Briarwood Cottage (8 page)

Joyce had reportedly died, he remembered, on the helicopter lifting him out of a marketplace massacre in Kosovo. After being brought back to life, he had seemed to disappear for a time. Until reinventing his career with photography books showcasing such topics as the courage of hospitalized children, daily life in the Irish West, and another, more recent one that followed the nomadic lives of Irish travelers.

“I’m more a television correspondent than a photographer,” Duncan said, “but there have been times in wars zones when I’ve been forced to resort to taking video with my cell phone, and while it’s a different medium, your work, the way you always knew how to capture the money shot that told the story, was like learning from a master.”

“It’s glad I am that my work proved helpful,” Joyce said mildly. “And I certainly tossed enough that never worked out… But that was another lifetime. Now I’m merely a family man, a farmer, a restorer of crumbling buildings, and an occasional photographer when the muse deigns to visit.

“And speaking of visits, I hope your romantic breakfast with your wife went well.”

Duncan wasn’t surprised, given his so-called celebrity and the size of the town, that his shopping expedition had already become news. “I don’t remember saying anything to Mrs. Monohan about romance.”

“While I may have been out of journalism for several years, I’m Irish enough to recognize an intriguing story when I hear one. It’s only a shame all the Lady seekers are in town, or you and your wife could have a picnic on the shores of Lough Caislean. The castle ruins are spectacular at sunset. It’s also when our beastie is most likely to appear.”

“Are you saying you believe in her?”

“I, myself, have always been agnostic on the topic. But I personally know some who do believe.”

“I don’t suppose you’d be willing to share names.”

“To a reporter?” Joyce shook his dark head and took another longer, considering drink of coffee. “No, although you seem like a good enough fellow, it’s not my story to tell. Nor my place to reveal a confidence.”

Duncan heard the finality in the former war photojournalist’s tone and knew he’d run into a dead end. Which only meant he’d have to find another source.

“Though I can speak with someone,” Joyce offered after a pause. “To see if he’d be willing to share his tale. If so, I’ll have him ring you.”

“I’d appreciate that.” Duncan dug into his pocket and pulled out a card. “Here’s my number.”

“I wouldn’t be holding your breath,” Joyce warned. “And because I’m personally very fond of him, I’d be needing your word that you wouldn’t be about making him look like one of those sad lunatics who wear tin foil hats and fret about space aliens landing in Castlelough. He’s most definitely sane and highly intelligent.”

“You have my word,” Duncan promised.

Michael Joyce gave him a long look that reminded Duncan that this was a man who was alive after years of living and working in war zones because he’d learned to see beyond the surface. As Duncan himself had.

“He’s in Galway at the moment. But he’ll be here tomorrow morning visiting family. I’ll talk with him then, and if he agrees, he can ring you. If he’s not interested in being part of your story, I’ll call you myself.”

“I can’t ask for any more than that.”

“Then it’s done.” He polished off the coffee and tossed a bill onto the bar. “Have a grand day.” He was nearly to the door when he turned back. “We’ll be having a
seisiún
here tonight with a few of the locals if you think your wife would enjoy a bit of
craic
.”

“I’ll ask her.” Truthfully, after the way she hadn’t jumped at his suggestion earlier, Duncan had no idea if Cass would be up for a traditional Irish music session. But if she happened to enjoy herself, he’d have a better chance of delaying any divorce talk for at least one night.

“After her long trip, it may take her a while to get up to speed,” Patrick Brennan said. “Why don’t I put your name on a snug? We’ve a fine one in the back that offers more privacy than those up here in front.”

“I’d appreciate that.”

The snug went back to those days when not everyone would want to be seen in a pub. Mostly having been originally frequented by ladies who weren’t allowed to drink in a bar, or a garda at the end of his policing rounds, a priest having his nightly whiskey before turning into bed, or lovers engaged in a clandestine rendezvous, they were also popular as a safe place for young children to sleep while their parents enjoyed the music and dancing. Once entirely private, the glass doors in Brennan’s allowed patrons to be seen while also providing a place for a private conversation.

Having achieved some measure of success, what with a possible source to interview tomorrow, as much as he wanted to return to the cottage and crawl between those fragrant white sheets with Cass, Duncan left the pub and went to Monohan’s again. After assuring the helpful storekeeper that his wife had definitely enjoyed her breakfast, he bought crackers, cheese from Michael Joyce’s farm, and wine for a pre-supper snack. Along with a box of spaghetti and a jar of imported Marsala sauce in the more likely event they’d be staying home.

Home
. Although he’d been a rolling stone most of his life, once he’d met Cass, Duncan had begun entertaining thoughts of settling. Thoughts he’d kept to himself, because given her energy, which could make the Energizer Bunny look like a tortoise, he hadn’t gotten any impression that she’d been ready to set up housekeeping.

Yet, the moment she’d walked into Briarwood Cottage this morning, something had clicked. Something that had him thinking that perhaps that incident in the bar had been a wake-up call that a flameout was on a not very distant horizon.

As he’d scrambled those eggs, he’d thought how much pleasure there was in what was, to most people, an ordinary domestic task. The idea of eating breakfast with Cass every morning, after sleeping in the same bed with her at night, was more than a little appealing.

And although he was wary about getting his hopes up too high, the thought of starting a family admittedly added to that appeal.

Once they’d returned to New York from Egypt, Duncan had gone with Cass to all her doctor appointments. As a reporter, he’d always been single-minded in uncovering the story. The reasons why something happened. Or, as they’d taught in journalism class, the
Who
,
What
,
When
,
Where
,
Why
, and
How
of an event.

The thing about miscarriages, he’d learned, was that while the best doctors in the world might know those first four facts, those all-important fifth and six facts remained a mystery.

In Cass’s case, her injuries pointed to the most logical cause. However, the doctor had told her, her miscarriage could well have happened at any time. There was, they were told, often no rhyme nor reason.

As much as he’d grieved the loss of their child, what had been more heartbreaking was Cass believing he might think she’d purposely kept her pregnancy a secret so he wouldn’t try even harder to prevent her from going to Egypt.

He’d admittedly been sick with worry, but not for one instant when the Cairo GNN bureau chief had called him with the news had that suspicion even crossed his mind.

The doctor had gone on to explain that many women miscarry before they know they’re pregnant. That often what they mistake for a period is actually abnormal break-through bleeding.

Which must have happened with Cass, because she’d been ten weeks pregnant when she’d miscarried. Although they hadn’t learned the baby’s sex, Duncan would always privately believe she’d been a girl. With her mother’s expressive lake-blue eyes and hair the warm, golden color of honey. In his mind, he’d named her Skye. For his family’s ancestral lands and the warm, happy color of a sunlit summer day.

Because Cass had been so wounded, no, so
shattered
, he’d grieved in silence, trying to care for her. To support and comfort.

But he’d failed. And in doing so, had lost not only a child but the wife he loved beyond reason, as well.

But that was then. And this was now. And Cass was not only in Ireland, she was in his cottage.

Which was, Duncan thought as he headed back to Briarwood Cottage after some less-than-successful conversations with locals about the Lady, a start.

C
assandra awoke to
find the cottage quiet. The only sound was the patter of a light rain on the roof. She called out, and when there was no answer, she decided Duncan must still be out digging up a story about the Lady seekers.

At least she hoped that was what he was doing. She hadn’t come all this way to end up bailing him out of Castlelough’s jail for pub brawling.

The little antique clock on the bedside table revealed that she’d been sleeping for three hours. Which at least partly made up for the sleepless night she’d spent trying to decide what to say to Duncan.

Despite the long nap, her head still felt fuzzy and a bit floaty. She was also stiff from long hours sitting crowded between two businessmen, both of whom had commandeered the armrests and the overhead bin, leaving her squeezed into the compact middle seat like a sardine packed into a can. Deciding to take a walk to explore her surroundings and work out the kinks, she wrote a note to Duncan, which she left on the kitchen table, put on her coat and a wool hat she’d bought in a Shelter Bay dress shop, and left the cottage.

A rainbow arched across a rain-washed sky the color of the inside of an oyster shell and over stone walls studded with shamrocks and moss. Except for the rustling of leaves in the trees and the musical trill of hidden songbirds, Cassandra found herself surrounded by absolute stillness.

In the distance, framed by the shimmering rainbow, the lake shone like polished silver. Surprisingly, none of the Lady seekers she’d seen crowding the streets of Castlelough as she’d driven through the village had made their way to the reedy banks. Or even to the hills, topped by the crumbling castle ruins that, along with the lake, had given the town its name.

She was wondering about that as she passed a cemetery, a somber place of high Celtic crosses standing like silent sentinels. A few rounded gravestones, names worn away by salt winds and the ages, were covered with pale green moss. She was able to make out several Joyce family names among the stones.

She continued on, over ancient mountains crumbling their way to dust, pausing at a mound of earth blanketed with flowers and decorated with stones. Cassandra had read about cairns, burial chambers that archeologists dated to five thousand years in the past, but standing beside this one, she could almost imagine the voices of those who’d crossed through the thin curtain between realms.

And although it was undoubtedly only a figment of her imagination, stirred by being in such an evocative place, she thought she’d heard some of them whispering her name as she walked away.

After turning a corner, she came to a towering hedge ablaze with shockingly pink fuchsia entwined with white flowers attached to thorny limbs guaranteed to keep trespassers outside. Still, she considered as the impenetrable-appearing greenery stretched for as far as the eye could see, she would have expected at least a few of the more ardent Lady seekers to have shown up with hedge clippers in hand.

Dragonflies flittered around the bushes, performing aerial ballets as they spun and turned, their bodies gleaming like jewels, their wings a sparkling and iridescent translucence in the shuttering rays of the sun breaking through the clouds. The buzzing drone of fat bees flying from flower to flower added deep base notes to the high treble whirr of the dragonflies’ wings.

Cassandra remembered an elderly woman at the commune, who, along with making honey for the members to sell at local farmers’ markets, had supplemented her living by performing psychic readings at the markets, fairs, and to private clients who, from the luxury cars that would show up from time to time, profited quite well from her advice.

One summer, when the skies were filled with dragonflies, she’d told Cassandra and Sedona that they represented change, not just in one’s life but in emotional growth and self-realization.

The ever-pragmatic Sedona had scoffed at the woman’s pronouncement that the dragonfly’s skittering flight across water represented the act of looking beneath the surface, into the deep implications of life.

“If they represent looking deeper, why do they fly so fast over the water?” she’d asked.

The fortune-teller, apparently not used to being challenged, had gathered up her crystal ball and tarot cards and gone marching back to her small, brightly painted house, colorful skirts swaying.

“I hope she doesn’t put a curse on us,” Cassandra had said, only partly kidding.

Her cousin had merely shrugged. Even at thirteen, she’d been the most sensible, down-to-earth person Cassandra had ever met. “Zelda’s always been thin-skinned. It was a logical enough question.”

Which had been true enough. But when Cassandra’s parents had died in that earthquake two weeks later, she couldn’t help wondering.

Unable to go any farther, she made her way back down the trail to the cottage, only to find that Duncan still hadn’t returned. Which, even though she knew she should be relieved, left her feeling more than a little disappointed.

Despite the sun struggling to shine, she felt damp and chilled from her walk. Retrieving her shampoo and body soap from her carry-on, she went into the bathroom located in the hallway between the bedrooms and was surprised to find it spotless.

The Duncan she remembered hadn’t bothered to unpack, and since hotel rooms came with maids—who were admittedly tipped well—housekeeping had never been a priority. Then again, she thought as she stripped off the underwear she’d been sleeping in, she’d never known him to cook, either. Apparently she hadn’t been the only one who’d changed over these past months apart.

The warm shower water sluicing over her felt like nirvana. Tilting her head back, she closed her eyes and felt it washing away the travel grunge, along with lingering fatigue and tension.