Selkie's Song (Fado Trilogy) (8 page)

“No, thanks, plain, no sugar.” He said and stood, turning toward the kitchen door. “Let me give you a hand.”

“Ach, no. Take a load off.” She entered the sitting room balancing a tray with biscuits and two steaming mugs that she set on a low table.

“This is one of the most beautiful harps I think I’ve ever seen,” Ty commented, ran his fingers along the shoulder to the seamless joining to the sound box. “Does it sound as good as it looks?”

“In the right hands it does.” She reached out and plucked a simple chord. “This was my brother’s creation. I don’t play.”

“My sister’s a harper. I’d love to give her one like this.”

“My brother is gone, and this harp is not for sale,” she said with a brittle edge to her voice, walked past Tynan, and sat in the chair adjacent to the turf stove.

He had a flash in his mind of the picture of Ronan at the harp, the hound at his feet, and the prayer card he’d seen in Mary’s entry way and his heart ached for Muireann’s loss.

Tynan moved to the sofa and sat across from her.

The glow of the fire spread in prismatic beams, lighting the angles of her face. Still wet tendrils of long, dark hair twisted over her shoulders and down her back. A vivid image pierced Tynan’s memory and imagination became reality.

Incredulity punched the air out of his lungs. “It was you.”

“Who?”

“That was you. On the beach, below the cliffs.” Naked, brazen, stunning.

Muireann handed him his tea, stretched like a lazy feline, and propped her bare feet up on an ottoman. “Of course it was,” she said, took a sip and grinned over the rim of her cup.

Tynan threw his head back and laughed with relief and a touch of embarrassment. He hadn’t dreamed her, she wasn’t some magical creature from the sea. This Muireann was flesh and bone, nicely arranged and within reach. He had seen those same tousled locks, not a mantle of water plants. Her long limbs were those of a woman and not a seal turned mortal.

“I’m not sure if I should be relieved or disappointed,” he said and admitted only to himself, she was no disappointment.

“Don’t tell me you thought I was a selkie? One of the Ó Conghaile ready to sing you out to sea and drown you?”

“It’s Ireland; stranger things have been known to happen when a man is caught off guard.” She could sing him straight to the gates of glory—or damnation—and he’d go with a grin on his face.

Muireann had shed her wet T-shirt and pulled on a high-necked polo and a loose Aran jumper. She’d changed her jeans for a long skirt. Other than her naked feet, nothing of her body was exposed, but Ty scanned her with imagination. The clothes dropped away and all he could see was her lithe contours and full breasts. When he worked his way down to the triangle of dark hair at the apex of her slim thighs, there was no stopping the physical reaction she elicited in him. He tried with no success to stop thinking like a horny adolescent.

“Are you shocked by me?” she asked, reaching for a biscuit from the tray.

Ty sipped from his tea to wet the dry lump in his throat before he was able to speak. “I’m not sure ‘shocked’ is the right word for it. Surprised? Sure.” Part of him was shocked, surprised, and a little off balance. “I’ve two sisters. I guess I’ve been really protective of them all these years. What you did…well, I think if you were my sister, I’d take you home and lock you away for good.”

Muireann curled into her chair, pulled her legs up and hugged her knees. She looked so deep into Tynan’s eyes he was tempted to turn away. His heart leapt into a gallop as she spurred his desire for her. In the silence, he was deafened by the blood coursing in his ears.

“I guess it’s a grand thing then,” she began, “that I’m not one of your sisters.”

Chapter Six

Ty had awakened with a smile on his face and throbbing evidence of the erotic dream that held him captive as he slept. The particulars escaped him, but Muireann O’Malley had played a major role in his unconscious wanderings.

He took a shower and threw the windows open to the crisp morning air to wake himself enough to believe she wasn’t only in his imagination. No, she was here, unmarried, beautiful, and her edgy disdain for authority undimmed with maturity.

However tantalizing Muireann was, Ty reminded himself not to let her presence preclude his true reasons for coming to Ireland. He would have to stay focused and not allow this serendipity to dislodge his determination. That decided, he wouldn’t refuse the pleasure of her company while he took care of business here in Ireland.

At his ten o’clock appointment time at the Ballinacurragh Fisherman’s Bank and Loan, he was thanking his hostess for the breakfast and rushing out the door of the An Currach B&B.

The bank offices occupied one of the few new buildings on the main street. He took in the fresh brick and mortar façade and entered through the revolving glass doors. An austere woman with dark rimmed spectacles greeted him.

“May I help you?” she said in clear, Dublin-educated speech that you could hang icicles on and not have them melt until next August.

He offered his hand. “Ty Sloane. I’ve an appointment.”

“Ms. Walshe,” she said and accepted his handshake. Her fingers were cold as a dead mackerel in winter, a mighty contrast to Muireann’s soft and warm hand when he’d finally said good night. He had wanted to kiss her, but it hadn’t been the right time. Ty was a musician. He knew something about timing.

Ty took a seat, listened to the vapid melody piped in overhead, and wondered what kind of person picked the tunes for lobby music.

“Mr. Sloane?” The chilly way she spoke his name shook him back to the present.

“Uh, yes.”

“Mr. Feeney will see you now.” She nodded toward a glassed-in office where Tynan could see the back of the banker’s balding head. The same balding head that had been the target of Muireann’s verbal darts last night. Tynan hoped the man had gotten over the sting. Whatever was going on between the two, Muireann had not offered an elaboration last night over tea. Besides, it would have surely dampened their warm conversation.

Feeney turned on his chair and waved Tynan in. The office seemed hermetically sealed, the air processed, purified, and recycled. No windows, no view of the street to the front or the sea to the rear. Photos on the wall were of Dublin’s financial district. It felt as though Tynan had left the village of cozy cottages, welcoming public houses, and entered an alternate universe—a world where the inhabitants dismissed geniality in deference to the euro.

“Mr. Sloane,” he said and stood, reaching over his glass-topped desk to shake Tynan’s hand. “I hope you’ve been enjoying your stay in our little town.” He directed Tynan to a chair. “But certainly you’re eager to get back to your life in Boston, so I won’t detain you long here.”

“Sure, no problem. I’m actually looking forward to staying in Ireland for a couple of weeks, but I would like to get the business portion of my trip out of the way as soon as possible.” Then he would enjoy what the scenery in general, and Muireann O’Malley in particular, had to offer.

Feeney opened a folder and pulled out several documents. “This is a legal description of the land in question. As you can see, it is of no particular value as it stands.” He then pointed to a list of numbers with a large euro amount at the bottom. “This is the amount owed in back taxes.” Feeney’s finger trailed down the page.

Ty swallowed hard and reread the bottom line. “My mother’s uncle must have forgotten he owned the place.” According to the other documents, only two hectares and a derelict building remained. Even at the current tax assessment, the land was virtually unimproved, no paved road led to it, and no planning permission allowed for sewer or other necessities. “My interest is only in selling this property. I’ve no need for it and it holds no sentimental value to me.” Indeed, Ty only vaguely remembered his benefactor and, right now, he needed cash and not a backbreaking tax burden. If Albert O’Malley had died intestate, Tynan could ignore this, but to his dismay, the man had gone ahead and named Máire Ni Moillin in his will.

Denying responsibility at this point, when Tynan needed his financial integrity unchallenged, lacked wisdom.

“Yes, the taxes have mounted up. This would be simple if it was only a tax issue.” Feeney handed a stack of papers across the desk. “Your uncle had taken out a loan with the property as collateral. That two hectares is devalued in today’s economy, but when this loan was issued, property values were booming. You might say, when he passed, he was ‘upside down’ in his mortgage.”

“The real estate market is tough everywhere,” Ty offered, not only thinking of this but O’Fallon’s.

Feeney nodded his agreement. “That’s why the Ballinacurragh Fisherman’s Bank and Loan feels it would be in the best interest of all involved if we forgive the remainder of the loan and retain title. Of course, the taxes would then become our responsibility.” Feeney picked up his pen and wrote an amount on the bottom of the page. “This is the current value, the back taxes owed, and the principle and interest due on the loan. I’m sure you’ll agree my offer is generous.”

Tynan felt a stab of disappointment. Feeney was telling him he would gain nothing but a huge debt by refusing the deal offered. His first impulse was to sign this mess over to the bank and forget he ever had an uncle O’Malley.

However, Cade had warned Tynan not to be hasty. Land often had hidden value. He should at least see it and read through the paperwork. He would be wise to fax the documents to Cade and have his attorney take a look. There had to be a reason Feeney was so eager to get the deal sealed.

“If you would have Ms. Walshe make copies of all this, I’ll send it off to my attorney,” he insisted.

Feeney’s already pink cheeks seemed to flush a bit deeper. “Certainly, certainly,” he stammered and shuffled the papers meaninglessly. “I’ll get those to you…uh…soon.”

“No rush,” Tynan said. He had originally planned to stay in Ballinacurragh only a few days, head up to Galway, visit some old haunts, catch up with mates from school, and then get back to Boston before Flannery’s due date. Now, he wouldn’t mind hanging around this area. He owed it to himself to catch up on lost years.

Could he unravel the details of Muireann O’Malley, where she had been, who she had become? Their relationship needed sorting out.

Relationship?
Ty wanted to box his own ears. They had no relationship.

An impatient stir in Ty’s loins effectively muddled the chatter over money. “What’s the next move?”

“Ah, now, if you’re in a rush, I can have the paperwork drawn up later today,” Feeney offered with a smile that would have looked at home on a cat who’d just swallowed the family goldfish.

“Are there any other claims on the land?” Tynan remembered Cade’s admonition
. These lands often have a twisted history. There may be cookie-jar deeds. Make sure you’re really in the clear, or you’ll have some Paddy hunting you down with a peat spade.

Feeney paled a shade and cleared his throat before speaking. “That shouldn’t worry you at all.” The narrowing of his eyes was almost imperceptible. “There is one local who claims the land is…well, I hate to use the term…she claims—” He cleared his throat and his face reddened. “We’re trying very hard not to fall victim to what you might call superstition. A few locals seem to think this land is
enchanted
…they should be embarrassed…enchanted with fairies? Perfectly ridiculous, of course. She has no legal right to the land as far as anyone in authority knows.”

She? Who was this she he kept referring to?

Ty’s BS meter shot into the red zone. “Are you saying this might be some kind of ancient pagan site?”

“Oh, heavens, no. It’s all about some tree,” Feeney grumbled under his breath. “Really, Mr. Sloane, no panic now.”

The banker’s quick dispatch of local concern set alarm bells off in Tynan’s head. Tales of the supernatural, for all their loss of credence in modern Ireland, had curtailed the prowling Celtic Tiger’s progress more than once. And any area that boasted even a slight possibility of historical value would be a magnet for protests.

He knew from what had been going on in the Boyne Valley and the Hill of Tara that he’d have everyone from UNESCO to Hare Krishna down here if they found so much as an unusual mound of earth on
this
site. A complication was not what he wanted. He also didn’t want to contribute to a local feud or cheat someone out of a legitimate bequest. “Can I meet this person? Perhaps we can come to some sort of compromise.”

Feeney’s collar suddenly looked too tight. His face reddened and a bead of sweat glistened at his brow. “The land and that pile of rubble she reveres so much have no intrinsic value and no historical significance.”

Tynan pushed back his chair and prepared to leave. “I’d like the fine points faxed to my advisors.” A good Boston lawyer would know exactly how to handle a slimy weasel like Feeney.

“Certainly.” Feeney’s expression would rival a caged rat looking for the nearest escape route. “Just leave the contact information with Walshe.”

“And let’s be sure everyone, even if they do believe in fairies, gets treated fairly,” Tynan added with a wry grin.

The banker put a thumb between his collar and neck as though to loosen the strangle hold. “No…now, no panic. Let me take care of all that.” He stood and offered his hand, soft and damp with sweat. Tynan resisted the urge to wipe his own hand on his trouser leg.

Ty had the same opinion of banks that he did of funeral homes. They were needed, but one shouldn’t hang around too long without good reason. Now, he needed to be outside on the street, hear the gulls call overhead and the sound of the incoming tide splashing the seawall. If he were lucky, he might happen across a familiar selkie taking her morning dip in the pool off the cliffs.

Chapter Seven

Solar heat warmed the rocks where she lay. Her pelt discarded, white skin exposed to the morning light, the selkie closed her eyes and listened to the song of the sea, a pulse to match the one of her own blood in her veins. Gulls circled, their shadows fleeting past, voices raised in an ancient call.