Cat's Quill (11 page)

"Trevor, then?" Donovan put down his knife and fork, frowning.

"He wasn't feeling well at school today, and the nurse called me. Nothing to worry about, I've had him looked at by Dr. McKenzie, and his Aunt Margaret's staying with him until I finish here." Worry lines creased her face for a moment before disappearing into an overly bright smile. "Unfortunately we can't always be where we want to be in life, and I need to work today, if only for a few hours." Her voice raised, and she tilted her head back toward the kitchen. "Turn that saucepan
down
! I can hear it overflowing from out here."

Tomas couldn't help but smirk. It was fairly obvious who was in charge. "It's nice to meet you too, Patricia." Taking a swig of beer, he nodded toward the kitchen. "How much longer will the shepherd's pie be? I had an early breakfast, and my stomach is protesting somewhat." As though on cue, his stomach grumbled loudly. It had been complaining a bit of late, something it usually didn't do.

"One shepherd's pie, as ordered." Craig backed through the door, turning once he'd closed it with one foot to give Tomas a grin. He put the plate down on the bar, together with cutlery wrapped in a paper napkin. "Enjoy." Patricia raised an eyebrow and nodded her head toward the kitchen, and he mock-bowed. "I'm on it, your highness," he said, vanishing back into the kitchen again.

Shaking his head, Tomas unwrapped his knife and fork and poked at the round crockery dish in front of him. Not seeing anything faintly resembling pastry, he took a small forkful to his mouth, closed his eyes, and swallowed, hoping that if he couldn't see it, it might disguise the taste. "Hey, it's not bad," he admitted between that and the next mouthful, opening his eyes again to grab another forkful before shoveling that in as well. Actually, it was very good.

Donovan laughed and shoved the salt, pepper, and sauce at him. "You might want to try these as well, buddy," he said, "if you can slow down long enough."

A whining noise sounded at Tomas's feet, and something brushed against his leg, hot breath panting through his jeans. "Kip!" The old man sounded annoyed. Leaning heavily on his shepherd's crook, he lumbered across the pub floor to retrieve his dog. Kip, for his part, ignored his master and looked up at Tomas with what could only be hope reflected in his big coffee-colored eyes.

"Awww," said Patricia, smiling, resting her elbows on the counter and peering over the edge to the floor. "He's found a new friend."

"A new friend with shepherd's pie," Donovan corrected. Spearing a piece of meat from his own pie with his fork, he flicked the beef cube into the air. Kip jumped up, grabbed it, swallowed, and shifted his attention to Donovan. "See?" Donovan said smugly. "Cupboard love. That dog will do anything for food. Obviously you're not feeding him enough, Eoin."

Eoin snorted. "If you believe that, you'll believe anything. He gets plenty to eat." He gave a low whistle, and Kip's ears pricked up. "Too fat and too well-fed, according to my dear, beloved sister." Donovan rolled his eyes, and Eoin leaned against the counter and gestured at him with one knobbly finger. "Ever since we were youngins, she knew everything and couldn't be told. But still, she's good folk, and that's what counts." He tapped at the side of his nose. "That's what her dearly departed husband always said too, God rest his soul. It was a sad day when he passed away, but still they had forty good years together, which is more than most of us get."

Patricia and Donovan both nodded very solemnly. Tomas's suspicions were already growing as to who Eoin's dear beloved sister might be. This village was growing smaller by the minute, and he doubted whether he would soon be able to sneeze without everyone, his dog, and his sister knowing about it before he'd even finished wiping his nose.

His fork paused midway to his mouth, and a thought struck him. "Alice Finlay," he blurted out.

Three pairs of eyes turned to stare at him. Correction, four. Even Kip seemed interested in the name. Tomas shifted uncomfortably, feeling as though he'd said something he shouldn't. "I saw some of her work," he said quickly, "and Edward wasn't very forthcoming when I asked about her." In fact, in hindsight, Tomas realized that the Postmaster had changed the subject. "I was wondering...." Tomas paused, took a breath, and wiped his hands on his jeans, fighting the urge to squirm as the entire pub seemed to quiet. "Where might I be able to look at more of her paintings?"

"Sketches," Donovan said slowly, after what seemed several long minutes, "and watercolors. There's one hanging in the inn." He grinned suddenly; it was as though a signal had been given to the others in the room, and once again the conversation picked up and carried on as though nothing had happened. "At least I heard there's supposed to be sketches." He shrugged. "I've never seen any. For a so-called famous artist from around here, it's real hard to find anything of her stuff. Heidi tried after we first moved here, as she likes to know the history of places where she's living, but she gave up."

Tomas frowned. Although he hadn't known Heidi long, she had given him the impression very quickly that "giving up" was not a part of her vocabulary. "I don't remember seeing a painting." Surely he would have noticed it if there was one.

"It's on the floor above yours," Donovan said helpfully.

"Oh." Tomas hadn't ventured up there as yet, his mind being preoccupied with other things, or rather another person, since his arrival.

"If you want sketches, I think the family has them," Eoin said in a brisk tone, "but they aren't sharing, and frankly I wouldn't be interfering. They've been through enough." He lowered his voice. "I heard it broke Elizabeth's heart when they had to sell the house, even though the sale never went through until after she died. It sat vacant for a few years after the last people who were there moved out too. That was before you and Heidi bought it, Donovan." He shrugged, took an enormous handkerchief out of his pocket, blew his nose noisily, carefully folded it into four quarters and methodically into eighths before replacing it in his pocket.

"Yeah, it seemed way forlorn, or at least that's what Heidi said. The previous owners never did anything for all their plans for the place." Donovan shrugged. "Heidi tends to personalize places, has done ever since I've known her." He drained his glass, wiping his lips with the back of his hand, ignoring the disapproving look Patricia gave him for the action. "Speaking of which, we need to think about getting back, as she wants that damn pink thing before two. She has things to do and places to be, though she wouldn't say who with or where."

"A woman has to have some secrets, Donovan," Patricia grinned. "Where's the mystique if you guys know everything about us?"

Donovan snorted. "Yeah, well, it's not like she's my girlfriend or anything or ever likely to be." He stretched, joints popping loudly.

"It's the principle of it," Tomas said sagely. "Or so my sister has always said." He had mostly ignored Kathleen when she monologued about the differences between men and women, especially as those speeches usually followed something he had done and, according to her, shouldn't have. Taking a final forkful of pie, he chewed slowly, savoring the taste, and then washed it down with the last of his beer.

"Sisters are good at that," Eoin agreed, placing a couple of coins on the counter. "I'll have another beer, thank you, Patricia, especially if these boys are going to desert you."

"We're not deserting her," Donovan protested, getting up off the stool, "although we do have to go if Tomas has finished his lunch." He glanced at Tomas's empty plate. "I think you missed a bit."

Tomas peered at his plate carefully until it dawned on him that Donovan was teasing. "It was very good," he admitted. "Although it was not a pie, as such, as it didn't have pastry."

"So one with pastry next time, hmm?" Patricia's eyes narrowed when Donovan reached into his pocket for his wallet, took out a couple of bills, and threw them on the counter. "Craig's been feeding you without getting the money first again, huh? I'll have a word with him about that." She rang up the cash register and handed him his change, ignoring his comment to keep it in lieu of payment for the company.

"He was distracted by my brilliance," Donovan said with a grin. "See you next week, Tricia. Take care, okay?" Kip whined, and Donovan leaned down to pat him. "You too, boy, look after the old guy for me. I'd kinda miss his bad sense of humor if anything happened to him."

"My work here is far from done," Eoin told him. "Until it is, you're stuck with me." He picked up his glass of beer and slurped it appreciatively.

Sliding off his stool, Tomas picked up his bag and hoisted it over one shoulder. "Next time will be more shepherd's pie," he corrected Patricia. It would still be a cold day in hell before he ate pastry again. He swallowed, the memory of the depths to which he'd once been driven flashing across his mind, complete with dripping grey gruel masquerading as gravy. Never again. "I'm ready to leave if you are," he told Donovan, who looked at him and then at Patricia and coughed loudly and not very subtly. "Thank you for lunch," Tomas said politely. "It was very nice."

Donovan mimed a tally mark on an invisible blackboard and sniggered. "Good boy," he said, giving Kip another pat. Tomas eyed him suspiciously but said nothing. For the moment he was more interested in getting back to the inn and taking a look at this painting. Getting on the wrong side of Donovan would hinder that.

It was only once they got outside that Tomas realized just how warm the pub had been. The wind had come up since they had stopped for lunch, although the rain had stopped. Behind the clouds, the sun was peeking through, but not enough to make any difference. "It was warm this morning," he grumbled.

"The weather can be weird around here," Donovan confirmed, leading the way back down the street to the outside of the library where they had parked Heidi's Land Rover. He gazed up at the sky. "It will probably be warm again by the time we get home. Once the sun comes out, it makes all the difference."

"Eww, I don't know how you can drive this thing!" A dramatic voice came from behind the other side of the car, and Mikey popped his head up, grinning. He handed Donovan a pamphlet. "Heidi wanted one of this month's newsletters, so here it is. I was going to tuck it under the wipers, but the wind got the last one."

Donovan scanned the piece of paper and put it in his pocket. "Yeah, I'll pass it along. Thanks, Mikey." He pulled out the key ring. "You wanted to say something?" he asked. Unlocking the car, he gestured to Tomas to jump into the passenger side.

"It's just so... pink," Mikey explained, shrugging. "And that rabbit is so gay." He mock-shuddered at the key ring.

Climbing into the driver's seat, Donovan opened the window and eyed the rabbit as though debating its sexuality. "Nah, that rabbit isn't gay, I am."

"Yeah, but you're cool." Mikey seemed uncomfortable. "Don't you worry about people seeing you driving it and, you know...?"

Donovan shook his head. "I might be gay, but I sure as hell didn't choose the color. It's Heidi's car, and she likes it even if I don't." He shuddered. "The only good thing about it is that at least from the inside you can't see how bad it is." Without missing a beat, he started the engine. "I learned a long time ago that people are who they are and you have to accept that." His voice dropped in pitch. "It's an interesting concept, you should try it sometime. It works great when people are giving you shit too." He glanced in the rearview mirror; there was a glimpse of a sad, almost wistful expression, but then it was gone. "You need to talk about anything, come see me, okay?"

With that he jammed his foot on the accelerator and the Land Rover took off, jerking from first to second gears in under a minute, leaving Mikey behind them, staring as they drove off into the distance.

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Chapter Seven

The journey back to the inn was fairly uneventful, but even so, Tomas was pleased when the paddock and then the large oak came into view. Although he had only been here a few days, they and the inn felt like home, offering a refuge to which he could escape. Grabbing the clothes he'd left on the backseat, he was opening the passenger door of the Land Rover before Donovan had turned off the motor. Now he knew about the existence of this painting, he needed to take a look at it.

"Where do you think you're going with those wet clothes?" Heidi called out from the kitchen as Tomas tried to sneak past. He froze in his tracks, wondering what had given him away. Did anything happen under this roof that Heidi didn't know about? "Half wet and stinky," she continued, drying her hands on a towel before walking over to the kitchen door. Her eyebrow rose, and then she grinned. "That jumper looks better on you than it ever did on Donovan. You should keep it."

He stared at her for a moment, not sure whether to take it as a compliment or not. In the finish he mumbled a thank-you and went to walk away. She coughed loudly and held out her hand. "Yes?" he asked somewhat blankly.

"I'll take those clothes," she said. "They need washing. You'll also feel warmer if you ditch that black T-shirt I know you have on underneath the jumper. Give me that as well and I'll wash it while I'm doing these."

Handing over the garments in his hand obediently, he began to take pull his jumper over his head but then stopped. She was not Kathleen, although this was something his sister would do. "You'll get the T-shirt once I've changed my clothes." Glancing up the stairs, he debated heading straight for the painting or giving in to Heidi's demands first. If he did what she wanted, he'd be free to take his time to examine the painting without an audience. "I need to do a few things first, and I'll throw it in the laundry hamper on my way out."

"Thank you," Heidi said. "I'm nearly finished in the kitchen, and there's a new pot of coffee brewing. Bring me your Thermos and I'll refill it for you. I've also made some scones, and you can take a couple of those with you for afternoon tea." She turned to walk back into the kitchen and through to the laundry. "I hope you like sultanas in your scones."

Cooperation appeared to reap positive results, Tomas noted. It was something he needed to keep in mind. "Yes, I prefer fruit scones to plain ones." He paused, a persistent voice in the back of his mind reminding him that he'd forgotten something. Apparently on some occasions a mumble did not cover every need to use the phrase. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," Heidi yelled from the kitchen, the strains of the latest pop song already blaring from the radio. She must have turned it down when they'd pulled up, although there was still no sign of Donovan. Presumably he was returning the Land Rover to its garage before coming inside.

Tomas began climbing the stairs. Pausing on his own landing, he hesitated before continuing on into his room. If he changed first and got what he needed for the afternoon, he could head out as soon as he'd seen the painting.

Throwing his bag on his bed, something colorful caught the corner of his eye. His hand went to the rose petal still in his pocket at the same instant his mind registered the presence of the single rose in the crystal vase on his bedside table. It was the same as the one he'd seen at the library, although it was not fully opened, the sweet scent of the lavender-colored bud filling the air when he took several deep breaths. His fingers caressed the smooth surface of the flower, taking care to avoid any thorns, as he retrieved the petal he had been carrying since that morning. A quick comparison showed that they were the same, the color of the loose petal not as obvious in the complete flower, as it was only partially open, but still there.

He frowned. The roses on the wall of the library were the same as those climbing the trellis outside his bedroom window. At least two of them were. Unable to remember whether the third variation was present here as well, he crossed the room and opened the window to make sure. Beneath the window the three roses intertwined, but once reaching the sill, they split, two going one way, the third, which here too seemed to offer them support, taking its own path, all of them reaching toward the light of the sun.

Heidi must have left it, all part of the room service, apparently. Tomas sniffed the air again. While he was not a fan of strong perfume, it did have a very pleasant scent and could be described as subtle rather than overpowering. Leaving the window open so that he could continue to breathe in the scent of the roses, he sat down on the bed, the single petal still in the palm of his hand. The book,
In Hidden Places,
he pulled from his bag, placing it on the bedside table next to the vase, the rose almost casting a shadow over it. He shivered. His mind must still be playing tricks after what had happened that morning. Cathal had not disappeared into thin air, and someone local obviously had a fixation for roses. While Tomas did not usually believe in coincidences, some days they served good purpose.

Opening the book, he placed the rose petal he held next to the daisy already sitting inside the front cover and closed the book on both of them. Removing his jumper, he took off the T-shirt he wore underneath, reached into the bottom drawer of the dresser, and rummaged around for a long-sleeved top. If he was going to spend the afternoon sitting outside, he was going to be warm. Feeling more comfortable in his own clothes once more, he hesitated, grabbed the jumper from the bed, and put it back on. It was nice and warm; he'd always liked Aran knitwear and missed his old one when it had mysteriously disappeared after Kathleen had complained about the holes in it breeding even more holes. This jumper, though there was a slight variation in the cable pattern across the front of it, was very similar to the one he'd worn out, right down to the off-cream color of the wool, which was weird in itself as it was Donovan's, and he had a definite preference for black.

Shoving what he needed into his bag, he headed toward the door, paused, and then picked the T-shirt up off the floor where he'd thrown it. He'd promised to give it to Heidi, and she had offered scones in return. Idly, he wondered if Cathal liked scones.

Or if he'd be there.

Tomas shoved any thoughts that maybe Cathal was a product of wishful thinking, or an overactive imagination, out of his mind. People didn't just fade into nothing like that, yet Tomas had a feeling that if he confronted Cathal about what had really happened, a straightforward answer would probably not be forthcoming. He sighed. While it would be reassuring to know he wasn't losing his mind, for the moment he'd settle for time and conversation. Knowing his luck, he'd find an empty field and spend the afternoon with a pen and a blank page in his journal, as even his muse decided to desert him for better prospects elsewhere.

Banging the bedroom door behind him, he stalked out into the hallway, already halfway down the stairs when he suddenly remembered the painting on the landing above. Unsure as to how it had slipped his mind when he'd been so intent on looking at it, Tomas changed direction and began climbing upward. He appeared to be the only visitor at the inn. The doors of the other guest quarters were ajar to, presumably, let the sun shine through and to air the rooms. Curious, he peered into the one directly above his own to confirm his suspicions that it was outfitted identically. Disappointed that it was, he pulled the door to again. Although he knew it was unreasonable, he'd hoped his was unique.

Like you?
The smirk was obvious in the voice in his head. He scowled. Yes, he was definitely losing it. Hearing voices, even that of his obviously ill-tempered muse, was supposed to be the first sign of madness, wasn't it? No, he assured himself; that was if he ever fell into the trap of answering back. After all, it was common knowledge that arguing with muses was a waste of time as they either ignored whatever didn't suit their purpose or just went their own way. Much like a lot of people he knew.

It took him a few minutes to find the painting. Instead of being in a place that displayed it in full glory, it was hung at the end of the corridor outside the door that led into what once must have been the master bedroom, as it was twice the size of the other rooms. The sun from the window of the bedroom streamed into the hallway, flooding the watercolor painting with light and giving it a feeling of warmth that seemed to reach out and touch him.

Taking a step closer made it more difficult to make out the details, the swipes of silken colors made by the artist's brush flowing into each other. Resisting the urge to reach out and run his finger over the canvas, Tomas moved back a bit until he could view it as a whole, and it was far enough away so that he could ignore the temptation to touch. He'd always been a tactile person when it came to things, loving to caress the covers of books in particular. People were a completely different matter. Inanimate objects were safe; they couldn't react in return and demand what he found difficult to give.

The painting was of a tree standing proud, its branches lifting toward an orange-red sky, the sun disappearing, the in-between-times of old Celtic mythology caught perfectly, neither day nor night but that moment when one merges into the other. Tomas's breath hitched, caught up in the magic of it. Figures stood under the tree, grass growing past their ankles so that they appeared to be a part of the landscape rather than trespassing onto it. Vague rather than defined, caught out of time yet giving the impression that they were exactly where they were meant to be.

He shivered suddenly, unsure why. The landscape of the painting seemed familiar, as though he had seen it before somewhere, but his memories refused to cooperate, telling him that it couldn't be, as something was not quite right about it. Peering closely, he confirmed the artist's name, his lips turning up into a smile that at least one part of this puzzle was falling into place, even if it just brought with it more questions. Although she was not a part of his quest to find the sequel to Emerys's book, it felt as though they were connected somehow. Tomas shrugged, reading the date under her name.

1916.

If Alice knew any of the answers he sought, it was far too late to ask her. Although he'd known she had died, the date on the painting brought it home. She had lived a lifetime ago, close to two lifetimes ago. The tree stared back at him through time, the figures beneath it probably long gone as well. It was an oak, the same as the one that stood outside, the sun catching the hair of those standing under the tree, soft white-blond strands shifting in an invisible wind making the whole scene feel as though Tomas was sharing a private moment he had no right to be a part of.

He blinked, trying to ignore the sudden feeling of deja vu. This inn and the surrounding area and people felt more welcoming than anywhere he'd been before; he would almost be tempted to give in to the feeling that it was a place he could belong but for the sheer ridiculousness of the notion. Tomas had let himself feel as though he belonged before, not only to places but to people, and it had never lasted. Nothing ever did. Even between himself and Kathleen, there was still a final, thin wall he would not allow her to cross for fear of the risk of losing her as he'd lost everyone else he'd ever truly cared for.

"Tomas! Where is that T-shirt?" Heidi yelled from the bottom of the stairs. "I've got the machine set to go, and I'm waiting on you."

Picking up his bag, he swung it over his shoulder, retrieving the T-shirt from the floor. After one final glance at the scene on the wall, he walked briskly down the stairs, torn between wanting to stay and stare at it longer and needing to get away from the memories it had unearthed as quickly as possible.

The smell of freshly brewed coffee met him at the kitchen door, and he sniffed the air appreciatively. In her hands Heidi was holding a Thermos and a warm tea-towel-wrapped package. "I'll swap you," she said. "This for the T-shirt."

His eyebrow rose. "That's bribery," he said, handing over the black, scrunched-up material. Even so, it was a very fair arrangement.

"Yes." She grinned, keeping her side of the bargain. "It's very effective though, isn't it?"

"You're an evil woman, Heidi." The scones felt wonderfully warm through the linen tea towel, although Tomas pointedly ignored the two leprechauns drawn on the fabric who appeared to be smirking at him. His imagination really needed a good talking to.

"I can be, if I'm sufficiently motivated." Her tone was quite serious, and he looked up at her in surprise only to find her smiling at him. "Go sit under your tree and do whatever it is you writers do." She mock-pushed him out of her kitchen. "I have things to finish and places to go." Heidi paused. "You and Donovan did look after my Land Rover, didn't you?"

"I wasn't driving," Tomas was quick to point out. Her eyes narrowed. "But yes, we were very careful," he added rapidly, "to make sure nothing happened."

Heidi snorted. "I'll have a word with Donovan before I head out this afternoon, once I check to see if I still have a gear box and a clutch left." Her brow creased to match her eyes. Tomas decided this would be a very good time to leave, before he got an interrogation that would put the Gestapo to shame.

"I'll go now, shall I?" He paused in the doorway to readjust his bag so he could balance the Thermos and scones. "After all, you have things to do and places to be."

Her eyes narrowed still more, and she muttered something under her breath. "It's nice to see you boys have been bonding," she continued, her smile firmly back on her face but not as reassuring as it had been several moments beforehand.