CHAPTER Seven
I'm compiling stories, Jude wrote in her journal, and find the project even more interesting than I'd expected. The tapes my grandmother sent bring her here. While I'm listening to them, it's almost as if she's sitting across from me. Or, sweeter somehow, as if I were a child again and she had come by to tell me a bedtime story.
She prefaces her telling of the Lady Gwen tale by stating she'd never told me this story. She must be mistaken, as portions of it were very familiar to me while Aidan was relating it to me.
Logically, I dreamed of it because the memory of the story was in my subconscious and being in the cottage tripped it free.
Jude stopped typing, pushed back, drummed her fingers. Yes, of course, that was it. She felt better now that she'd written it down. It was exactly the exercise she always gave to her first-year students. Write down your thoughts on a certain problem or indecision, in conversational style, without filters. Then sit back, read, and explore the answers you've found.
So why hadn't she documented her encounter with Aidan in her journal? She'd written nothing about the way he'd caged her between the stove and his body, the way he'd nibbled on her as she were something tasty. Nothing about how she felt or what she thought.
Oh, God. Just the memory of it had her stomach flipping.
It was part of her experience, after all, and her journal was designed to include her experiences, her thoughts and feelings about them.
She didn't want to know her thoughts and feelings, she reminded herself. Every time she tried to think about it in a reasonable manner, those feelings took over and turned her mind to mush.
'Besides, it's not relevant,' she said aloud.
She huffed out a breath, rolled her shoulders, and put her fingers back on the keys.
It was interesting to note that my grandmother's version of the Lady Gwen tale was almost exactly the same as Aidan's. The delivery of each was defined by the teller, but the characters, details, the tone of the story were parallel.
This is a clear case of well-practiced and skilled oral tradition, which indicates a people who respect the art enough to keep it as pure as possible. It also indicates to me, psychologically, how a story becomes legend and legend becomes accepted as truth. The mind hears, again and again, the same story with the same rhythm, the same tone, and begins to accept it as real.
I dream about them.
Jude stopped again, stared at the screen. She hadn't meant to type that. The thought had slipped into her mind and down through her fingers. But it was true, wasn't it? She dreamed about them almost nightly now-the prince on the winged white horse who looked remarkably like the man she'd met at Maude's grave. The sober-eyed woman whose face was a reflection of the one she thought she'd seen-had seen, Jude corrected, in the window of the cottage.
Her subconscious had given them those faces, of course. That was perfectly natural. The events in the story were said to have happened at the cottage where she lived, so naturally the seeds had been planted and they bloomed in dreams.
It was nothing to be surprised by or concerned about.
Still, she decided she was in the wrong mood for journal entries or exercises and turned off the machine. Since Sunday she'd kept very close to the cottage-to work, she assured herself. Not because she was avoiding anyone. And though the work was satisfying her, fueling her in a way, it was time to get out.
She could drive into Waterford for some supplies and those gardening books. She could explore more of the countryside, instead of just roaming the hills and fields near her house. Surely the more she drove, the more comfortable she'd be with driving.
Solitude, she reminded herself, was soothing. But it could also become stifling. And it could make you forgetful, she decided. Hadn't she had to look at the calendar that morning just to figure out if it was Wednesday or Thursday?
Out, she told herself while she hunted up her purse and her keys. Explore, shop, see people. Take photographs, she added, stuffing her camera in her purse, to send to her grandmother with the next letter home.
Maybe she would linger and treat herself to a nice dinner in the city.
But the minute she stepped outside, she realized it was here she wanted to linger, right here in the pretty garden with her view of the green fields and the shadowy mountains and wild cliffs.
What harm would it do to spend just half an hour weeding before she left? Okay, she wasn't dressed for weeding, but so what? Did she or did she not know how to do her own laundry now?
Except for the sweater she'd managed to shrink to doll size, that little experiment had come off very well.
So she didn't know a weed from a daisy. She had to learn, didn't she? She just wouldn't yank anything that looked pretty.
The air was so soft, the light so lovely, the clouds so thick and white.
When the yellow dog bounded up to dance at her gate, she gave in. Just half an hour, she promised herself as she walked over to let her in.
Jude delighted the dog with strokes and scratches until she all but dissolved at Jude's feet in a puddle of devotion.
'Caesar and Cleo never let me pet them,' she murmured, thinking of her mother's snobbish cats. 'They have too much dignity.' Then she laughed as the dog sprawled on her back to expose her belly. 'You just don't have any dignity at all. That's what I like about you.'
She'd made a mental note to include dog treats on her supply list when Brenna's pickup bumped along the road and zipped into her drive.
'Well, you've met Betty, then.'
'Is that her name?' Jude hoped her grin wasn't as foolish as it felt on her face as the dog nuzzled her nose into her hand. 'She's very friendly.'
'Oh, she has a fondness for the ladies, particularly.' Folding her arms on the open window, Brenna rested her chin there. She wondered why the woman seemed embarrassed to have been caught petting a dog. 'So you're fond of dogs, are you?'
'Apparently.'
'Whenever she wears out her welcome, you just shove her out the gate, and she'll head home. Our Betty knows a soft touch, and she doesn't mind taking advantage.'
'She's wonderful company. But I suppose I'm keeping her from your mother.'
'She's more on her mind than Betty's presence at the moment. Refrigerator's out again. I'm heading down to kick it for her. Haven't seen you at the pub this week.'
'Oh. No, I've been working. I haven't really been out.'
'But you're heading off today.' She nodded her head toward Jude's purse.
'I thought I'd drive into Waterford, hunt up those gardening books.'
'Oh, now there's no need to go all that way, unless you're set on it. Come down the house and talk to my mother while I'm banging on the icebox. She'd enjoy that, and it'd keep her from badgering me with questions.'
'She wouldn't be expecting company. I wouldn't want to-'
'Door's always open.' The woman was so interesting, Brenna thought. And hardly said more than one short string of words at a time unless you bumped and nudged at her. If anyone could pry bits and pieces out of her, to Brenna's mind, it was Mollie O'Toole.
'Come on, hop in,' she added, then whistled for the dog.
Betty yapped once, cheerfully, then bounded to the truck and leaped neatly into the back.
Jude searched for a polite excuse, but everything that came to mind seemed stilted and rude. Smiling weakly, she latched the gate and walked around the truck to the passenger side. 'You're sure I won't be in the way.'
'Not a bit of it.' Pleased, Brenna beamed at her, waited until she climbed in, then roared backward out of the
