Tangled Souls (46 page)
Authors: Jana Oliver
“She’s with Bradley. He’ll watch over her.”
He nodded, catching her meaning. “He was always far wiser than either of his parents.”
“Thank you for the flowers. They were very beautiful.”
“Thank you for everything you’ve done for us,” he said, and then rose and offered his hand to O’Fallon. “Both of you.” They shook firmly.
“I’m sorry about how this played out,” O’Fallon said.
Gregory loosed a long sigh. “Same here.” He put his arm around Emily’s waist and guided her toward the funeral tent.
“They’re falling in love,” O’Fallon said quietly as he knelt next to Gavenia.
“They’ll do well together.”
“What about us?” he asked.
The question caught her off guard so she hedged. “What do you think?”
O’Fallon looked away for a time as if composing his thoughts. He began speaking before he turned back toward her.
“I was so afraid I’d lost you,” he said in a low whisper.
She leaned forward and placed a kiss on his cheek. “I’m hard to kill, O’Fallon. Especially if I have a reason to hang around.” She took his hand and caressed it. “Just promise to be honest with me. If you find this isn’t working, tell me. Don’t let me hang.”
A solemn nod. “I’ve got a bad track record, and that makes me . . . skittish.”
She chuckled. “My record’s not much better.”
His eyes moved to the top of her cane, where the butterfly had returned. “Gran says butterflies are the Wee Folk in disguise.”
“Your gran’s an interesting lady.”
O’Fallon’s face grew pensive. “I’m leaving for Ireland in a few days. Come with me.”
“But what about the police investigation?”
He shook his head. “With Glass dead, the matter’s settled. They found the gun he used to kill Taylor in the pit next to him. They traced Taylor’s cell phone calls to Glass. He used one of the throw-away phones. Probably figured he’d ditch it and no one would be the wiser. Since IAD doesn’t have anything on Adam, his transfer is moving forward. It’s over.”
“All the bad guys get away?” she asked. “That doesn’t seem fair.”
“Not really. They’re dead. They won’t hurt anyone else.”
She wasn’t so sure. What had become of Taylor’s Guardian? Or Taylor for that matter?
“How about Ireland?” he pressed, unaware of her concerns.
“I’m not ready for that, but I’ll visit Seamus while you’re gone.”
He gave a shrug as if it didn’t matter, but she could tell he was disappointed. Rising to his feet, he straightened his jacket but made no comment. To distract herself from her growing guilt, she moved a finger close to the butterfly. It walked its way onto her hand, gently tickling her with its feather-light feet.
“Hello, little fairy,” she whispered. “I wish I had pretty wings like yours.”
* * *
O’Fallon proved as good as his word—he called the moment he reached Ireland, though clearly exhausted. Subsequent emails were short and to the point: his gran was in good health; Ireland was breathtakingly beautiful; wish you were here. Five days into his visit, he closed an email with a quote from a dead king.
“I would you were in my arms, or I in yours, for I think it long since I kissed you.”
King Henry number eight
, Bart remarked, leaning over Gavenia’s shoulder as she read the message.
Lots of wives. Sorta fits, don’t you think? But then, third time’s the charm, as they say.
“Go away.”
Okay.
Her Guardian vanished.
She looked around uneasily. “That was too easy.”
An ethereal chortle.
Should I start packing for Ireland now?
“No.”
The Irish assault continued during one of her routine drive-bys to check on Seamus. The bird was in fine spirits, spoiled by the attentions of Gavenia and O’Fallon’s housekeeper.
“Yo, more berries!” the parrot commanded.
“You sound just like a cop,” she said, shaking her head.
After polishing off a blueberry, the bird cocked his head. “Where’s da cop?” he asked.
She realized what he was asking. “Da cop is in Ireland.”
“
Éirinn go brách!
” Seamus squawked.
“‘Ireland forever,’” she translated. “You got it, Seamus me lad.” Setting the bird on the back of the sofa, she hunted through the pictures on the wall until she found the one with O’Fallon and his grandmother. Did she dare meet the woman? What if the old lady couldn’t handle a witch?
“Toil and trouble,” Seamus retorted. She gave him a quizzical look. Bart stood next to him, apparently priming the parrot.
“Cute.”
Give me another week and I’ll have him singing “Rule, Britannia.”
“Don’t you dare! O’Fallon would never forgive me.”
Bart turned serious.
So what are you going to do?
“I don’t know.”
The phone rang twice and then rolled over to the answering machine.
“Yo, Seamus. It’s da cop and this is your daily call. How’s it going, old buddy? Is Rosa spoiling the hell out of you?”
Gavenia’s face split into a grin. Apparently O’Fallon called his bird once a day.
“Yo, dude!” Seamus called back. “Yo, more berries!”
On a whim, Gavenia picked up the phone.
“Hello!” she said. There was a decided pause while Seamus racketed in the background.
“Gavenia?”
“Hi there. Seamus said I should answer the phone for him. He’s having trouble grasping the receiver in his talons.”
Another long pause. “Really.”
“Yup. You want me to put him on?”
“Ah . . . no, I can hear him well enough.” Another pause. This one was longer than the others and made Gavenia wonder if she’d done the right thing. What if he was trying to avoid her?
“How’s Seamus?” he asked.
She walked the cordless phone to the picture of O’Fallon and his gran.
“Very well. He’s running LA out of blueberries, one sack at a time.”
A chuckle, then more silence. Gavenia fidgeted, ill at ease.
“I miss you,” O’Fallon said. “I’m being bombarded by widows and divorcees. They bring me baked goods and offer to go to the movies with me.”
“Oh. Any of them cute?”
“No. Not a one. But they’re wearing me down. Now if you were here . . .”
“O’Fallon . . .”
“Ah, guilt isn’t working, is it?”
Yes.
“No.”
“Damn. Well, I won’t keep you. Give Seamus a scratch for me and let him know I’m thinking of him.”
“I will.”
More awkward silence. Gavenia chewed on a nail, trying to figure out what to say next.
“I really miss you,” O’Fallon said, and then sighed. “I’ll see you in a couple of weeks.” The phone buzzed in her ear.
She returned her attention to the picture. Fiona O’Fallon’s eyes were like those of her grandson: intelligent and honest. Would she give a witch a chance? There was only one way to find out.
“Bart?”
Yes?
“Pack your shillelagh. We’re headed to Ireland.”
After yet another day of unrestrained attention from various widows and divorcees, O’Fallon retreated to Brogan’s Last Stand, his favorite watering hole. He watched in awe as the pub’s namesake prepared a proper pint of Beamish. The publican was a stickler when it came to beer and refused to top off the pint until the required ninety seconds had passed. He even timed that minute and a half with a stopwatch.
“So how’s your gran?” the man asked, keeping an eye on the second hand. Ironically, he was American and his accent reflected that.
“Very well,” O’Fallon replied. His Irish accent was thicker now; no way he could prevent it.
“How long are you staying?” Brogan inquired.
“Another fortnight. I don’t get home that often.”
Brogan topped off the beer and handed it over as O’Fallon pushed money toward him.
“Just give a wave when you want another,” the publican said, wiping down the bar with a towel.
“I will. Thanks.”
O’Fallon settled into a booth and worshipped the Beamish, the thick cream tickling his lips. His mind wandered through the conversations he’d had with his gran. At first, he’d tried to act nonchalant, as if nothing was amiss. She’d seen right through that. Finally he blurted out everything that had happened between him and Gavenia, even that they were lovers. His gran hadn’t batted an eye, though he was committing a mortal sin with an unbeliever.
“Ye two are fine pair,” she’d said. “Ye’ll bed with each other but not speak of what’s in your heart. Makes no sense to me.”
“I’m not sure yet,” he’d hedged.
“Ah, that’s a load and ye know it. I see it your eyes. This woman’s got your heart in her hands. The question is, do ye hold hers as well?”
That he couldn’t answer. Just because Gavenia was looking out for Seamus didn’t mean she gave a damn about the bird’s roomie.
A figure slid into the booth across from him and O’Fallon groaned to himself; his quest for silence had just ended. It was Doyle, a man with the gift of gab, so he put on his game face and waited for the man’s opening salvo. He wondered what it would be tonight: the weather, the ponies, or the current state of the Irish government.
The older man took a sip of his Guinness and smacked his lips approvingly and gave a wide smile. “Damned shame about that pony in the fourth race.”
Ponies it is.
* * *
Please let this go well
, Gavenia prayed as she stood in the doorway to the sitting room. Her gut was knotted like a pair of kid’s shoelaces, and her right hand shook despite her attempt to hold it in check.
Just be yourself
, Bart advised from his place behind her.
I hope that’s enough.
Fiona O’Fallon sat in a chair near the sunlit window, clad in a cardigan and a long wool skirt. Her features were delicate. High cheekbones, glowing silver hair, and bright eyes. Just like someone’s grandmother. Problem was, she was
his
grandmother.
“Mrs. O’Fallon, I’m Gavenia Kingsgrave.” A strange expression appeared on the old woman’s face, and Gavenia’s gut flipped over in response.
Oh, Goddess, she’s going to throw me out.
Fiona waved her forward and pointed to the chair. “I figured ye’d show up.”
What does that mean?
Stop reading things into the situation
, Bart grumbled. He sat on the piano bench. Behind the old woman was a hazy figure of a monk, her Guardian. He observed Gavenia with a benevolent gaze.
Gavenia took her place in the chair, not bothering to remove her cloak. That’d save time when she was shown the door. She hooked her cane on the armrest and waited while the housekeeper puttered into the room.
Fiona asked, “When do ye think Douglas will be back?”
“Couple hours, I suspect,” the woman replied. “He said he wanted to stop at the pub for a pint or two.”
“Good. That’ll be more than enough time. Give us privacy, if ye will, Agatha?” The housekeeper nodded and left the room, closing the door behind her. Gavenia’s gut did another flip.
Fiona O’Fallon fixed her gaze on her guest. Was this was how a mouse felt right before a cat went for the kill?
“Douglas said ye two are lovers.”
Straightforward. I like that. Now we know where O’Fallon gets it
, Bart observed.
“Yes, we are,” Gavenia replied.
“He said ye’re a witch and that ye talk to the dead.”
“Yes.”
“So why are ye interested in my grandson, then?”
Gavenia frowned. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“He seems a bit ordinary for ye.”
“Ordinary? O’Fallon? You’ve got to be kidding,” she blurted, her nervousness getting the best of her. “He’s a brilliant investigator; he writes poetry and does origami. He’s as psychic as I am. I’d hardly consider that ordinary.”
The older woman’s face lost a bit of its harshness. “Are ye willing to become Catholic if he decides he wants to marry ye?”
Instant irritation. Gavenia shot back, “Would he be willing to become Wiccan if I pop the question first?”
The old lady frowned, pushing wrinkles in all directions. “If I asked ye to leave now, would ye promise never to see him again?”
Gavenia stared.
Oh, Goddess. She’s going to fight this.
She tried to keep her voice from trembling. “He’s capable of making his own decisions.”
“What if it came down to choosing between ye and me?”
Gavenia’s resolve faltered. “If it came down to making him choose between us . . .” She hesitated, and the old woman leaned forward, eyeing her. “I won’t drive a wedge between you. You are the most important part of his life. He’d hate me for making him choose. I’d doom our relationship.”
Silence.
Fiona’s face softened. Then a chuckle. “No, Seamus is the most important thing in his life. I run a close second.”
“Which makes me a very poor third,” Gavenia muttered without thinking.
The woman gave an approving nod. “By all the saints, ye’re a feisty one. No wonder Doug likes ye. He can’t stand simple women, the ones without a brain.” She gave a quick nod. “Well, ye’ll not have to choose who ye worship. Ye’re okay by me.”
