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He hated making excuses.
Thunder rumbled like laughter, whipped by the howling wind, and rain danced a frantic jig against his window.
The trouble was, he didn’t know how to play it. And he always knew how to play it, how to find the most constructive route through a problem to the solution. But there were more obstacles, more wrong turns in love than he’d ever imagined. Still, he’d never come up against a wall he couldn’t scale, break through, or tunnel under.
This wasn’t going to be the first.
He needed to let the problem simmer, to brew a bit until the solution came to him. The best way to do that was to concentrate on something else.
He started with the faxes that had come in throughout the day. Since he’d already read over the draft of Darcy’s contract, he put that in a folder. The one thing that was clear, he thought, was this angle. She was a hell of a find for Celtic Records. And Celtic would nurture her. Neither of them had to worry about this part of their relationship.
He wanted his parents to hear that voice. A tape recording. Why hadn’t he thought of that before? He’d get her voice on tape before he headed back to New York. That would at least partly introduce the woman he loved to his family.
He would take the papers down to her at the pub once he’d cleaned off his desk, go over them with her, answer her questions. She was bound to have questions. Then he’d tell her he needed a tape.
Satisfied with the idea, Trevor set the folder down and turned to his other paperwork.
He thought about going downstairs and making more coffee, foraging for a meal. He didn’t want to eat alone, and that annoyed him. It had never bothered him before. The fact was, he wanted to chuck even the idea of work and go down to the pub, where there were people. Where there was Darcy.
Despite the risk of the storm, he ran his E-mail instead. He knew he should shut the computer down, but he had to do something to keep busy, to stop himself from leaving the cottage for the pub.
It gave him perverse satisfaction to imagine her watching the door, wondering if and when he’d come through it.
He didn’t care how stupid that made him. It was the damn principle of the thing.
The business inquiries came first, as was his habit. He answered them, printed out or saved what he wanted a record of, then shifted over to personal posts.
One from his mother gave him his first smile in hours.
You don’t call, you don’t write. Well, not often enough. I think I’ve convinced your father that what we need is a nice trip. To Ireland. It’s taken very little convincing, actually. He misses you as much as I do, and I think he wants to get his fingerprints on the theater. I hope it’s progressing well—am sure it is, under your hand.
He’s already started shuffling work and schedules though he doesn’t think I know it. I’m doing the same. If all goes well, we’ll come next month. Once our plans are finalized, I’ll let you know all.
I assume you’re well as you haven’t said otherwise, and busy because you always are. I hope you’re taking some time for yourself. You were working much too hard before you left, punishing yourself because of Sylvia.
I won’t say any more on that, as I can see you’re getting that irritated look in your eye. No, I lied, I’ll say one thing more. Give yourself a break, Trevor. No one, not even you, can live up to your standards.
There, I’m done. I love you. Prepare for an invasion.
Mom
Did he have an irritated look in his eye? He studied the faint reflection of his face in the window and decided, yes, probably. It was comforting, and disconcerting, to be understood quite that well.
He hit Reply.
Nag, nag, nag.
That, he knew, would make her laugh.
Hurry and come over so you can nag me in person. I miss that.
Yes, the theater’s going well, though we had to knock off early today. Hell of a storm blowing through. I’m going to have to shut down in a minute.
I thought you’d like to know I’ve chosen the name for it. I’m calling it Duachais. It’s Gaelic. Well, you probably know that, but I had to look up the spelling. It means the roots of a place, the traditions of it. A very clever woman told me that’s what I wanted in the theater. She was right.
Of course, a name like that’s going to give Publicity nightmares.
No need to worry, I’m taking time for myself. It’s impossible to do otherwise here. You just have to look to be, well, sucked into looking some more.
I’m about to sign Darcy Gallagher to a recording contract with Celtic. She’s an amazing talent. Wait until you hear her. Give me a year, and her voice, her name, her face will be everywhere. It’s a hell of a face.
She’s got ambition, talent, energy, temperament, brains, and charm. This is no shy colleen. You’ll like her.
I’m in love with her. Is it supposed to make me feel like an idiot?
He stopped, stared at his last line. He hadn’t meant to type that. With a shake of his head, he started to delete.
Lightning burst like a bomb, throwing hot blue light into the room. He saw the thin crack snake down the window glass, then thunder blasted in one ear-deafening roar.
And the lights went out.
“Shit.” It was his first thought once his heart stopped screaming in his ears. That one had probably fried his computer.
His own fault. He knew better.
Since the screen was as black as the rest of the world, indicating his battery backup had failed, he swore again and fumbled for the flashlight that he’d set next to the machine.
He switched it on, got nothing. What the hell was this? he wondered and gave it an irritated shake. He’d checked it before he’d started to work, and the beam had flashed on strong and bright.
More annoyed than concerned, he got up, felt his way to the spare bed, worked up to the little table beside it and the matches and candles that were always there.
The next slash of lightning had him jolting, spilling half the matches out of the box, and cursing himself. “Get a grip,” he muttered and nearly shuddered at the sound of his own voice coming out of the dark. “It’s not your first storm, or your first blackout.”
But there was something . . . different here. Something that, if he’d wanted to be fanciful, he’d have called deliberate about the wind and rain and fierceness of it all. As if the savagery was personal.
That was so ridiculous he laughed as he struck the match. The little flame made him feel more in control. He touched it to the wick of the candle. A little breath of relief escaped as he picked up the candle, intending to carry it with him to light more.
And in the next wild spurt of lightning, he saw her.
“Carrick’s temper is up.”
The candle flame shook as his hand jerked. He had to be satisfied that he didn’t drop it and set the cottage on fire.
“Storms often make people uneasy.” Gwen smiled at him gently. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of. He knows it too, you can be sure of that, and is indulging himself in a little tantrum just at the moment.”
Steadier, Trevor set the candle down. “It seems excessive.”
“He’s a dramatic sort, my Carrick. And he’s suffering, Trevor. Waiting wears on the soul, and when you can nearly see the end of the waiting, it’s harder still. I wonder, could I ask you a question, of a personal nature?”
He shook his head. It was all too strange, and somehow eerily ordinary, this talking to a ghost in a little cottage on a storm-ravaged night. “Why not?”
“I hope it doesn’t offend you, but I can’t help wondering what it is that stops you from telling the woman you love what’s in your heart.”
“It’s not as simple as that.”
“I know that’s your thinking.” A thread of urgency ran through her voice now, though her hands stayed quiet and still, folded together at her waist. “I want to know why it can’t be just that simple.”
“If you don’t lay groundwork, you make mistakes. T
he more important it is, the more important not to make mistakes.”
“Groundwork?” she asked, confused. “And that would be . . . what, exactly?”
“With Darcy, it’s showing her what she can have, the kind of life she could live.”
“By that you’re meaning all the grand things? The riches and wonders?”
“Yes, that’s right. Once she sees—” He broke off, seriously alarmed, when the floor shook under his feet. But before he could move, Gwen held up a hand.
“I beg your pardon. I’ve a temper of my own.” She kept her hand up, closed her eyes. When she opened them again, they were dark and vibrant. “And what did Carrick offer me, but the same in his way? Jewels and riches, a palace for a home, and immortality. Can you not see the mistake in that, a mistake that cost us both three times a hundred years?”
“Darcy’s not like you.”
“Oh, Trevor, look closer. Why is it you can stand on the same ground and still not see each other?”
She lowered her hand. “Well, this night’s work isn’t done. You’ll go down to the village now. There’s a need for you there.”
“Darcy?” Panic pushed him forward. “Is she all right?”
