seventies. I remember her being graceful, not creaky the way I, being callow, expected an old woman to be. She gave me tea and cake. Showed me an old photograph of my uncle. She kept it in a brown leather frame. I remember that because it reminded me of the song-what is it-'Willie MacBride.' Then she walked with me to his grave. He's buried on the hill by the ruins and the round tower.'
'I haven't been there yet. I'll go by.'
'I don't remember what we talked about exactly. It was all so long ago. But I do remember this because it seemed odd at the time. We were standing over his grave and she took my hand. She said what came from me would journey back and make a difference. I would be proud. I suppose she was talking about you. People said she had the sight, if you believe in such things.'
'You start to believe in all sorts of things once you're here.'
'Can't argue with that. One night while I was there I took a walk on the beach. I could swear I heard flutes playing and saw a man flying overhead on a white horse. Of course, I'd had a few pints at Gallagher's Pub.'
Even as his father laughed, Trevor felt a chill skate down his spine. 'What did he look like?'
'Gallagher?'
'No, the man on the horse.'
'A drunken delusion. Well, that set your mother off,' Dennis muttered, and through the line Trevor could hear his mother's delighted laugh.
'I'll let you get back to breakfast.'
'Take some time to enjoy yourself while you're there. Get me the report when you can, Trev, and we'll all keep next summer in mind. Stay in touch.'
'I will.'
He hung up, then continued to stare thoughtfully out the window. Delusions, illusions, reality. There didn't seem to be very much space between them in Ardmore.
He finished up what business could be done before
New York opened, then took a walk to John Magee's grave.
The wind was high and the graves were old. The shifting of ground had tipped and tilted many of the markers so they leaned and slanted toward the bumpy grass to cast their shadows over their dead. John Magee's stood straight, like the soldier he'd been. The stone was simple, weathered by wind and time, but still the carving was deep and clear.
JOHN DONALD MAGEE
1898-1916 Too young to die a soldier
'His mother had that carved in her grief,' Carrick said as he stepped up to stand beside Trevor. 'In my estimation, one is always too young to die a soldier.'
'How would you know why she had it carved?'
'Oh, there's little I don't know and less I can't find out. You mortals make your monuments to the dead. I find it an interesting habit. A peculiarly human one. Stones and flowers, symbols, aren't they, of what lasts and what passes away? And why do you come here, Trevor Magee, to visit those you never knew in life?'
'Blood and bonds, I suppose. I don't know.' Frustrated, he turned to face Carrick. 'What the hell is this?'
'By that you're meaning me. You've more of your mother in you than ever your grandfather, so you know by now the answer to that, even if your diluted Yank blood doesn't accept what's in front of your face. You're a traveled man, aren't you? You've been more places and seen more things than most who are your age. Have you never found magic on your journeys till now?'
He wanted to think he had more of his mother in him, much more than he had of his grandfather. But there was nothing in Carolyn Magee of the easy mark. 'I've never had conversations with ghosts and faeries till now.'
'You talked with Gwen?' The amusement died out of Carrick's eyes, turning the bright blue dark and with an edge. He gripped Trevor's arm with a hand that transferred a jolt of heat and energy. 'What did she say to you?'
'I thought you knew or could find out.'
Abruptly, Carrick released him and turned away. He began to pace through the grass, around the stones in quick, almost jerky movements. The air around him sizzled with a visible color and spark. 'She's the only thing that matters, and the only thing I can't see clear. Can you know, Magee, what it is to want one person with all your heart, with all that you have in you, and for her to be just out of your reach?'
'No.'
'I blundered with her. Now that's a deep score to the pride, make no mistake. Not that it was only my fault. She blundered as well. It hardly matters who holds the heaviest weight of the blame at this point.'
He stopped, turned back. The air grew still again. 'Will you tell me what she said to you?'
'She spoke of you and regrets, of passions that flash and burn, and love that lasts. She misses you.'
Emotions swirled in Carrick's eyes. 'If she-should you speak with her again, would you tell her I'm waiting, and I've loved no other since last we met?'
For some reason it no longer seemed odd to be asked to deliver a message to a ghost. 'I'll tell her.'
'She's beautiful, isn't she?'
'Yes, very.'
'A man can forget to look past beauty and into the heart. I did, and it's cost me dear. You won't make that mistake. It's why you're here.'
'I'm here to build a theater, and to acquaint myself with my roots.'
His humor restored, Carrick strolled back to Trevor. 'You'll do both, and more. Your ancestor here was a fine young man, a bit of a dreamer, with a heart too soft for soldiering and what war makes men do to men. But he went out of duty and left his love behind.'
'You knew him?'
'Aye, both of them, though only Maude knew me. She gave him a charm before he marched off, for protection.'
He snapped his fingers and from them dangled a chain with a little silver disk. 'I expect she'd want you to have it now.'
Too curious for caution, Trevor reached out and took the object. The silver was warm, as if it had been worn against flesh, and on it the carving was faint.
'What does it say?'
'It's in old Irish, and says simply 'Forever Love.' She gave it to him, and he wore it faithful. But war was stronger than the charm in the end, if not stronger than the love. He wanted a simple life, unlike his brother, who went off to America. Your father's father wanted something more, and he worked for it and brought it to be. That's an admirable thing. What do you want, Trevor Magee?'
'To build.'
'That's an admirable thing as well. What will you call your theater?'
'I haven't thought of it. Why?'
'I have an idea you'll choose correctly because you're a man who chooses carefully. That's why you're still living alone.'
Trevor's fingers curled around the disk. 'I like living alone.'
'That may be, but it's making mistakes you dislike most of all.'
'True enough. I have to go now. I have a meeting.'
'I'll walk with you a ways. 'Tis a fine summer we have in store. You'll hear the cuckoo call if you listen. It's a good omen of things to come. I'm wishing you luck on your meeting, and with Darcy.'
'Thanks, but I know how to handle both.'
'Oh, well, now, I believe you do, or I wouldn't be in so cheerful a mood. She'll be handling you as well. It helps the last of this waiting, if you don't mind me saying, to be entertained by the pair of you.'
'I'm not part of your plan.'
'It's not a matter of planning. It's a matter of what is, and what will be. You've more say in it than I, and you've little enough.'
Carrick stopped. He could see the cottage now, the creamy walls, the sunny thatched roof, the rainbow spread of flowers. 'Once she would have come out to meet me, her heart pounding, her eyes bright. Fear and love so mixed together neither of us could untangle them. And me so sure I could dazzle her with gifts and promises that I
