He tried to put the song out of his mind. She'd forget it soon enough, he decided. 'Back to where?'
She smiled slowly. 'Here would be just far enough.'
She had one stop to make before she drove home to change and get out her tools. With Shawn safely at the pub, Brenna drove down to Jude's house and parked.
Jude was out in the front garden, getting a jump on spring. Her gloves were already dark with dirt, and there were a number of sketches on the walkway beside her. At Brenna's approach, she sat back on her heels and tipped up the straw hat she was using to protect her head from the drizzling rain.
'Something wrong with your lorry?'
'No, I'm doing some work on Shawn's car, as he'd rather be nibbled by ants than lift the bonnet. Your drawings are getting wet.'
'I know. I have to stop. I just wanted to hurry spring along.'
'Ah, you've sketched out your ideas for your gardens.' Crouching, Brenna used her back to protect the papers. 'Like a blueprint. That's a clever notion.'
'It helps me see it. Let's go inside, out of the wet.' She started to rise, then shifted and put a hand on the slope of her belly. 'My center of gravity's changing.'
'Another few months, you won't be able to get up off your knees without a rope and pulley. Here, I'll get these.' Brenna picked up the sketches and Jude's garden basket.
'I saw Colleen Ryan going into the market the other day. She's due any minute. She waddles,' Jude said as they stepped into the house. 'It's very sweet, but I intend to glide, Madonna-like, through my term.'
'You keep thinking that, darling.'
Brenna carried the basket back to the little mudroom off the kitchen and spread the drawings out on the counter to dry.
The kettle went on. The biscuit tin came down.
'I told Aidan I'd come into the pub for lunch.' With a sheepish grin, Jude bit into a sugar cookie. 'But I'm always hungry these days. Nothing spoils my appetite.'
'Expecting looks good on you, Jude. I remember the first time I saw you, a year ago, standing in the rain at the door to Faerie Hill Cottage, looking lost. You're found now.'
'What a lovely way to put it. Yes, I'm found now. Things I wanted, and could hardly admit even to myself that I wanted, happened.'
'You made them happen.'
'Some of it.' She nibbled on the cookie while Brenna paced the kitchen. 'And some things are meant to be. You have to be willing enough, brave enough, to let them happen.'
'When you discovered you loved Aidan, did you tell him? Straight out?'
'No, I was afraid to. I didn't trust myself enough.'
Brenna's eyes sharpened. 'Or him?'
'Or him,' Jude admitted. 'Before I came here, I never made things happen, and it wasn't courage that had me letting them happen around me or to me. It was fear and passivity. I had to learn the difference. To take charge of some things, to trust others to fall into place.'
'But you had to take steps.'
'Yes. Are you in love with Shawn?'
Frowning, Brenna sat. 'It seems I am. I'm not ashamed to say it's a shock to the system.'
'Love looks well on you, Brenna.'
At the turn of her own words, Brenna let out a short laugh. 'It doesn't feel well. But I suppose I'll get used to it. I'll get the tea,' she said when the kettle sputtered.
'No, sit. Have you told him?'
'Not bloody likely.' As a thought struck, Brenna looked over quickly as Jude dealt with the tea. 'I know married couples tend to tell each other most everything, but-'
'You don't want me to mention this to Aidan.'
'I don't.'
'Then I won't.'
'Thanks.' Brenna let out a breath. 'It's a matter now of taking those steps, and figuring out which come first. As well as I know him-Shawn, I'm meaning-he's not as predictable as I thought before we- changed things between us.'
'The dynamics are different between lovers than they are between friends. Even lifelong friends.'
'I've discovered that. Still, I know he often takes a good kick in the ass to get moving in some areas. I'm taking that first step with something that bothers me the most, and that I think, underneath, means the most to him.' Shifting her seat, she tugged out the sheets of music.
'One of his songs?'
'I badgered him into giving it to me. There's talent here, isn't there, Jude?'
'I think so.'
'Why doesn't he pursue it? You understand how the mind works.'
'You're asking a former, and mediocre, psychology professor.' Jude set the pot on the table, fetched cups. 'But my educated guess would be that he's afraid.'
'Of what?'
'Of failing in the thing that matters most. What if it isn't good enough? What if he isn't good enough? There are a lot of us who circle that abyss, Brenna.' She poured out the tea. 'You're not one of them. You just roll up your sleeves and build a bridge over it.'
'Then I'm after building one over his. He gave me this song, and I can do what I like with it. I want to send it to someone who'd know about such things. Who'd know if it's worth buying.'
'Without telling Shawn.'
'I won't feel guilty about that,' Brenna muttered. 'If it doesn't work out, he'll never have to know, will he? And if it does, how can he be anything but pleased? I'm not sure how to go about it, or who to send it along to. I thought you might have some ideas on it.'
'I'd be wasting my breath trying to talk you out of this?'
'You would.'
Jude nodded. 'Then I'll save it. I don't know anything about the music business. I could ask my agent, though I don't think she'd-' As an idea formed, she trailed off, worked on it. 'What about Magee? He's built theaters. He has to know people in entertainment. Maybe he'd have some connections.'
'That's a good notion.'
'I can get you his address. You can write to him.'
Brenna ran her fingers over the notes and the words on the sheet in front of her. 'That takes too long. Do you have a phone number?'
CHAPTER Eighteen
The soft rain became a pounding, and the pounding a flood swept in by gale-force winds that beat against the coastline and rocked the boats at their moorings. For the best part of a week it was too rough to cast a net. From shore to horizon was nothing but angry, churning gray slashed by whitecaps that looked keen-edged enough to slice through a hull.
Those who made their living from the sea waited it out with the grim patience honed in them over generations.
Wind screamed against windows and doors in a constant banshee call and snuck through any crack or crevice to chill the bones. Smoke belched back down chimneys in nasty, fitful streams. Plucking fingers of wind tore a few shingles from the roof of the market so that they careened away like drunken birds. One swooped down and sliced at the back of young Davey O'Leary's head as he rode his bike home with a quart of milk and a dozen eggs. The head required seven stitches. The eggs were a total loss.
Flowers that had wintered over happily enough and those that had begun to show their spring faces were
