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curved. “I have to say, Shawn, you’re better at the entire business than I figured on.”
He opened his eyes. The blue of them was dreamy again. “Well, I’ll admit to having some practice over the years.”
“I won’t complain about that, but there’s a problem just the same.”
“Is there?” He picked up a lock of her hair, twined the curl of it around his finger. “And what would it be?”
“Well, my idea, originally, was that we’d have sex.”
“I recall you mentioning it.” He let the curl unwind, then fall, then chose another. “And I have to admit, a fine idea it was.”
“That was the first part. I mentioned as well that I was looking to do that in order to get this urge I had for you out of my system.”
“I recall that as well. An itch, you said.” He ran his nails lightly down her back. “I’ve done my best to scratch it for you.”
“You did, and I’d never deny it. But that’s the problem part.” Watching him, she trailed a finger along his collarbone, up the side of his neck. And watched his lashes flutter until his eyes were a slit of blue behind them.
“Well, what’s your problem, then, O’Toole?”
“You see, it hasn’t appeared to work, as yet. It seems I’ve still got this itch. So we’ll just have to have sex again.”
“If we must, we must.” He sat up, taking her with him. “Let’s have a shower and a meal first, then we’ll see what can be done.”
Chuckling, she laid her hands on his cheeks. “We’re still friends, too, aren’t we?”
“We’re still friends.” He cuddled her closer, and intended for the kiss to be light and affectionate. But he sank into her.
Her mind was going fuzzy when he turned to lay her back on the bed. Her arms were reaching up for him as she said, “What about the shower and the meal?”
“Later.”
It was later, and a great deal later, and they both ate like starving wolves. Here it was easy to fall back into friendship, to be two people who’d shared meals hundreds of times before. Did you know Betsy Clooney’s whole brood’s down with the chicken pox?
Have you noticed Jack Brennan’s eyeing Theresa Fitzgerald now that she and Colin Riley have broken things off?
Between bites she told him of her sister Patty’s latest flood of tears over whether to have pink or yellow roses in her bridal bouquet. And they lifted a glass to toast the closure of the deal with Magee.
“Are you thinking he’ll send a man out to get the lay of the land and design the theater?” Brenna got up to let Bub in when he came scratching at the door.
“If that’s his plan, it hasn’t come down to me as yet.” He watched the cat slink over to Brenna to rub against her leg.
“Sure, it’s the only way it can be done correctly.” She considered another serving, then decided if she gave in to greed on that, she’d suffer. With a little regret, she pushed her plate away. “He can’t be sitting up in his lofty office in New York City and design what should be here in Ardmore.”
“And how do you know he has a lofty office?”
“The rich are fond of lofty.” Grinning, she kicked back in her chair. “Ask Darcy if lofty isn’t an aim when she finds the rich man she’s hunting for. In any case, they have to see what we are and what we have before they set in their minds what we’ll be.”
“I’ll agree with that.” He rose to clear the table. “I liked your design. Maybe you could draw it up a little more formally. We could give Aidan a look at it. If he likes it as I do, there’s nothing stopping us from passing it onto the Magee for his consideration.”
For a moment she simply sat. “You’d do that?”
He glanced over his shoulder as he ran hot water and soap into the sink. “Why wouldn’t I?”
“It would mean a great deal. Even if Magee laughs it off and tosses it aside, it would matter to me. I’m not an architect or engineer or anything that . . . lofty,” she decided as she got to her feet. “But I’ve always had a yen to have a hand in the designing and the building of something, from the ground up.”
“You get a picture in your head,” he said. “An empty field or lot and what you’d put on it right down to the fancy work.”
“That’s right, yes. How did you know?”
“It’s not so different from building a song.”
Thinking of it, she frowned at his back. Never once had she considered that they had anything in common in that area. “I suppose you’re right. I’ll draw it up for you as best I can. Whether the Magee takes a look at it or not, I’m grateful to you for thinking of it.”
She helped him clean up, then as it was nearing midnight, said she had to go.
He walked her out, and they’d made it nearly to the front door before he changed his mind. He settled it by simply plucking her up, hauling her over his shoulder and carting her up to bed once again.
As a result it was half-one when she crept into her house. Creeping was about all she had the energy for. Who would have thought the man could near to wear her out?
She switched off the light her mother had left on for her. Even in the dark she knew which boards, which part of the steps, would creak underfoot. She made it upstairs and into her room without a sound.
And since she wasn’t a mother, she was comfortably unaware that her own had heard her despite the precautions.
Once she slipped into bed, she let out a long sigh, shut her eyes, and fell instantly asleep.
And in sleep dreamed of a silver palace beneath a green hill. Around it grew flowers and grand trees that stood out like paintings in the gilded light. A ribbon of river ran through them, with little diamonds sparkling on its surface in a flash here and there that shocked the eye.
A bridge arched over it, its stones marble-white. As she crossed it, she heard the click of her own boots, the bubble of the water below, and the quick skip of her own heart that wasn’t fear but excitement.
The trees, she saw, were heavy with golden apples,silver pears. For an instant she was tempted to pluck one, to bite into that rich flesh and taste. But even in dreams, she knew that if you visited a fearie raft, you could eat nothing, and drink only water, or you were bound there for a hundred years.
So she only watched the jeweled fruit glint.
And the path leading under them, from the white bridge to the great silver door of the palace, was red as rubies.
As she approached the door, it opened, and out of it spilled the music of pipes and flutes.
She stepped inside, into the music and into perfumed air where torches as tall as men lined the walls with flames that shot as high and true as arrows.
The hall was wide and filled with flowers. There were chairs, with curvy arms and deep cushions, all the color of precious gems. But she saw no one.
Following the music, she climbed the stairs, trailing her hand along a banister that was smooth as silk and glinted like a long, slender sapphire.
Still there was no sound but the music, no movement but her own.
At the top of the stairs there was another long corridor, as wide as the space two grown men would make were they laid head to foot. To her left as she traveled along the corridor was a door of topaz, and to the right, one of emerald. Straight ahead was a third that glowed white as pearls.
And it was from there that the music came.
She opened the white door and stepped inside.
Flowers twined and tangled up the walls. Tables the size of lakes groaned under the weight of platters filled with food. The scents were sensuous.
The floor was a mosaic, a symphony of jewels placed in random patterns.
There were chairs and cushions and plush sofas, but all were empty. All but the throne at the room’s head. There, lounging in the grandeur, was a man in a silver doublet.
“You never hesitated,” he said. “There’s courage in that. Not once did you think of turning around. You just walked straight into what’s unknown to you.”
&nbs
p; He offered her a smile, and with a wave of his hand, the gold apple that appeared in it. “You may have a taste for this.”
“I may, but I haven’t a century to spare you.”
He laughed, and flicking his fingers, vanished the apple. “I wouldn’t have let you, as I’ve more use for you above than here.”
Curious, she turned in a circle. “Are you alone, then?”
“Not alone, no. Even faeries like to sleep. The light was to guide you. It’s night here, as it is in your world. I wanted to speak with you, and preferred to do so alone.”
“Well, then.” She lifted her arms, let them fall. “I’m here.”
“I’ve a question for you, Mary Brenna O’Toole.”
“I’ll try to answer it, Carrick, Prince of Faeries.”
His lips twitched again with amused approval, but his eyes were intense and sober as he leaned toward her. “Would you take a pearl from a lover?”
An odd question indeed, she thought. But after all, it was a dream, and she’d had stranger ones. “I would, if it was given freely.”
With a sigh, he tapped his hand on the wide arm of his throne. The ring he wore flashed silver and blue. “Why is it there are always strings attached to answers when dealing with mortals?”
“Why is it faeries are never satisfied with an honest answer?”
Humor brightened his eyes. “You’re a bold one, aren’t you? It’s a fortunate thing I’ve a fondness for mortals.”
“I know you have.” She walked closer now. “I’ve seen your lady. She pines for you. I don’t know if that heavies your heart or lightens it, but it’s what I know.”
Resting his chin on his feet, he brooded. “I know her heart, now that it’s too late for me to do much more than wait. Must there be pain in love before there’s fulfillment?”
