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.'
CHAPTER Two
As the air was raw and the wind carried a sting, Shawn set out the makings for mulligan stew. The morning quiet of the pub's kitchen was one of his favorite things, so as he chopped his vegetables and browned hunks of lamb, he enjoyed his last bit of solitude before the pub doors opened.
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
