Moonshell Beach: A Shelter Bay Novel (22 page)

“He wasn’t a sailor,” she said, tapping down a twinge of anxiety as they sailed beneath the arched iron bridge, headed out toward sea. “But a fisherman.”

Although she’d lived on the coast for most of her life, she’d always found it too wild and dangerous to want to do anything but walk along the beach or look down at the crashing waves from the top of the cliff at the edge of the Joyce family farm.

Yet now, watching the skill with which J.T. handled the fluttering white canvas sails, she found herself feeling safe enough that the nerves that had been sparking beneath her skin began to relax.

She leaned back against the sea blue seat cushions as the sloop picked up speed, skimming over the water in a way that made her feel as if they were flying.

“Since you’ve watched my movies, you’d know that seals have the ability to take on human form.”

“Yeah, I got that. Though I doubt any of them look as good as you when they do.”

She was used to men paying her compliments. They came easily and often, and, she’d found, it was difficult to value something so common.

Yet, to hear those words from this man, who’d originally seemed determined to dislike her on sight, caused a little rush of pleasure.

“Well, in this story, which I’m considering putting on film, although selkies need to live near the sea, if they actually go back into it, they revert to being seals and lose the ability to ever take on human form again.”

“That’s one hell of an internal conflict,” he said. When she looked surprised, he said, “Hey, even history majors have to take a lit class or two. I know the basic elements of story structure.”

Another surprise, and yet one more thing they had in common. She wondered if he was keeping track.

“Well, as it happens, there was a fisherman who’d lived many years all alone. One day he went out to sea, far beyond the breakers, and came back with a wife. Now, being a coastal village, everyone knew of someone who’d either met a selkie or who probably was one, so although people recognized, at first sight, that she was one of the seal people, she was a good wife and a good neighbor, even though she was shy and didn’t speak more than need be when she went to the market. Nor did she ever step foot in the church where most gathered on Sundays. Nor go to the pub to mingle with people.

“But those lapses are neither here nor there, because the people could tell that the fisherman was happier than he’d ever been, which led them to believe that the quiet, dark woman was a good wife. So, since they had kind feelings toward the fisherman, who always shared some of his catch with those in need before taking the fish to the monger, no one ever mentioned anything about her being a seal to the fisherman. And thus she came to be accepted by one and all.”

“A generous village, seeming without prejudice.”

“Aye, that it was. Yet as I said, she was not the first person in the village to have come from the sea. And undoubtedly would not be the last.”

Comfortable in the telling of the story that had been asking to be told in her mind for some time, Mary didn’t notice that she’d slipped into the lexicon of her homeland, as she often would do when tired, excited, or relaxed, which, since coming to America, was a rare thing.

“Well, as was his habit, the fisherman would often take his dory out to sea for several days, which saddened
and worried his wife. Some who saw her walking alone on the cliff, looking out toward the sea, swore they could hear her calling to him in a strange, haunting language no human had ever heard.

“As is the way of nature, spring gave way to summer, which, in turn, became fall. The days grew shorter and nightfall would come sooner, and the seas and winds grew more wild, anticipating the long dark months of winter.

“The poor selkie was beside herself with fear. Those who’d pass their whitewashed cottage with the seashell trim on their way to the pub in the evening often heard her wailing as if Cromwell himself had driven a sword deep into her heart.

“But as much as he loved his wife, and did not wish to bring worry down upon her lovely shoulders, the fisherman assured her that he’d been fishing in these winter waters since he was a boy. Besides, he told her, as they lay in their bed, warmed by the glow of the peat fire, didn’t he know the sky and the sea with the same familiarity he knew every curve of her body, every inch of her smooth, fragrant skin? He’d return, he promised as he kissed away the tears that glistened like sea foam on her cheeks.”

“I don’t see this ending well,” J.T. said.

“Now, who’d be telling this tale?” she asked as they raced like the wind along the shoreline, past the lighthouse. “You’re getting ahead of my story.”

“And a fine one it is.” He waved a hand. “Carry on.”

“Tragically, perhaps because his mind was too much on his wife, or perhaps it was just the whims of fate, on that sad day, the fisherman misread the
water and sky he’d come to know so well. The wind rose, turning the autumn waves rough and choppy.

“But still he was not concerned. Because he’d promised his wife he’d return home. And being an honorable man, he’d never, ever broken a vow to man nor woman. So he wasn’t going to begin with his beloved bride.

“Even when the fog blew in, surrounding the dory, the fisherman wasn’t afraid. A man could not fish off the Irish coast without knowing his way through fog. And though he might not be able to see six inches in front of his hand, didn’t he still have his ears? All he had to do was listen and the gong on the buoy would lead him home.

“But the wind and the sea had other plans for the fisherman. The waves rose higher, until his dory was bobbing on the sea like a cork. The wind, blowing with a furious temper, ripped down his heavy sail, and broke the mast into splinters.”

A thought suddenly occurred to Mary, having her glance up at the
Kara
’s tall mast.

“Don’t worry,” J.T. assured her. “Unlike the fisherman in your story, I’m not one to tempt Mother Nature.”

“I’m glad to hear that.” Despite the breeze that was still blowing in over the water, J.T. was lowering the sail and switching to an engine. “I don’t want to be distracted,” he answered her question before she could ask. “So, I thought we’d drop anchor for a while. That way I can pay full attention.”

He steered the gleaming white boat into a small cove carved into a cliff, cut the engine, then lowered the anchor over the side.

“Okay,” he said, sitting down on a padded seat across from her and stretching out his legs. “You have my full attention.”

It occurred to Mary that even in meetings with people who were considering whether to pay her a great deal of money, since she’d left Ireland, she hadn’t had anyone as riveted to one of her stories as J.T. appeared to be.

“So,” she continued, “for hours, as he drifted without his sail on the tides, the wind and the sea and the fisherman battled. Every time the elements seemed to be winning, the fisherman, who was as wily as he was stubborn, would outsmart his adversaries.

“Until finally, he was blown farther and farther out into the wild, windswept sea, and snow and ice began pelting him like stones, and his boat began to fill with icy water that chilled both his bones and his heart.

“Which was when the fisherman knew that his stubborn pride had finally gotten the best of him. He would not be returning home to his wife that night. Nor would he ever see her beautiful face again.

“So, with a heavy heart, he put his hands to his mouth and called out to her, shouting to be heard over the wail of the wind and the roar of the wicked sea, telling her that she was the only woman he’d ever loved. The only woman he
would
ever love. And he’d continue to love her to his death. And beyond.

“But even as his words left his mouth, they were whipped away by the cold, cruel wind, and the fisherman feared she’d never be able to hear them.

“His heart broken, he lay down on the bottom of the boat and prepared to die as snow fell from the
midnight dark sky and began to cover him like a cold white blanket.”

Mary bit her lip and blinked away the tears burning at the backs of her eyes. Whenever she thought of this tale, it made her cry. Which was why she was certain that audiences would be as moved by the fate of the fisherman and his selkie wife as she was.

Unfortunately, the one thing she’d learned since moving to America was that the powers that ruled in Hollywood wanted more conflict than a mere man against the elements, which was, to her mind, the most basic of all. And while, because her films made money, they might be able to overlook a lack of car chases or explosions, when it came to romances, as she knew this love story would be marketed as, they wanted a hearts and flowers “happily ever after” ending tied up with a pretty pink satin bow.

She sighed and shook off her dilemma, deciding not to ruin a perfect afternoon borrowing trouble.

“What the fisherman had no way of knowing was that his words, given wings by the power of his emotions, and his love, did indeed carry across the sea, to the cliff where his wife was pacing, drenched to the skin in the icy rain that was slashing down like needles from the churning dark clouds overhead.

“Lifting her wet and heavy black skirts, she raced down the stone steps as fast as her feet would carry her. When she reached the rocky beach, she tore off her confining human clothing, dove headfirst into the waves, and swam out to sea to save her husband.

“She called as she swam, and in the same manner his words had reached her over the scream of the
wind, the fisherman heard her and jumped up just as she reached the dory. He caught her as she leaped over the railing into his arms.

“Well, as you can imagine, they held each other tight, and there was much crying and kissing, and together they lay back down in the bottom of the boat and made the sweetest love they’d ever made together during all the days and nights of their marriage.”

“So she saved him?” J.T. asked, clearly into the story by now.

“In her way,” Mary said. “Without a sail, the boat continued to drift, and when the tide changed, as it always has, since the beginning of time, it drifted back onto the shoals. Where, the next morning, the villagers found the fisherman, sound asleep on the bottom of the boat, a seal covering him like a blanket, with her own blanket of white snow on her back.”

“He was alive.” J.T. moved next to her on the canvas seat. “But she had to return to the sea?”

“Aye. But at least, for that time they had had together, they shared a grand love. Which is, after all, more than many of us are granted in one lifetime.”

“I guess I can’t argue that. But you Irish do have a tendency for the dark and melodramatic.”

Since she’d heard that more times than she cared to count, rather than take it as a criticism, she laughed.

“Aye, doesn’t it seem that we do? But that comes from the ancient days going back two thousand years, when, in the Gaelic times, the ability to tell a rousing tale entitled a man to land and livestock,
which, since cows were used as currency, could make him wealthy. He’d also be invited to sit at the high table with kings and noblemen, and even, in the most proficient cases, was given a voice on their councils.

“In those days, stories were always told, not written down as they might be now, and the master storyteller to the court must be ready to recite any tale which might be requested by his lord or lady to entertain the company at feasts and clan assemblies.

“My father, who was a seanachie, which would be an Irish storyteller, always said that the best tales included battles, forays, courtships, elopements, pursuits, banishment, tragedies, magic, wonders, and visions.”

“From your films, it sounds as if you’ve followed in his footsteps.”

“And won’t I be taking that as another compliment, since he was known as one of the best, if not
the
best seanachie in all the country?

“But I do believe that it’s why, rather than choose novels, as my brother-in-law has done, I prefer film. An oral storyteller can no longer earn a living by spinning tales for the court, or wandering from village to town, entertaining at market fairs. But film, while a visual medium, still, at least in my movies, depends on dialogue. So, in that way, I like to believe I’m doing my part to keep the oral tradition alive.”

“You’ve definitely done that. In spades. You’re also reaching a much wider audience than those old guys ever could have dreamed of.”

The compliment, simply spoken, carried even more weight given that he hadn’t shown any inclination to hand those out all that often.

As they exchanged smiles, Mary, who’d initially
found him rude, edging toward unbearable, was unexpectedly, utterly charmed.

When his gaze moved down her face, sensually lingering at her lips before returning to her eyes, she had the impossible, inexplicable feeling that she’d known this man all her life.

As they sat there, side to side, thighs touching, heady anticipation sang in her veins.

Time froze. It could have been a moment.

An hour.

An eternity.

Mary’s breath caught, then shuddered out as she watched. And waited.

Finally, as if he’d read her unruly mind, J.T. drew her into his arms.

He took her mouth with the easy confidence of a man who’d kissed more women than he could count. He didn’t rush. His lips somehow managed to be both firm and soft at the same time. They plucked at hers, tasting at their leisure, lingering, wrapping her in gauzy layers of sensation.

Mary was no child. And, although she might not have grown up with the sexual freedom that girls in America possessed, neither was she innocent. She’d certainly been kissed before, beginning with the time, when she’d been fourteen, that Jack Kelly, who’d been delivering hay for his da, had caught her in the milking barn.

For the next two years, she’d had a wild schoolgirl crush on him, which had ended when he’d asked another girl to the May dance because she wasn’t ready to have sex with him. But Shannon Fitzgerald, whom he’d taken instead, had been.

Given that he’d not only never been faithful, but left poor Shannon—whom he’d been forced to marry when she’d gotten pregnant that same spring—with four children for whom he’d provided
no support, Mary knew she’d gotten the better of the bargain.