Tears of the Moon (3 page)

It was lovely, of course. Everything he wrote was lovely, and even her pitiful playing couldn't kill the beauty of it completely.

He'd added words to this one, as he often did. Brenna cleared her throat and attempted to match her voice to the proper note.

She stopped, sighed a little, as there was no one to hear. It touched her, as his songs always did, but a little deeper this time. A little truer.

Moon tears, she thought. Pearls for Lady Gwen. A love that asked, but couldn't be answered.

“It's so sad, Shawn. What's inside you that makes such lonely music?”

As well as she knew him, she didn't know the answer to that. And she wanted to, had always wanted to know the key to him. But he wasn't a motor or machine that she could take apart to find the workings. Men were more complicated and frustrating puzzles.

It was his secret, and his talent, she supposed. All so internal and mysterious. While her skills were . . . She looked down at her small, capable hands. Hers were as simple as they came.

At least she put hers to good use and made a proper living from them. What did Shawn Gallagher do with his great gift but sit and dream? If he had a lick of ambition, or true pride in his work, he'd sell his tunes instead of just writing them and piling them up in boxes.

The man needed a good kick in the ass for wasting something God had given him.

But that, she thought, was an annoyance for another day. She had work of her own to do.

She started to get up, to reach for her toolbox again, when a movement caught the corner of her eye. She straightened like a spike, mortified at the thought of Shawn coming back—he was always forgetting something—and catching her playing with his music.

But it wasn't Shawn who stood in the doorway.

The woman had pale gold hair that tumbled around the shoulders of a plain gray dress that swept down to the floor. Her eyes were a soft green, her smile so sad it broke the heart at first glance.

Recognition, shock, and a giddy excitement raced through Brenna all at once. She opened her mouth, but whatever she intended to say came out in a wheeze as her pulse pounded.

She tried again, faintly embarrassed that her knees were shaking. “Lady Gwen,” she managed. She thought it was admirable to be able to get out that much when faced with a three-hundred-year-old ghost.

As she watched, a single tear, shiny as silver, trailed down the lady's cheek. “His heart's in his song.” Her voice was soft as rose petals and still had Brenna trembling. “Listen.”

“What do you—” But before Brenna could get the question out, she was alone, with only the faintest scent of wild roses drifting in the air.

“Well, then. Well.” She had to sit, there was no help for it, so she let herself drop back down to the piano bench. “Well,” she said again and blew out several strong breaths until her heart stopped thundering against her rib cage.

When she thought her legs would hold her again, she decided it was best to tell the tale to someone wise and sensible and understanding. She knew no one who fit those requirements so well as her own mother.

She calmed considerably on the short drive home. The O'Toole house stood back off the road, a rambling jigsaw puzzle of a place she herself had helped make so. When her father got an idea for a room into his head, she was more than pleased to dive into the ripping out and nailing up. Some of her happiest memories were of working side by side with Michael O'Toole and listening to him whistle the chore away.

She pulled in behind her mother's ancient car. They really did need to paint the old heap, Brenna thought absently, as she always did. Smoke was pumping from the chimneys.

Inside was all welcome and warmth and the smells of the morning's baking. She found her mother, Mollie, in the kitchen, pulling fresh loaves of brown bread out of the oven.

“Ma.”

“Oh, sweet Mary, girl, you gave me a start.” With a laugh, Mollie put the pans on the stovetop and turned with a smile. She had a pretty face, still young and smooth, and the red hair she'd passed on to her daughter was bundled on top of her head for convenience.

“Sorry, you've got the music up again.”

“It's company.” But Mollie reached over to turn the radio down. Beneath the table, Betty, their yellow dog, rolled over and groaned. “What are you doing back here so soon? I thought you had work.”

“I did. I do. I've got to go into the village yet to help Dad, but I stopped by Faerie Hill to fix the oven for Shawn.”

“Mmm-hmm.” Mollie turned back to pop the loaves out of the pan and set them on the rack to cool.

“He left before I was done, so I was there by myself for a bit.” When Mollie made the same absent sound, Brenna shifted her feet. “Then, ah, when I was leaving . . . well, there was Lady Gwen.”

“Mmm-hmm. What?” Finally tuning in, Mollie looked over her shoulder at Brenna.

“I saw her. I was just fiddling for a minute at the piano, and I looked up and there she was in the parlor doorway.”

“Well, then, that must've given you a start.”

Brenna's breath whooshed out. Sensible, that was Mollie O'Toole, bless her. “I all but swallowed me tongue then and there. She's lovely, just as Old Maude used to say. And sad. It just breaks your heart how sad.”

“I always hoped to see her myself.” A practical woman, Mollie poured two cups of tea and carried them to the table. “But I never did.”

“I know Aidan's talked of seeing her for years. And then Jude, when she moved into the cottage.” Relaxed again, Brenna settled at the table. “But I was just talking to Shawn of her, and he says he's not seen her—sensed her, but never seen. And then, there she was, for me. Why do you think that is?”

“I can't say, darling. What did you feel?”

“Other than a hard knock of surprise, sympathy, I guess. Then puzzlement because I don't know what she meant by what she said to me.”

“She spoke to you?” Mollie's eyes widened. “Why, I've never heard of her speaking to anyone, not even Maude. She'd have told me. What did she say to you?”

“She said, ‘His heart's in his song,' then she just told me to listen. And when I got back my wits enough to ask her what she meant, she was gone.”

“Since it's Shawn who lives there now, and his piano you were playing with, I'd say the message was clear enough.”

“But I listen to his music all the time. You can't be around him five minutes without it.”

Mollie started to speak, then thought better of it and only covered her daughter's hand with her own. Her darling Mary Brenna, she thought, had such a hard time recognizing anything she couldn't pick apart and put together again. “I'd say when it's time for you to understand, you will.”

“She makes you want to help her,” Brenna murmured.

“You're a good lass, Mary Brenna. Perhaps before it's done, help her is just what you'll do.”

 

Aidan would be in soon enough asking if this had been done or that had been seen to. Then Darcy would begin to move about upstairs, feet padding back and forth across the floor and the ghost echo of whatever music her mood called for that day drifting down the back stairs.

But for now Gallagher's was his.

He didn't want the responsibility of running it. That was for Aidan. Shawn was grateful he'd been born second. But the pub mattered to him, the tradition of it that had been passed down generation to generation from the first Shamus Gallagher, who with his wife beside him had built the public house by Ardmore Bay and opened its thick doors to offer hospitality, shelter, and a good glass of whiskey.

He'd been born the son of a publican and understood that the job was to provide comfort of all sorts to those who passed through. Over the years, Gallagher's had come to mean comfort, and it became known for its music—the
seisiun
, an informal pub gathering of traditional music—as well as the more structured sets provided by hired musicians from all over the country.

Shawn's love of music had come down to him through the pub, and so through the blood. It was as much a part of him as the blue of his eyes, or the shape of his smile.

There was little he liked better than working away in his kitchen and hearing a tune break out through the doors. It was true enough that he was often compelled to leave what he was doing and swing out to join in. But everyone got what they'd come for sooner or later, so where was the harm?

It was rare—not unheard of, but rare—for him to burn a pot or let a dish go cold, for he took a great measure of pride in his kitchen and what came out of it.

Now the steam began to rise and scent the air, and the broth thickened. He added bits of fresh basil and rosemary from plants he was babying. It was a new idea of his, these self-grown herbs, one he'd taken from Mollie O'Toole. He considered her the best cook in the parish.

He added marjoram as well, but that was from a jar. He intended to start his own plant of that, too, and get himself what Jude had told him was called a grow light. When the herbs were added to his satisfaction, he checked his other makings, then began to grate cabbage for the slaw he made by the gallons.

He heard the first footsteps overhead, then the music. British music today, Shawn thought, recognizing the clever and sophisticated tangle of notes. Pleased with Darcy's choice, he sang along with Annie Lennox until Aidan swung through the door.

Aidan wore a thick fisherman's sweater against the cold. He was broader of shoulder than his brother, tougher of build. His hair was the same dark, aged chestnut as their bar and showed hints of red in the sunlight. Though Shawn's face was leaner, his eyes a quieter blue, the Gallagher genes ran strong and true. No one taking a good look would doubt that they were brothers.

Aidan cocked a brow. “And what are you grinning at?”

“You,” Shawn said easily. “You've the look of a contented and satisfied man.”

“And why wouldn't I?”

“Why, indeed.” Shawn poured a mug from the pot of tea he'd already made. “And how is our Jude this morning?”

“Still a bit queasy for the first little while, but she doesn't seem to mind it.” Aidan sipped and sighed. “I'm not ashamed to say it makes my own stomach roll seeing how she pales the minute she gets out of bed. After an hour or so, she's back to herself. But it's a long hour for me.”

Shawn settled back against the counter with his own mug. “You couldn't pay me to be a woman. Do you want me to take her a bowl of stew later on? Or I've some chicken broth if she'd do better with something more bland.”

“I think she'd handle the stew. She'd appreciate that, and so do I.”

“It's not a problem. It's mulligan stew if you want to fix the daily, and I've a mind to make bread-and-butter pudding, so you can add that as well.”

The phone began to ring out in the pub, and Aidan rolled his eyes. “That had best not be the distributor saying there's a problem again. We're lower on porter than I like to be.”

And that, Shawn thought, as Aidan went out to answer, was just one of the many reasons he was glad to have the business end of things in his brother's keeping.

All that figuring and planning, Shawn mused, as he calculated how many pounds of fish he needed to get through the day. Then the dealing with people, the arguing and demanding and insisting. It wasn't all standing behind the bar pulling pints and listening to old Mr. Riley tell a story.

Then there were things like ledgers and overhead and maintenance and taxes. It was enough to give you a headache just thinking of it.

He checked his stew, gave the enormous pot of it a quick stir, then went to the bottom of the steps to shout up for Darcy to move her lazy ass. It was said out of habit rather than heat, and the curse she shouted back down at him was an answer in kind.

Satisfied altogether with the start of his day, Shawn wandered out to the pub to help Aidan take the chairs off the tables in preparation for the first shift.

But Aidan was standing behind the bar, frowning off into space.

“A problem with the distributor, then?”

“No, not at all.” Aidan shifted his frown to Shawn. “That was a call from New York City, a man named Magee.”

“New York City? Why, it can't be five in the morning there as yet.”

“I know it, but the man sounded awake and sober.” Aidan scratched his head, then shook it and lifted his tea. “He has a mind to put a theater up in Ardmore.”

“A theater.” Shawn set the first chair down, then just leaned on it. “For films?”

“No, for music. Live music, and perhaps plays as well. He said he was calling me as he'd heard that Gallagher's was in the way of being the center of music here. He wanted my thoughts on the matter.”

Considering, Shawn took down another chair. “And what were they?”

“Well, I didn't have any to speak of, being taken by surprise that way. I said if he wanted he could give me a day or two to think on it. He'll ring me back end of week.”

“Now why would a man from New York City be thinking of building a musical theater here? Wouldn't you set your sights on Dublin, or out in Clare or Galway?”

“That was part of his point,” Aidan answered. “He wasn't a fount of information, but he indicated he wanted this area in particular. So I said to him perhaps he wasn't aware we're a fishing village and little more. Sure, the tourists come for the beaches, and some to climb up to see Saint Declan's and take photographs and the like, but we're not what you'd call teeming with people.”