Jewels of the Sun

CHAPTER Nineteen

It was ridiculous. She had actually bet money on whether or not she would marry Aidan. It was laughable. And annoying. And not a little embarrassing.

Temper had pushed her into it, which was odd in itself. She usually had such a mild and easily controllable temper.

She would forget the bet entirely, of course, when the time came. What point would there be in making herself or Aidan feel foolish by bringing it up?

For now she had chores and work to concentrate on. She needed to take Finn for a walk, and return the dishes that Mollie O'Toole had brought to her party. It was time to call home and check in with her family. Then, if the weather held, she'd set up her outside work area.

She wanted to write down the story Aidan had told her the night before. Already she had the rhythm of it in her head, and the images of the white bird and the black wolf. She doubted she would do them justice, but she needed to try.

She gathered the dishes, along with a container of sugar cookies she'd baked. Ready to set out, she glanced around for the dog just in time to see him squat under the kitchen table and pee. Naturally he'd missed the paper by two feet.

"Couldn't have waited one more minute, could you?" She only chuckled when he cheerfully thumped his tail, then she set the dishes down again to deal with the puddle.

He had to leap and lick at her face and make growling sounds while she scrubbed it up, which made her forget to scold him. Since cuddling him made her as happy as it made him, she spent ten minutes nuzzling, wrestling, and scratching his belly.

She'd spoil him, of course, Jude admitted. But who could have known she had all this love inside her she needed to give?

"I'm nearly thirty," she murmured as she stroked Finn's long, silky ears. "I want a home. I want a family. I want them with a man who loves me outrageously." She cuddled as Finn wiggled around to lick her hand. "I can't settle again. I can't take a life in pieces just because it looks like the best I can get. So-"

She picked Finn up to rub her nose against his. "For right now, it's just you and me, pal."

The minute she opened the back door, he was off like a spotted arrow. It delighted her to see him race even if his first sprint was directly toward her flowers. He stopped, skidding and tumbling, when she called his name sharply. She considered it progress that he flattened only one row of ageratum.

Finn darted ahead of her, darted back, raced in circles around her feet, then zigged and zagged off to sniff at everything of interest. She imagined how he'd look when he grew into his feet, a big, handsome dog with a whipcord tail who loved to run the hills.

What in God's name was she going to do with him in Chicago?

Shaking her head, she pushed that worry aside. There was no point in thinking of something that would spoil the pleasure of her walk.

The air was crystal, with the sun sliding and streaming through clouds on their way to England. She caught glimpses of Ardmore Bay, rolling dark green toward shore. If she stopped, concentrated, she could almost hear its music in the shimmering silence. Tourists would flock to the beaches today, and some of the locals as well if they had an hour or two to spare.

Young mothers, she thought, letting their toddlers dip their toes in the surf, or fill their red plastic buckets with sand. Castles would be built today, then washed away by the sea.

The hedgerows that lined the road were ripe with summer blossoms, and the grass beneath her feet was springy and sparkled with morning dew. To the north, the mountains hulked under the clouds that covered their peaks. And between them and Jude, it seemed the green, glorious hills rolled forever.

She loved the look of them, the simple and sheer beauty of land, the tumble of old castles that had been swamped not by sea but by time and enemy. They made her think of knights and maidens, of kings both petty and grand, of merry servants and clever spies. And of course of magic and witchcraft and the songs of faeries.

More tales to be told, she mused, of sacrifices for love and glory, of the triumph of the heart and of honor, of spells cast and broken.

In a place like this, a storyteller could spend years collecting them, creating them, and passing them on. She could spend silvery mornings like this one roaming and imagining, rainy afternoons writing and compiling. Evenings would be for curling up after a satisfying day and finding pictures in the turf fire, or wandering into the pub for noise and company and music.

It would be such a lovely life, full of interest and beauty and dreams.

She stopped short, startled by the thought, more startled yet that the thought had been in her head at all. She could stay, not just for three more months but forever. She could write stories. The ones that were told to her and the ones that seemed always forming in her head.

No, of course she couldn't. What was she thinking of? She let out a laugh, but it was edgy and weak. She had to go back to Chicago as planned, to find work in some area of the field she knew to support her sensibly while she pursued the dream. To consider anything else was completely irresponsible.

Why?

She'd only taken two more steps when that question struck out.

"Why?" She said it out loud, flustered. "Of course there's a reason why. A dozen reasons why. I live in Chicago. I've always lived in Chicago."

There was no law that said she had to live in Chicago. She wouldn't be chained in a dungeon for relocating.

"Of course not, but- I have to work."

And what have you been doing these past three months?

"That's not work, not really." Her stomach began to jitter, her heart to flutter toward her throat. "It's more of an indulgence."

Why?

She closed her eyes. "Because I love it. I love everything about it, so that must make it an indulgence. And that is incredibly stupid."

It might have been an odd place for an epiphany, on a shaggy hill in the middle of the morning. But she decided it was the perfect place for hers.

"Why can't I do something I love without putting restrictions on it? Why can't I live somewhere that's so much more home than anywhere else? Who's in charge of my life," she said on a baffled laugh, "if I'm not?"

With her knees a little shaky, she began to walk again. She could do it; if she could dig down and find the courage. She could sell her condo. She could do what she'd been avoiding out of fear of failure and send a sample of her work to an agent.

She could finally stick, win or lose, with something she wanted for herself.

She would think about it, seriously, carefully. Walking faster, she ignored the voice in her head that urged her to act now, right away, before she could find excuses. It would be a big move, she reasoned, an enormous step. A sensible person thought through big moves and enormous steps.

Jude was grateful when she saw the O'Toole cottage over the hill. She needed the distraction, something to take her mind off herself for a while.

Clothes were already drying on the line, making her wonder if Mollie did laundry twenty-four hours a day. The gardens were in glorious bloom and the little shed as stuffed and jumbled as ever. Betty rose from her morning nap in the yard and gave a welcoming woof that sent Finn into devoted yips as he streaked down the hill toward her.

Jude started after and had just reached the edge of the yard when the kitchen door opened.

"Well, good morning to you, Jude." Mollie sent her a wave. "You're up and about early today."

"Not as early as you, from the looks of things."

"You have yourself a houseful of chattering girls and a man who likes his tea before his eyes are open, you don't have much chance to stay in bed. Come in, have some tea and visit with me while I make my bread."

"I brought your dishes back, and some of the sugar cookies I made yesterday. I think they're better than the last batch."

"We'll sample them with the tea and see."

She held the door open wide, and Jude walked into the warmth and the scents and the clatter of Brenna wielding tools under the kitchen sink.

"I've about got it now, Ma."

"So you'd better." Mollie moved to the stove. "I tell you, Jude, I'm the shoemaker's wife in this house. Off himself goes, as does this girl here, fixing and fiddling with everyone else's matter, while I live with drips and rattles day and night."

"Well, you don't pay a body a living wage, now do you?" Brenna said and earned a light kick from her mother.

"A living wage, is it? And who ate a mountain of eggs and a tower of toast and jam just this morning?"

"I only did so I'd have my mouth full and not tell Maureen to stop her harping on the wedding plans. The girl's driving us all batty, Jude, fussing and whining and bursting into tears for no reason at all."

"Getting married's plenty of reason for all of the above." Mollie set out the tea and cookies, nodded for Jude to sit, then plunged her hands back into the ball of dough she was kneading. "And when your time comes you'll be worse yet."

"Ha. If I was thinking of marriage, I'd haul the man before the priest, say the words and be done with it," Brenna declared. "All this fancy work-dresses and flowers and just which song needs to be played just when. Months in the making for one single day, for a dress that will never be worn again, flowers that will fade and wither, and songs you could sing any damn time."

She scooted out from under the sink and gestured with her wrench. "And the cost of it all is sinful."

"Ah, Brenna, you romantic fool." Mollie sprinkled more flour onto her dough and turned it. "That one single day is the start of a life, and worth every minute of time and every penny that goes into it." But she sighed a little. "Still, it does get wearying, dealing with her nerves."

"Exactly." Brenna put the wrench in her dented toolbox and rose to snatch one of the cookies. "Look at our Jude here. Calm as you please. You don't hear her blathering on about whether she'll have white roses or pink in her bouquet." Brenna bit into the cookie and dropped into a chair. "You're a sensible woman."

"Thank you. I try. But what are you talking about?"

"The difference between you and my flighty sister. The both of you have weddings coming up, but are you pacing around the room wringing your hands and changing your mind about the flavor of the cake every two minutes? Of course not."

"No," Jude said slowly. "I'm not, because I don't have a wedding coming up."

"Even if you and Aidan have a small ceremony-though how you'd pull that off when he knows every second soul for a hundred kilometers-it's still a wedding."

Jude had to take a breath, then another. "Where did you get the idea that I'm marrying Aidan?"

"From Darcy." Brenna leaned forward for another cookie. "She had it straight from the horse's mouth."

"The horse's ass is more apt."

At the snap of her tone, Brenna blinked and Mollie paused in her kneading. Before Brenna could speak, Mollie shot out a warning look. "Fill your mouth with that biscuit, lass, before you put the rest of your foot in it."

"But Darcy said-"

"Perhaps Darcy misunderstood."

"No, I don't imagine she did." Temper leaped into Jude's throat. When she couldn't choke it down again, she shoved away from the table and got to her feet. "Where does a man get that kind of nerve, that much arrogance?"

"Most are born with it," Brenna said, then ducked her head and winced at her mother's hiss.

"I have to say, Jude, that I myself thought that's where the two of you were heading, seeing the way you are with each other." Mollie kept her voice soothing, and her eyes keen on Jude's face. "When Brenna told us at dinner last night, not one of us was surprised, but we were pleased."

"Told you- at dinner." Jude stopped at the table, braced her palms on it and leaned into Brenna's face. "You told your whole family?"

"Well, I didn't see how-"

"Who else? How many people have you told this ridiculous story to?"

"I-" Brenna cleared her throat. Having a rare temper herself, she recognized the danger signs when they were stuck in her face. "I can't recall, precisely. Not many. A few. Hardly anyone at all. We were so pleased, you see, Darcy and myself. As we're so fond of you and Aidan, and knowing how Aidan can plod about before he gets to the center of things, hoped that the ceili might give him a bit of a boost."

"The ceili?"

"Aye, Midsummer's Eve and the moon and such. You remember, Ma?" She turned to Mollie with a desperate look in her eye. "Remember how you told us the way Dad proposed to you when you were dancing in the moonlight at a ceili? And at Old Maude's cottage, too."

"I do, yes." And she began to see. With a quiet smile, she patted her daughter's shoulder. "You meant well, didn't you?"

"Yes, we-ow!" Wincing, Brenna grabbed the nose her mother had just twisted.

"That's to remind you to keep that nose of yours out of other people's business however well meant."

"It's not her fault." Jude lifted her hands to her hair and barely resisted pulling it out. "It's Aidan's fault. What is he thinking of, telling his sister we're getting married? I said no, didn't I? Very plainly and several times."

"You said no," Brenna and Mollie said together, with mirror looks of shock.

"I see what he's doing, I see what he's up to." She whirled away to stalk around the room again. "He needs a wife and I'm available, so that's it. I'm just to fall in line because, after all, I obviously have no backbone. Well, he's wrong about that. I've got one. Maybe I haven't used it much, but it's there. I'm not marrying him or anyone. I'm never going to be told what to do again, or where to live or how to live or what to be. Not ever, ever again."

Mollie studied the flushed face, the fisted hands and nodded slowly. "Well, now, good for you. Why don't you take a bit of a breath now, darling, and sit down here, drink your tea and tell us, as we're all friends, exactly what happened."

"I'll tell you what happened. Then you," she added, jabbing a finger at Brenna. "You can go down to the village and tell everyone just what a brainless fool Aidan Gallagher is and that Jude Murray wouldn't have him on a platter."

"I can do that," Brenna agreed with a cautious smile.

"Fine." Jude took that breath, then sat down to tell the tale.

It helped a great deal to vent to friends. It took the sharpest edge off her temper, strengthened her resolve, and gave her the satisfaction of having two other women outraged at Aidan's behavior.

By the time she left, she'd been given pats and hugs and congratulations on her stand against a bully. Of course she had no way of knowing that the minute she left, mother and daughter dug out twenty pounds each to lay on Aidan.

It wasn't that they didn't sympathize with Jude, or believe she had sense enough to know what she wanted. It was simply that they believed in destiny-and a good wager.

With the stake in her pocket, Brenna drove into town to tell Darcy what a great boob her brother was-and to start the pool.

Fortunately ignorant of this, Jude walked back to her house feeling lighter of heart and stronger in the spine. She wasn't going to bother confronting Aidan. She told herself it wasn't worth the time or effort. She would be calm, she would remain firm, and this time he would be the one humiliated.

Pleased with herself, she went directly to the phone in her kitchen and took the next step without a moment's hesitation.

Thirty minutes later, she sat at the table and laid her head on her arms.

She'd done it. She'd actually done it.

Her condo was going on the market. As the couple Jude had rented to had already made inquiries about the possibility of buying it, the realtor was optimistic that it would sell quickly and with a minimum of fuss. She'd booked a flight for the end of the month so that she could go through her possessions, ship or store what she wanted to keep, and sell or give away the rest.

So much, she thought, for a life she'd built on other people's expectations. She stayed as she was, holding her breath to see what reaction would set in.

Panic? Regret? Depression?

But it was none of those. It was done, so easily, too, and there was a huge weight off her shoulders at the idea of it. Relief was what she felt. Relief, anticipation, and a wicked little thrill of accomplishment.

She no longer lived in Chicago. She lived in Faerie Hill Cottage, County Waterford, Ireland.

Her parents were going to faint.

At the thought of that, she sat up, pressed both hands to her mouth to hold back the wild laughter. They'd think she'd lost her mind. And would never, ever understand that what she'd done was found it. She'd found her mind, and her heart and her home.

And, she thought, a little dizzy herself, her purpose.

"Gran, I found me. I found Jude F. Murray in six months or less. How about that?"

The call to New York was harder. Because it was more important, Jude realized. Beyond the symbolism of the sale of the condo. That only meant money. The call to New York equaled her future, the future she was giving herself.

She wasn't certain whether her acquaintance from college had remembered her or had simply pretended to out of politeness. But she'd taken the call, and she'd listened. Jude couldn't quite remember what she'd said, or what Holly had said back. Except that Holly Carter Fry, literary agent, told Jude F. Murray she very much liked the sound of her book and instructed Jude to send a sample of her work in progress.

Because the thought of doing so made her stomach pitch crazily, Jude made herself get up, walk up the stairs. Her fingers might have trembled as she sat down to type the cover letter. But she clicked her mind over to logical and wrote what she thought was both polite and professional.

She only had to stop to put her head between her knees once.

She gathered the first three stories, and the prologue, words she'd labored over, poured her heart into. She could feel herself getting weepy as she slid the drawings into a folder, packaged everything in a padded envelope.

She was sending her heart across the ocean, risking having it shattered. Easier not to, she thought, stepping away to rub her chilled arms and stare out the window. Easier to just go on pretending she meant to, one day. Easier still to go back to convincing herself it was just an indulgence, an experiment she had no real stake in.

Because once she mailed that envelope, there was no going back, no more pretending, no more safety net.

That was it, had been it all along, she realized. It was easier to tell herself she wasn't very good at something. Safer to believe she wasn't clever or quick. Because if you had confidence enough to try something, you had to have courage enough to fail.

She'd failed with her marriage, and ultimately with her teaching-two things she'd been certain she was suited for.

But there were so many other things she'd wanted, dreamed of, that she'd locked away. Always telling herself to be sensible because people expected her to be.

But more, deep down more, the knowing if she failed, she'd have to live with it. And she hadn't had the courage for it.

She glanced back at the envelope, squared her shoulders. She had it now. This time, with this dream, if she didn't try, she couldn't live with it.

"Wish me luck," she murmured to whatever drifted through her house, and grabbed the envelope.

She didn't let herself think on the drive to town. She was going to mail it, then forget it, she told herself. She would not spend every day agonizing, fretting, projecting. She would know when she knew, and if it wasn't good enough- somehow she'd make it better.

While she was waiting, she would finish the book. She would polish it until it gleamed like a diamond. Then, well, she'd start another. Stories that came out of her head this time. Mermaids and shape-changers and magic bottles. She had a feeling that now that she'd popped the cork on her imagination, things would spurt out so quickly she wouldn't be able to keep up.

There was a roaring in her ears as she parked in front of the post office. Her heart was beating so fast and so thick her chest hurt. Her knees wanted to buckle, but she made herself cross the sidewalk and open the door.

The postmistress had snowy white hair and skin as dewy as a girl's. She sent Jude a cheery smile. "Hello, there, Miss Murray. How's it all going, then?"

"Very well, thank you." Liar, liar, liar chanted in her head. Any second she would lose the battle with nausea and humiliate herself.

"To be sure it's a lovely day. The finest summer we've had in many a year. Maybe you've brought us luck."

"I like to think so." With a smile that felt like a death grimace on her face, Jude set the envelope on the counter.

"Are you sending something to a friend in America, then?"

"Yes." Jude kept the smile in place while the woman read the address. "An old college friend of mine. She lives in New York now."

"My grandson Dennis and his wife and family live in

New York City. Dennis, he works in a fancy hotel and makes a good wage hauling people's luggage up and down the elevator. He says some of the rooms are like palaces."

Jude was afraid her face might crack, but she continued to smile. She'd learned enough in three months to know one didn't just scoot in and out of the post office, or anywhere else in Ardmore, without a bit of conversation.

"Does he enjoy his work?"

"Aye, that he does, and his pretty wife worked doing hair and such until the second baby came along."

"That's nice. I'd like this to get to New York as soon as possible."

"If you're wanting to send it special that way, it'll be a bit dear."

"That's all right." She felt as if she were moving through clear syrup as she reached into her bag for her wallet. In a daze she watched the weight and cost calculated, passed over the pounds and took the coins in change.

"Thank you."

"It's not a problem. No problem at all. Will your friend from New York be coming in for the wedding?"

"What?"

"No doubt your family will, but it's nice to have old friends as well, isn't it?"

The roaring in her head became a harsh buzzing. Nerves were so quickly smothered by blank fury, she could only stare.

"My John and I've been married near fifty years now, and still I remember so clear the day we wed. It rained a torrent, but it didn't matter in the least to me. All my family was there, and John's as well, packed into the little church so the smell of wet wool fought with the scent of the flowers. And me da, rest him, he wept like a baby when he walked me down the aisle, for I was his only daughter."

"That's lovely," Jude managed when she had her breath back. "But I'm not getting married."

"Oh, now, did you and Aidan have a lovers' spat already?" The postmistress tut-tutted kindly. "Don't take on about that, darling, it's natural as the rain."

"We didn't have a spat." But she had a feeling they were going to have the world's champion of spats very soon. "I'm just not getting married."

"You make him work for it," she said with a wink. "Doesn't hurt them a bit, and makes for a better husband in the end. Oh, and you should talk to Kathy Duffy about the wedding cake. She makes a fine one, pretty as a picture."

"I don't need a cake," Jude said between her teeth.

"Now, then, just because it's your second time doesn't mean you don't deserve a cake. Every bride does. And for the dress you should talk to Mollie O'Toole, as she found a lovely shop in Waterford City for her daughter's."

"I don't need a cake or a dress," Jude said, waging a vicious war for patience, "because I'm not getting married. Thank you."

She turned on her heel and marched to the door.

When she stepped out on the sidewalk, sucked in air, she glared at the sign for Gallagher's.

She couldn't go in now, couldn't possibly. She'd kill him if she did.

And why the hell shouldn't she? He deserved to die.

Long, purposeful strides ate up the ground until she reached the pub. And flung the door open.

"Aidan Gallagher!"

The room filled to bursting with locals and the tourists who'd stopped in for a bite to eat or a drink went dead quiet at her outburst.

At the bar Aidan paused in the draft he was drawing.

When she stalked to the bar, the gleam in her eye laser-bright, he set the pint aside. She didn't look a thing like the soft, sleepy woman he'd left shortly after dawn. That woman had looked silky and satisfied.

And this one looked murderous.

"I want a word with you," she told him.

He didn't think it was going to be a good word. "All right, then, give me a minute here and we'll go upstairs where we can be private."

"Oh, now he wants privacy. Well, forget it." She turned to the room. The stares and interested faces didn't embarrass her this time, didn't give her that hollow feeling in the belly. This time they fueled an already black temper.

"You're all welcome to listen to what I have to say, since every one of you who lives in the village is already discussing my business by now. Let me make it very clear. I am not marrying this baboon disguised as a man."

There were a few snickers, and when she saw the kitchen door slit open, she spun back again. "Don't stand behind the door, Shawn, come right on out. It's not you I'm after."

"And thank God for it," he muttered, but being a loyal brother he came out to stand beside Aidan.

"Pretty as a picture, the pair of you. And you, too," she said, pointing at Darcy. "I hope you both have more brains than your brother, who seems to think because he's got a handsome face women are going to swoon at his feet at the first sign of attention."

"Now, Jude darling."

"Don't you darling me." She reared up over the bar to rap a fist on his chest. "And don't call me Jude in that patient, infuriatingly placating tone, you- bloody moron."

His own eyes flashed and temper threatened. He jerked his thumb at Shawn to take over the taps and nodded to Jude. "We'll go upstairs and finish this."

"I'm going nowhere with you." She rapped her fist on his chest again, enjoying the violence of it. "I will not be bullied."

"Bullied? Who's bullying you, I'd like to know, when you're the one pounding on me?"

"I can do worse." She was suddenly, thrillingly, sure of it. "If you think that by telling everyone who'll listen I'm going to marry you, you'll pressure me into it, or embarrass me into it, or just wear me down, you're in for a surprise. I have no intention of being told what to do with my life, not by you, not by anyone."

She spun around again. "And everyone here better understand that. Just because I'm sleeping with him doesn't mean I'm shopping for a wedding cake when he snaps his fingers. I'll sleep with whomever I please."

"I'm available," someone called out and brought on hoots of laughter.

"That's enough." Aidan slammed a hand on the bar, and the glasses jumped. "This is private business." He shoved past Shawn to flip up the pass-through. "Upstairs, Jude Frances."

"No." She kept her chin up. "And since that appears to be a word you have trouble with, I'll ask which part of no you don't understand."

"Upstairs," he said again, and took a firm grip on her arm. "This isn't the place."

"It's your place," she reminded him. "And it's your doing. Take your hand off me."

"We'll discuss this in private."

"I'm done discussing it." When she tried to yank her arm free, he simply started hauling her toward the back. The fact that he could, that people parted way for them, that he was strong enough to drag her wherever he chose snapped something inside her. And the last lock of that dark, bubbling brew broke clean.

"I said take your hand off me, you son of a bitch." She couldn't quite remember doing it, not with the red haze coating her vision, but she felt the impact sing up her free arm as her fist connected with his face.

"Holy Christ." Stars exploded in his head, and the pain was as awesome as the sheer shock of what she'd done. Instinctively he pressed a hand under his nose as blood began to pour.

"And keep them off," she said with great dignity, as the pub once again fell silent. She turned and walked out seconds before the applause erupted.

"Here, try this." Shawn passed him over a rag. "That's a hell of a right jab our Jude has."

"Aye." He had to sit down and did so as Darcy pulled him toward a vacated stool. "What hell got into her?" He ignored the new bets being laid in the marriage pool, and took, with gratitude, the ice Shawn brought him.

He stared at the bloody rag with both amazement and disgust. "The woman's managed what hasn't been done in thirty-one years. She's broke my goddamn nose."