The Selkie Enchantress (17 page)

Nuala drummed her fingers over the windowsill. Maybe it would be easier if he knew. Maybe it was a mistake erasing his memories. If he could remember the life they had run from, and understand what was at stake in these final hours on land, maybe she could regain his trust. Maybe he could even help her. Help
them
get what they needed to build the life they deserved when they returned to the sea.

It was a risk. But it might be the only way to have him back on her side. To keep him from causing any more trouble. She opened her mouth, closing it when she spotted a movement outside her window. She parted the lace curtain, recognizing the brunette from the other night at Caitlin’s house.
Glenna
. The artist who’d moved to the island a few years ago from Dublin. Her gaze dropped to the bulky object balanced in the woman’s arms. Brushing past Owen, Nuala opened the door to a rush of wind and rain.

“Hi.” Glenna smiled warmly, stepping around an overflowing pothole. “I hope you don’t mind me popping over like this.” She juggled the object wrapped in cellophane. “Caitlin asked me to finish this painting for over the fireplace ages ago. Do you mind if I hang it? I’ll just be a minute and then get right out of your way.”

Nuala stepped aside uncertainly.

“Thanks,” Glenna said, walking into the dimly lit cottage. Her long coat dripped rainwater onto the floor, already slick from the spray shooting in the door. She took a moment to scan the simple furnishings. A wheat-colored sofa and matching arm chairs circled a throw rug in creams and pale blues. A wooden rocker sat in the corner by the far window with a view of the harbor. An antique dining table nestled close to the hearth, separating the tiny kitchen from the sitting room. “It’s rather cozy, isn’t it?”

“It is,” Nuala lied. She wanted nothing more than to leave this place and return to her home.

Glenna smiled down at Owen, still huddled in the corner of the room. “It’s nice to see you again, Owen.”

“You too,” he mumbled, looking down at his feet.

Glenna wandered into the sitting room, setting the heavy object down and turning her attention back to Nuala. “How are you enjoying your stay on the island?”

“It’s a lovely place.” What was it about this woman that set her on edge?

“It is,” Glenna agreed. “I’m sorry the storm is keeping you from exploring more of the island. The views from the cliffs are breathtaking. On a clear day you can see as far south as the Cliffs of Moher.”

“We’ll have to make a trip back one day.” Out of the corner of her eye, Nuala caught her son’s head snap up. “But we’re making the best of our stay. And we’re glad to be away from the mainland for a few days.” She looked pointedly at her son. “Aren’t we, Owen?”

“Yes,” he mumbled, his gaze drifting over to the wrapped object.

“I’m glad to hear it,” Glenna said. “Maybe when you return, we’ll have a few cottages for you to choose from.” She strolled to the window, dipping her fingers into the bowl of seashells. “This is our second renovation. Mine and Caitlin’s. That’s what we do on the island.”

“I thought you were an artist?”

“I am.” Glenna glanced over her shoulder. “But I never pass up a lucrative business opportunity.” She selected a silver shell from the bowl and held it up to the dim light streaming in through the window. “Caitlin designs and manages the properties and I fund the purchase of the homes. We hope to have a string of holiday homes on the island one day to bump up the tourist trade to compete with the more popular islands.”

Nuala gritted her teeth. She didn’t care about holiday homes or tourist trades. And she didn’t have time for social calls. Why was this woman still here anyway? She better not expect her to offer to make tea. It wasn’t happening.

Owen took a step toward the painting. “Can I see it?”

Glenna smiled down at Owen as she set the shell back in the bowl and walked over to the painting. “Do you like to paint?”

He stared at the murky white wrapping, taking another hesitant step closer. “I don’t know.”

Glenna slipped a nail into the tape, sliding it through the holds. She looked up at Nuala. “You should bring him by my studio later. I’d be happy to set him up with some paint and an old canvas.”

“Thank you, but we have plans later.”

Glenna lifted a shoulder, snapping the second piece of tape. “Maybe next time.”

Owen inched closer, his fingers brushing the top of the bubble wrap.

“Go ahead,” Glenna urged. “Tear it off.” She lifted knowing eyes to Nuala’s. “I guess it’s almost like unwrapping a present.”

Owen tore the wrapping away from the painting and Nuala’s breath caught in her throat when she saw the white coral towers, the soaring marble gates, the sparkling beds of oyster shells around shimmering roses made of ice.

Glenna lifted the painting into her arms, carrying it over to the fireplace. “Might as well set it up on the mantle and see how it looks.”

“Owen.” Nuala struggled to find her voice. How? How could this woman know what her palace looked like? How could anyone know exactly what it looked like unless they’d seen it? “Go to your room.”

“But the painting,” Owen stuttered.  “I’ve…”

“Go to your room,” Nuala snapped, her voice cracking through the damp air in the cottage like a whip.

Glenna turned, her smile fading at the change in Nuala’s tone. “Is everything alright?”

“Everything’s fine,” Nuala said as soon as her son was out of earshot.

Glenna wandered away from the fireplace, studying the painting from a few different angles to make sure it was straight. “I heard you were a songwriter.” She walked back up to the wall, edging the left corner up a half an inch. “I’d love to see some of your songs.” She stepped back, scrutinizing the position, keeping her tone light and friendly. “If you ever feel like sharing.”

Nuala’s fingers curled into her palms, her nails biting into the skin. “I never show anyone my work until it’s completely finished.”

Glenna angled her head, a powerful flame burning deep in those amber eyes. “Never?”

“You must understand that vulnerability,” Nuala quipped. “You’re an artist.”

“Of course,” Glenna said, nodding. “But maybe you’d let me see one that’s finished?”

“Unfortunately, I left my song books at home.”

“That is unfortunate.” Glenna trailed a hand along the back of the sofa. “I guess I should be going. Bye, Owen,” she called loud enough so the boy could hear.

Owen ran out of the bedroom, his wet socks skidding across the slick floor. “Wait. Where are you going?”

“She’s going home,” Nuala said tightly.

Glenna’s lips curved as she brushed past Nuala.

“But the roses,” Owen stammered. “Look!” He stood on his toes, pointing to the line of roses leading up to the palace gates. “She knows exactly where all the roses go!”

Nuala’s hand shot out, closing over Glenna’s wrist. “What did you come here for?”

“To hang a painting for a friend.” Glenna looked back at her work. “I’m rather proud of it, actually. I always imagined this is what an undersea palace would look like.” She smiled, her gaze drifting back to Nuala. “Not that I’d know.”

Nuala heard the faint sizzling before she felt the burn, before she tore her hand free from Glenna’s arm and felt the blistering heat sear into her skin. She swallowed the cry of pain as Glenna brushed past her, stepping out into the curtain of rain and sweeping the hood of her honey-colored raincoat over her head.

“Who are you?” Nuala hissed.

Glenna looked over her shoulder and smiled. “I’m just an artist from Dublin. And you’re just a songwriter from Limerick.”

Sam scooped up a pile of manure with his pitchfork and plopped it into the ancient metal wheelbarrow. Steam rose up from the muck, drifting into the cold air. He turned at the squeak of the barn door sliding open, spotting the silhouette of a woman slipping through the widened crack in the door. “Tara?”

She nodded, closing the door behind her and stepping into the damp barn. Her small frame was dwarfed in an oversized raincoat. One of Dominic’s, no doubt. Her short dark hair was wet and plastered to her pale face, her expression guarded.

Sam leaned the pitchfork against the wheelbarrow. “Is everything alright?”

The wind raced over the pastures, an eerie whistling through the web of stone walls. Tara pulled her coat tighter around her shoulders. “I’m not sure.”

Sam rolled the wheelbarrow out of the stall, hooking the rope guard behind him. “What’s up?”

She glanced over her shoulder, as if she was afraid of being watched. “I probably shouldn’t be here.” She walked over to where a white pony stretched his neck over the stall. She cupped her hands under his velvety muzzle, letting his whiskers tickle her palms. “I need to ask you something. I… wasn’t sure who else to talk to.”

Stay out of it, Sam. You’re here to slip off the radar. To blend. Just take care of the animals and stay out of it.
The sheep pawed restlessly at the hay. An icy wind blew in through the cracks in the rotting barn door.

The pony nickered, nuzzling her hand and Tara took a deep breath. “I think there’s something happening again. I don’t know what it is. And I can’t get my head wrapped around it.”

“What do you mean?”

Tara reached up, letting her fingers comb through the pony’s gray forelock. “When you came here this summer and first heard the selkie legend, is that what changed your mind? Is that what made you stay?”

He caught the edge in her voice, the way her eyes kept darting back to the door. “It wasn’t just the legend. It was that and the roses, seeing you and realizing you weren’t the woman Philip said you were… meeting Glenna.”

Tara nodded. “But it was the story? The fairy tale? That’s what first clued you in?”

“I think so, yes.”

“What if there was no legend? What if things just seemed… off?”

Stay out of it, Sam. Just stay out of it.
Questions, angles swirled inside his investigator’s mind, but he clamped them down. He wasn’t that person anymore. He was someone else now. “What are you getting at, Tara?”

“Did you…” Her fingers toyed with a string coming loose on the pony’s faded red halter. “Did you believe in magic before coming to this island?”

“No.”

“Do you believe in it now?”

He chose his words carefully. “I believe there are some things that can’t be explained by logic.”

When Tara said nothing, continuing to thread her fingers through the pony’s mane, Sam dipped his hands in his pockets. All he wanted to do was work on this farm, care for these animals and keep a low profile. But he could feel Tara’s anxiety. He could sense her tension sizzling through the wet air of the barn. It reminded him too much of the mood he’d caught Liam in earlier. “Tara, is this about the book Liam is looking for?”

Tara’s hand dropped to her side. “What book?”

“Liam came by Brennan’s cottage earlier.” Pushing away from the stall door, Sam crossed the narrow passageway to stand on the other side of the pony, propping his shoulder against a wooden beam and looking down at her. “He seemed… troubled.”

“What book was Liam looking for?”

“He said he’d know it when he found it. I told him to go to Glenna’s. She’d been by the day before to borrow some of Brennan’s books.”

Tara’s gaze drifted to a thin crack in the barn doors. A tangled web of stone walls cut through the stretch of land dipping down to the churning sea. “They’re looking for the story.”

A ringing, like a warning bell, went off in his head. “A story about a white rose?”

Tara lifted her eyes to his. “You’ve seen the rose?”

“Liam showed it to me.”

“Liam?” Tara’s green eyes clouded with confusion. “He had it… with him?”

Sam nodded. “In his pocket. Said it washed up on the pier at his feet.”

Tara eyes widened. “There are two of them?”

The ocean played a haunting melody over the shore. If the roses were multiplying… “Where’s the other one?”

“Outside the cottage by the bogs,” Tara breathed. She pushed a shaky hand through her wet hair and told him about the falling petals. She told him about her conversation with Owen this afternoon, about his webbed feet and taking him down to the beach. She told him how the selkies surrounded him, like they’d surrounded her last summer. “He thinks his mother is the sea witch from
The Little Mermaid
,” Tara finished. “But I think he might be part-selkie. But I don’t know enough about the island and its legends. Caitlin said there was only one that she knew of. But maybe I’m missing something.” She looked up at him, fear swimming in her eyes. “Or maybe I’m going crazy and reading too much into this.”

Sam pushed off the wall, pacing back and forth along the narrow barn hallway. “How many petals?”

“How many…?”

“How many petals have fallen?”

“At least half of them,” Tara answered.

Sam turned, facing her. “What does Dominic think about all this?”

Tara looked away.

“What?”

She swallowed, looking guilty. “I haven’t talked to him about this yet.”