own, her friends and family and that part of herself locked tight in a silver box."
Because she could see it, feel it, even as she spoke, Jude shook her head, moved through the tilted gravestones to lean back against the round tower. The bay swept out below, a spectacular blue where the red boats bobbed, but she was caught in the story.
"What happens next?" she asked Aidan.
"She mounted the horse with him," he continued, picking up the threads she'd left for him as if they'd been his own. "Bringing with her only her faith and her love, and asking for nothing but his in return. And at that moment, the silver box, still clutched in the greedy hands of the witch, burst open. The voice trapped inside flew out, a golden stream that winged its way over the hills and into the heart of the maid. And as she rode off with her man, her voice, more beautiful than ever, sang out. And the birds stilled to listen, and the angels smiled again."
Jude sighed. "Yes, that was perfect."
"You've a way with telling a story."
The words thrilled her, rocked her, then made her feel shy all over again. "No, not really. It was easy because you'd started it."
"You filled in the middle part, and in a lovely way that makes me think not all the Irish has been drummed out of you after all. There now," he murmured, pleased. "You've a laugh in your eyes and a flower in your hair. Let me kiss you now, will you, Jude Frances?"
She moved fast. Caution, she told herself, sometimes had to be quick. Ducking under his arm, she scooted around him. "You'll make me forget why we walked here. I've read about round towers, but I've never seen one up close."
Patience, Gallagher, he thought, and tucked his thumbs in his pockets. "Someone was always trying to invade and conquer the jewel of Ireland. But we're still here, aren't we?"