Jewels of the Sun (6 page)

“He was a wild one as a lad, and there’s a look about him that says he could be again.” Kathy sighed. “I’ve
always had a soft spot for a wild heart in a man. Have you no sweetheart in the States, then, Jude?”

“No.” She thought briefly of William. Had she ever considered her husband her sweetheart? “No one special.”

“If they’re not special, what would the point be?”

No point at all, Jude thought later when she showed her guests to the door. She couldn’t claim he’d been her great love, as John Magee had been to Maude. They hadn’t been special to each other, she and William.

They should have been. And for a time, he’d been the focus of her life. She’d loved him, or had believed she loved him. Damn it, she’d wanted to love him and had given him her best.

But it hadn’t been good enough. It was mortifying knowing that. Knowing how easily, how thoughtlessly he’d broken still fresh vows and dismissed her from his life.

But neither, she could admit, would she have grieved for him for seventy years if he’d died in some heroic or tragic fashion. The fact was, if William had died in some freak accident, she could have been the stalwart widow instead of the discarded wife.

And how horrible it was to realize she’d have preferred it that way.

What had hurt more? she wondered now. The loss of him or the loss of her pride? Whichever was true, she wouldn’t allow such a thing to happen again. She wouldn’t simply fall in line—into marriage, then out again, because it was asked of her.

This time around, she would concentrate on herself, and being on her own.

Not that she had anything against marriage, she thought as she loitered outside. Her parents had a solid marriage, were devoted to each other. It might not have had that cinematic, wildly passionate scope some imagined for
themselves, but their relationship was a fine testament to a partnership that worked.

Perhaps she’d pretended she would have something near to that with William, a quiet and dignified marriage, but it hadn’t hit the mark. And the fault was hers.

There was nothing special about her. She was more than a little ashamed to admit that she’d simply become a habit to him, part of his routine.

Meet William for dinner Wednesday night at seven at one of three favored restaurants. On Saturday, meet for a play or a film, followed by a late supper, followed by tasteful sex. If both parties are agreeable, extend evening to a healthy eight hours’ sleep, followed by brunch and a discussion of the Sunday paper.

That had been the pattern of their courtship, and marriage had simply slipped into the scheme of it.

And it had been so easy, really, to end the pattern altogether.

But God,
God
, she wished she’d done the ending. That she’d had the guts or the flair for it. A torrid affair in a cheap motel. Moonlighting as a stripper. Running away to join a motorcycle gang.

As she tried to imagine herself slithering into leather and hopping on the back of a motorcycle behind some burly, tattooed biker named Zero, she laughed.

“Well, now, sure that’s a fair sight for a man on an April afternoon.” Aidan stood at the break in the hedgerows, hands comfortably in his pockets, grinning at her. “A laughing woman with flowers at her feet. Now some might think, being where we are, that they’d stumbled across a faerie come out to charm the blossoms to blooming.”

He strolled toward the gate as he spoke, paused there. And she was certain she’d never seen a more romantic picture in her life than Aidan Gallagher with his thick, rich
hair ruffled by the breeze, his eyes a clear, wild blue, standing at the gate with the distant cliffs at his back.

“But you’re no faerie, are you, Jude Frances?”

“No, of course not.” Without thinking she lifted a hand to make sure her hair was still tidy. “I, ah, just had a visit from Kathy Duffy and Betsy Clooney.”

“I passed them on the road when I was walking this way. They said you had a nice hour over tea and cakes.”

“You walked? From the village?”

“It’s not so very far if you like to walk, and I do.” She was looking just a bit distressed again, Aidan mused. As if she wasn’t quite sure what to do about him.

Well, he supposed that made them even. But he wanted to make her smile, to watch her lips curve slow and shy and her dimples come to life.

“Are you going to ask me into your garden or would you rather I just kept walking?”

“No, sorry.” She hurried to the gate and reached for the latch just as he did. His hand closed over hers, warm and firm, so they lifted the latch together.

“What were you thinking of that made you laugh?”

“Oh, well . . .” Since he still had her hand, she found herself backing up. “Just something foolish. Mrs. Duffy left some cakes, and there’s still tea.”

He couldn’t recall ever having seen a woman so spooked just by speaking to him. But he couldn’t say that her reaction was entirely displeasing. Testing, he kept her hand in his, continued forward as she walked back.

“And I imagine you’ve had your fill of both for now. Truth is, I need the air from time to time, so I go on what people call Aidan’s rambles. Unless you’re in a hurry to go back in, we could just sit on your stoop awhile.”

His free hand reached out, pressed her hip and stopped her retreat. “You’re about to step on your flowers,” he
murmured. “A shame it would be to crush them underfoot.”

“Oh.” Cautious, she edged away. “I’m clumsy.”

“I wouldn’t say so. A bit nervy is all.” Despite the odd pleasure of seeing her flustered, he had an urge to smooth those nerves away and put her at ease.

With his fingertips curled to hers, he shifted, turned her with such fluid grace she could only blink to find herself facing the other way. “I wondered,” he went on as he led her toward the stoop, “if you’re interested in hearing the stories I know. For your paper.”

“Yes, very much.” She let out a relieved breath and lowered herself to the stoop. “I started on it this morning—the paper—trying to get a feel for it, formulate an outline, the basic structure.”

She wrapped her arms around her knees, then tightened them as she glanced over and saw him watching her. “What is it?”

He lifted a brow. “It’s nothing. I’m listening. I like listening to you. Your voice is so precise and American.”

“Oh.” She cleared her throat, stared straight ahead again as if she had to keep a close eye on the flowers so they didn’t escape. “Where was I . . . the structure of it. The different areas I want to address. The fantasy elements, of course, but also the social, cultural, and sexual aspects of traditional myths. Their use in tradition as entertainment, as parables, as warnings, in romance.”

“Warnings?”

“Yes, mothers telling children about bog faeries to keep them from wandering into dangerous areas, or relating tales of evil spirits and so forth to influence them to behave. There are as many—more actually—grotesque legends as there are benevolent ones.”

“Which do you prefer?”

“Oh, well.” She fumbled a little. “Both, I suppose, depending on the mood.”

“Do you have many?”

“Many what?”

“Moods. I think you do. You have moody eyes.”
There
, he thought,
that’s made her look in my direction again
.

Those long, liquid pulls started up again in her belly, so she looked away again. Quickly. “No, actually, I’m not particularly moody. Anyway, hmmm. You have babies being snatched from their cradles and replaced with changelings, children devoured by ogres. In the last century we’ve changed passages and endings in fairy tales to happy-ever-after, when in reality their early forms contained blood and death and devouring. Psychologically, it mirrors the changes in our cultures, and what parents want their children to hear and to believe.”

“And what do you believe?”

“That a story’s a story, but happy-ever-after is less likely to give a child nightmares.”

“And did your mother tell you stories of changelings?”

“No.” The idea of it had Jude laughing. “But my grandmother did. In a very entertaining fashion. I imagine you tell an entertaining one, too.”

“I’ll tell you one now, if you’ve a mind to walk down to the village with me.”

“Walk?” She shook her head. “It’s miles.”

“No more than two.” Suddenly he wanted very much to walk with her. “You’ll work off Mrs. Duffy’s cakes, then I’ll feed you supper. We have beggarman’s stew on the menu tonight, and it sits well. I’ll see you get a ride home after a bit.”

She slid her gaze toward him, then away again. It sounded wonderfully spontaneous, just stand up and go, no
plans, no structure. Which, of course, was exactly why it wouldn’t do.

“That’s tempting, but I really should work a little longer.”

“Then come tomorrow.” He took her hand again, drawing her to her feet as he rose. “We have music at Gallagher’s of a Saturday night.”

“You had music there last night.”

“More,” he told her. “And a bit more. . . structured you’d say, I suppose. Some musicians from Waterford City, the traditional sort. You’ll enjoy it and you can’t write about Ireland’s legends, can you, without its music? So come down to the pub tomorrow night, and I’ll come to you on Sunday.”

“Come to me?”

He smiled again, slow, deliberate, delightful. “To tell you a story, for your paper. Will Sunday in the afternoon do for you?”

“Oh, yes, that would be fine. Perfect.”

“Good day to you, then, Jude Frances.” He strolled to the gate, then turned. His eyes were bluer, more intense when they met hers, held hers. “Come on Saturday. I like looking at you.”

She didn’t move a muscle, not when he turned to open the gate, not when he walked through and down to the road. Not even after he was well beyond the high hedge and away.

Looking at her? What did he mean by that? Exactly.

Was that some sort of casual flirtation? His eyes hadn’t looked casual, she thought as she began to pace up and down the narrow path. Of course, how would she know, really, when this was only the second time she’d seen him?

That was probably it. Just an offhand, knee-jerk flirtation
from a man used to flirting with women. More, when you considered the situation, a friendly remark.

“ ‘I’d like to see you in the pub on Saturday, come on by,’” she murmured. “That’s all he meant. And damn it all to hell and back, why do I have to pick everything apart?”

Annoyed with herself, she strode back into the house, closed the door firmly. Any sensible woman would have smiled at him when he’d said it, flirted back a little. It was a harmless, even conditioned response. Unless you were a neurotic tight-ass.

“Which, Jude F. Murray, is exactly what you are. A neurotic tight-ass. You couldn’t just open your idiot mouth and say something like, ‘I’ll see what I can do. I like looking at you, too.’ Oh, no, you just stand there like he’d shot you between the eyes.”

Jude stopped, holding up both hands, shutting her eyes. Now she wasn’t just talking to herself. She was scolding herself as if she were two different people.

Taking deep breaths, she calmed herself and decided she really wanted another of those little frosted cakes, just to take the edge off.

She marched into the kitchen, ignoring the prissy little voice in her head that told her she was compensating with oral gratification. Yeah, so what? When some gorgeous man she barely knew had her hormones erupting, she was damn well going to comfort herself with sugar.

She snatched up a cake with pale pink frosting, then whirled around at the loud thud against the back door. At the sight of the hairy face and long teeth, she cut loose with a squeal and the cake sailed up, bounced off the ceiling, then landed with a plop—frosting side down—at her feet.

It took her only the amount of time the cake was airborne to realize it wasn’t a monster at the back door but a dog.

“Jesus! Jesus Christ, what’s with this country? Every two minutes something’s coming to the door.” She dragged her fingers through her hair, setting curls free, then she and the dog eyed each other through the glass.

She had big brown eyes, and Jude decided they looked hopeful rather than aggressive. Her teeth were showing, true, but her tongue was lolling out, so what choice did they have? Huge paws had already smeared the glass with mud, but when she let out a friendly woof, Jude caved.

As she moved to the door, the dog disappeared. But there she was when Jude opened it, sitting politely on the back stoop, thumping her tail and gazing up at her.

“You’re the O’Tooles’ dog, aren’t you?”

She seemed to take this for an invitation and shoved her way in to clomp around the kitchen, spreading mud. Then she did Jude the favor of cleaning up the dropped cake before walking to the fire and sitting on her haunches again.

“I didn’t feel like starting the fire in here today.” She walked over, holding out her hand to see what the dog would do about it. When she sniffed it politely, then gave it a nudge with her nose so it landed on her head, Jude laughed.

“Clever, aren’t you?” Obligingly, she scratched between her ears. She’d never had a dog, though her mother had two ill-tempered Siamese cats that were pampered like royalty.

She imagined the dog had visited Old Maude regularly, had curled up by the kitchen fire and kept the old woman company from time to time. Did dogs feel grief when a friend had died? she wondered, then remembered she’d yet to keep her promise to take flowers to Maude’s grave.

She’d inquired about the location in the village the night before. Maude was buried east of the village, above the sea, beyond the path that ran near the hotel, and back to the
ruins and the oratory and the well of Saint Declan.

A long and scenic walk, she mused.

On impulse, Jude pulled the flowers she’d put on the kitchen counter out of their bottle, then cocked her head at the dog.

“Want to go visit Old Maude?”

The dog gave another woof, got to her feet, and as they walked out the back door together, Jude wondered who was leading whom.

It felt very rural and rustic. As she hiked over hills with the yellow dog, flowers in her hand for an ancestor’s grave, Jude imagined it as part of her weekly routine. The Irish country woman with her faithful hound, paying respects to a distant cousin.