Nearly all of the graves he passed were decked with flowers. Many of them were covered with plastic boxes, misty with condensation, the blossoms within all no more than a smear of color. He wondered why it didn’t amuse him. It should have. Instead he was touched, stirred by the devotion to the dead.
They had belonged once, he thought. Maybe that was the definition of family. Belong once, belong always.
He’d never had that problem. Or that privilege.
He wandered through, wondering when the husbands, the wives, the children came to lay the wreaths and flowers. On the day of death? The day of birth? The feast day of the saint the dead had been named for? Or Easter maybe. That was a big one for Catholics.
He’d ask Brianna, he decided. It was something he could definitely work into his book.
He couldn’t have said why he stopped just at that moment, why he looked down at that particular marker. But he did, and he stood, alone, the breeze ruffling his hair, looking down at Thomas Michael Concannon’s grave.
Brianna’s father? he wondered and felt an odd clutch around his heart. The dates seemed right. O’Malley had told him stories of Tom Concannon when Gray had sipped at a Guinness at the pub. Stories ripe with affection, sentiment, and humor.
Gray knew he had died suddenly, at the cliffs at Loop Head, with only Maggie with him. But the flowers on the grave, Gray was certain, were Brianna’s doing.
They’d been planted over him. Though the winter had been hard on them, Gray could see they’d been recently weeded. More than a few brave blades of green were spearing up, searching for the sun.
He’d never stood over a grave of someone he’d known. Though he often paid visits to the dead, there’d been no pilgrimage to the resting place of anyone he’d cared for. But he felt a tug now, one that made him crouch down and brush a hand lightly over the carefully tended mound.
And he wished he’d brought flowers.
“Tom Concannon,” he murmured. “You’re well remembered. They talk of you in the village, and smile when they say your name. I guess that’s as fine an epitaph as anyone could ask for.”
Oddly content, he sat beside Tom awhile and watched sunlight and shadows play on the stones the living planted to honor the dead.
He gave Brianna three hours. It was obviously more than enough as she came out of the house almost as soon as he pulled up in front of it. His smile of greeting turned to a look of speculation as he got a closer look.
Her face was pale, as he knew it became when she was upset or moved. Her eyes, though cool, showed traces of strain. He glanced toward the house, saw the curtain move. He caught a glimpse only, but Maeve’s face was as pale as her daughter’s, and appeared equally unhappy.
“All packed?” he said, keeping his tone mild.
“Yes.” She slipped into the car, her hands tight around her purse—as if it was the only thing that kept her from leaping up. “Thank you for coming for me.”
“A lot of people find packing a chore.” Gray pulled the car out and for once kept his speed moderate.
“It can be.” Normally, she enjoyed it. The anticipation of going somewhere, and more, the anticipation of returning home. “It’s done now, and they’ll be ready to leave in the morning.”
God, she wanted to close her eyes, to escape from the pounding headache and miserable guilt into sleep.
“Do you want to tell me what’s upset you?”
“I’m not upset.”
“You’re wound up, unhappy, and as pale as ice.”
“It’s personal. It’s family business.”
The fact that her dismissal stung surprised him. But he only shrugged and lapsed into silence.
“I’m sorry.” Now she did close her eyes. She wanted peace. Couldn’t everyone just give her a moment’s peace? “That was rude of me.”
“Forget it.” He didn’t need her problems in any case, he reminded himself. Then he glanced at her and swore under his breath. She looked exhausted. “I want to make a stop.”
She started to object, then kept her eyes and mouth closed. He’d been good enough to drive her, she reminded herself. She could certainly bear a few minutes longer before she buried all this tension in work.
He didn’t speak again. He was driving on instinct, hoping the choice he made would bring the color back to her cheeks and the warmth to her voice.
She didn’t open her eyes again until he braked and shut the engine off. Then she merely stared at the castle ruins. “You needed to stop here?”
“I wanted to stop here,” he corrected. “I found this my first day here.
It’s playing a prominent part in my book. I like the feel of it.”
He got out, rounded the hood, and opened her door. “Come on.” When she didn’t move, he leaned down and unfastened her seat belt himself. “Come on. It’s great. Wait till you see the view from the top.”
“I’ve wash to do,” she complained and heard the sulkiness of her own voice as she stepped out of the car.
“It’s not going anywhere.” He had her hand now and was tugging her over the high grass.
She didn’t have the heart to point out that the ruins weren’t likely to go anywhere, either. “You’re using this place in your book?”
“Big murder scene.” He grinned at her reaction, the uneasiness and superstition in her eyes. “Not afraid are you? I don’t usually act out my scenes.”
“Don’t be foolish.” But she shivered once as they stepped between the high stone walls.
There was grass growing wild on the ground, bits of green pushing its way through chinks in the stone. Above her, she could see where the floors had been once, so many years ago. But now time and war left the view to the sky unimpeded.
The clouds floated silently as ghosts.
“What do you suppose they did here, right here?” Gray mused.
“Lived, worked. Fought.”
“That’s too general. Use your imagination. Can’t you see it, the people walking here? It’s winter, and it’s bone cold. Ice rings on the water barrels, frost on the ground that snaps like dry twigs underfoot. The air stings with smoke from the fires. A baby’s crying, hungry, then stops when his mother bares her breast.”
He drew her along with him, physically, emotionally, until she could almost see it as he did.
They had belonged once, he thought. Maybe that was the definition of family. Belong once, belong always.
He’d never had that problem. Or that privilege.
He wandered through, wondering when the husbands, the wives, the children came to lay the wreaths and flowers. On the day of death? The day of birth? The feast day of the saint the dead had been named for? Or Easter maybe. That was a big one for Catholics.
He’d ask Brianna, he decided. It was something he could definitely work into his book.
He couldn’t have said why he stopped just at that moment, why he looked down at that particular marker. But he did, and he stood, alone, the breeze ruffling his hair, looking down at Thomas Michael Concannon’s grave.
Brianna’s father? he wondered and felt an odd clutch around his heart. The dates seemed right. O’Malley had told him stories of Tom Concannon when Gray had sipped at a Guinness at the pub. Stories ripe with affection, sentiment, and humor.
Gray knew he had died suddenly, at the cliffs at Loop Head, with only Maggie with him. But the flowers on the grave, Gray was certain, were Brianna’s doing.
They’d been planted over him. Though the winter had been hard on them, Gray could see they’d been recently weeded. More than a few brave blades of green were spearing up, searching for the sun.
He’d never stood over a grave of someone he’d known. Though he often paid visits to the dead, there’d been no pilgrimage to the resting place of anyone he’d cared for. But he felt a tug now, one that made him crouch down and brush a hand lightly over the carefully tended mound.
And he wished he’d brought flowers.
“Tom Concannon,” he murmured. “You’re well remembered. They talk of you in the village, and smile when they say your name. I guess that’s as fine an epitaph as anyone could ask for.”
Oddly content, he sat beside Tom awhile and watched sunlight and shadows play on the stones the living planted to honor the dead.
He gave Brianna three hours. It was obviously more than enough as she came out of the house almost as soon as he pulled up in front of it. His smile of greeting turned to a look of speculation as he got a closer look.
Her face was pale, as he knew it became when she was upset or moved. Her eyes, though cool, showed traces of strain. He glanced toward the house, saw the curtain move. He caught a glimpse only, but Maeve’s face was as pale as her daughter’s, and appeared equally unhappy.
“All packed?” he said, keeping his tone mild.
“Yes.” She slipped into the car, her hands tight around her purse—as if it was the only thing that kept her from leaping up. “Thank you for coming for me.”
“A lot of people find packing a chore.” Gray pulled the car out and for once kept his speed moderate.
“It can be.” Normally, she enjoyed it. The anticipation of going somewhere, and more, the anticipation of returning home. “It’s done now, and they’ll be ready to leave in the morning.”
God, she wanted to close her eyes, to escape from the pounding headache and miserable guilt into sleep.
“Do you want to tell me what’s upset you?”
“I’m not upset.”
“You’re wound up, unhappy, and as pale as ice.”
“It’s personal. It’s family business.”
The fact that her dismissal stung surprised him. But he only shrugged and lapsed into silence.
“I’m sorry.” Now she did close her eyes. She wanted peace. Couldn’t everyone just give her a moment’s peace? “That was rude of me.”
“Forget it.” He didn’t need her problems in any case, he reminded himself. Then he glanced at her and swore under his breath. She looked exhausted. “I want to make a stop.”
She started to object, then kept her eyes and mouth closed. He’d been good enough to drive her, she reminded herself. She could certainly bear a few minutes longer before she buried all this tension in work.
He didn’t speak again. He was driving on instinct, hoping the choice he made would bring the color back to her cheeks and the warmth to her voice.
She didn’t open her eyes again until he braked and shut the engine off. Then she merely stared at the castle ruins. “You needed to stop here?”
“I wanted to stop here,” he corrected. “I found this my first day here.
It’s playing a prominent part in my book. I like the feel of it.”
He got out, rounded the hood, and opened her door. “Come on.” When she didn’t move, he leaned down and unfastened her seat belt himself. “Come on. It’s great. Wait till you see the view from the top.”
“I’ve wash to do,” she complained and heard the sulkiness of her own voice as she stepped out of the car.
“It’s not going anywhere.” He had her hand now and was tugging her over the high grass.
She didn’t have the heart to point out that the ruins weren’t likely to go anywhere, either. “You’re using this place in your book?”
“Big murder scene.” He grinned at her reaction, the uneasiness and superstition in her eyes. “Not afraid are you? I don’t usually act out my scenes.”
“Don’t be foolish.” But she shivered once as they stepped between the high stone walls.
There was grass growing wild on the ground, bits of green pushing its way through chinks in the stone. Above her, she could see where the floors had been once, so many years ago. But now time and war left the view to the sky unimpeded.
The clouds floated silently as ghosts.
“What do you suppose they did here, right here?” Gray mused.
“Lived, worked. Fought.”
“That’s too general. Use your imagination. Can’t you see it, the people walking here? It’s winter, and it’s bone cold. Ice rings on the water barrels, frost on the ground that snaps like dry twigs underfoot. The air stings with smoke from the fires. A baby’s crying, hungry, then stops when his mother bares her breast.”
He drew her along with him, physically, emotionally, until she could almost see it as he did.
