The Secret Chord: The Virtuosic Spy - Book 2 (11 page)

Kate let him move her feet in slow circles, but when he reached a hand to her she reluctantly slid her foot free and poked a toe at his stomach. "We shouldn't keep the others waiting, and since you were starving half an hour ago you must be ready to faint by now."

Without answering, Conor watched her face for another moment, then nodded and lifted himself up to the dock. Disappointed with herself, Kate handed him her towel and they walked back across the field.

W
HEN
THEY
'
D
FINISHED
eating, Conor and his young protégé settled on a broad flat rock with their audience on the picnic blanket in front of them. He'd taught Jigger guitar accompaniments for several traditional tunes and had been stunned by how quickly he'd learned the basics, assimilating and adapting the technique to new material as soon as Conor presented it. They played them all, producing a nearly seamless set that had Kate and Yvette on their feet doing an unorthodox jig in front of them. As the music died away the two collapsed, breathless and giggling at Conor's feet.

"What was the last one called?" Kate asked.

"The last one? 'The Old Hag at the Kiln.'" Conor smiled at her incredulous snort. "Yeah, we're not always poetic."

With sunset approaching, Kate went to collect a t-shirt left by the pond. Jigger curled up on the blanket, head propped against his guitar case, while Conor and Yvette worked around him to pack the remains of the food.

"Feckin' loaves and fishes." Conor grappled with the backpack's zipper and straightened, wiping a line of sweat from his lip. "How did she get all this in here?"
 

Yvette ignored the complaint, her attention elsewhere. "She's going to try again."

He turned and saw Kate standing in ankle-deep water, her back straight and her chin lifted, pointing at a boundary only she could see. "Do you want to go to her, Yvette? It might help."

"Me?" Yvette's flat affect betrayed a hint of sarcasm, but then she nodded in understanding. "She hasn't told you."

"No, and it didn't seem right to ask."

"Since you have so many secrets yourself?"

Conor winced at her mild tone of challenge, but Yvette merely shrugged. "Her story isn't a secret but it's hers to tell. You just have to let her know you want to hear it." She gazed at Kate, her brow creasing. "She usually wants to do this alone, though. This could take a while, and it's getting late."

"Go." Conor gave her shoulder a squeeze. "I'll wait for her. Can you manage all right with Jigger? He's falling asleep."

"I'm not asleep." Jigger smiled at them drowsily, fighting to stretch heavy-lidded eyes, and climbed to his feet.

His mother kissed the top of his head and laughed. "He'll be okay once we start walking."

The sound of their footsteps scything through the tall grass faded as they crossed the meadow. Conor hunkered down against a rock facing the pond. The crickets trilled and the fish had begun their twilight feeding. The liquid sound of their mouths breaking the surface carried to him as he watched, and waited. He was in no hurry to leave the place with its magical light and natural music, but when Kate moved back to the end of the dock to sit on its edge his restraint gave way.

After his sunset recital for her, he'd spent the past two weeks in a state of perpetual resistance, afraid of being pulled into an orbit he'd never escape. He couldn't do it any more. He couldn't let her struggle alone and he was tired of plotting every move in his life like a game of three-dimensional chess. He decided to let God move the pieces around for a change.

Conor entered the water quietly and went to stand in front of her. Kate raised her head, her smile dying before it reached her eyes. "Will you tell me?" he asked.
 

She tensed, regarding him uncertainly, and leaned a shoulder against the dock's corner post. "You've probably never heard of the Thimble Islands? They're in Long Island Sound, off the coast of Connecticut. My father has a house on one of them but Anna—my stepmother—prefers the Hamptons, so they hardly ever go. Michael and I went there six years ago this week."

Her brow wrinkled. “Things hadn't been great between us. We'd fallen out of sync, somehow. We needed this vacation to get back on track, but then Phillip showed up at our apartment one night and Michael invited him to come with us. Classic avoidance tactic. They spent every afternoon sailing together. I was livid, and Phillip tiptoed around me like I was a bomb about to blow. The poor guy knew he was caught in the middle of something, but he was so kind to me later. Which reminds me . . .” Kate gave Conor a pointed glance. "You never answered my side of this question: what did Phillip Ryan tell you about
me
?"

"Not nearly enough."

"He didn't tell you about any of this?"

"Only that there was an accident. I didn't realize he was with you."

Kate nodded, lips pursed. "We were all on the boat together that day, and we stayed out pretty late. It was dark and the water was getting choppy. Phillip was at the helm, but Michael got up to take the wheel back—he was nervous about a sloop sailing too close to us—and he sent me down below to make sure everything was secure. The boat heeled over hard while I was down there and I went flying. I don't even know what I hit, but by the time I had my breath back and got up on deck Phillip was at the wheel again, screaming, and Michael was gone. I don’t remember much after that. Phillip said he'd thrown out one of the boat fenders on the side where Michael had gone overboard, but we couldn't see him and the boat was still moving. He said I just went berserk and jumped into the water."

Kate touched her fingers to her lips and closed her eyes. "I do remember the water. So cold. Nothing around me. Nothing I could touch. And then suddenly, Phillip was there. He wasn't much of a sailor, but he’d finally managed to bring the boat into the wind and stop fairly close. He tried to throw me a lifeline, but I was hypothermic and nearly unconscious by that point. He jumped in after me and somehow got me back into the boat.

"What about Michael?" Conor asked.
 

She shook her head, her eyes still closed. "Gone. He wasn't wearing a life jacket. Someone called in the Coast Guard, and they gave me first aid and told Phillip to get me to the hospital while they searched. Hours later when I woke up in the emergency room, Phillip had to tell me they hadn't found Michael, and there wasn't much hope left that they would. I screamed at Phillip, I blamed him. He let me rage at him—hit him even—and then he held me while I cried. He never left my side that day, but he hardly ever said a word. He left as soon as I was released the next morning." Kate opened her eyes, and they were clear and calm. "What's he doing, now that he's not working for you?"

"He's got a place on a ferry run, taking tourists to the islands off the Dingle Peninsula."

"On a ferry. Good for him. He wasn't afraid to go back on the water." She gave an approving nod. "I lost so much that day but I want some things back, and I think I've waited long enough."

"I think so, too." Conor took a step forward and put his hands on the dock. "Will you let me help you?"

Kate frowned and indicated the shallow water near the shore. "I usually start back there."

"I've seen that. Let's try something different." He brought his hands to her waist, bracing to lift her, but seeing the panic in her eyes, paused. "No? Should I stop?"

"No."

Conor lifted her, easing her down into the water, and immediately the color drained from Kate's face. He felt her muscles shudder and lock in terror. Alarmed, he moved to lift her back on the dock, but she took his hands from her waist and held them in a crushing grip.

"Don't," she whispered. "Let's go. Farther out."

He moved slowly backward, praying he wouldn't trip over something. Kate stayed rooted in place, but when her arms were almost fully extended between them, she took a step. And then another. As the water reached her collarbone they stopped, and Conor held her lightly by the elbows. She trembled, her breath coming in uneven gasps, but gradually grew quiet. After a few minutes she stepped away from him and turned in slow circles, a tranquil, dervish-like movement that reminded him of the figures in her painting.

"Maybe it's enough for now?" he suggested, when she stopped. She was calm, almost serene, but still pale and shivering. Again, she shook her head.

"No. Not enough. I want to float. Some day I want to swim out to that raft and jump up and down on it, but for now I just want to lie on my back, look at the sky . . . and float."

She tried on her own, but couldn't bring herself to lift both feet. Conor finally took her up into his arms and she pressed her face into his neck, fingers tight on his shoulders. He held her for a long moment, and as she gradually relaxed he lowered her to the water. Eyes shut, she floated there, her hair washing around her face like an exotic sea grass.

Slowly, Conor removed his arms and withdrew, stepping several yards to the side. As he drifted backward, Kate opened her eyes and looked at the sky with a smile that took his breath away. A tear swelled and grew bright before spilling onto her face. He watched, and felt changed. As though he had become the single drop of water sliding down her cheek, carrying its taste of salt to the sweet water of the pond, dissolving without struggle.

11

D
ARKNESS
HID
THEIR
FACES
AS
THEY
MOVED
,
DESCENDING
through the woods and across the field. Kate carried the flashlight. She focused on the juddering beam teasing them along the path, absently alerting Conor to obstacles as they appeared.

"Rock. Roots. Hole." The terse warnings were the only conversation she could manage as her mind lingered over a long-awaited epiphany, probing the outline of something taking shape inside her.

Conor had lifted her up and rested her on the water, and with his hands anchoring her the terror of being weightless and unmoored had finally disappeared. He'd held her for as long as she'd needed, but had known enough to release her, and when she'd realized his hands were gone the sensation of freedom had been staggering.

With outstretched limbs holding her in balance, her body was like a tightened fist that had unclenched and stretched for the first time in years. She was grateful for his intuitive understanding—allowing the moment to be hers alone—but in its aftermath she found herself torn between an instinct to nurture a hard-won liberation and the desire to feel his hands beneath her again.

They came through the door into the kitchen, and in the fluorescent glare of its light she looked at him and saw her own uncertainty reflected back at her. He emptied the contents of the backpack onto the prep counter and Kate put the leftovers into the refrigerator, and then they stood staring at the flattened bag until she finally broke the silence.

"You're always helping me—so much, and so often. Won't you let me return the favor?"

Conor offered a fleeting smile. "I wish it could be that easy."

"Are you saying my ‘phobic disorders’ don't compare with yours?" Kate feigned outrage, teasing him, but Conor's face remained pensive.

"No, Kate. I'm saying you're braver than I am."

She stepped forward, yielding to impulse, and stretched up to kiss him on the cheek. He stiffened, hesitating, then his arms circled her waist and he drew her against him.

"I think we each have what the other needs." She rested her head on his shoulder. "But it will only work if we can accept what the other offers."

"I know. I'm sorry."

"You apologize too much." Kate drew back, smiling. "It isn't only you. I need some time as well—to understand how much I'm able to trust, and what I'm willing to risk. Does that make sense?"

"How can it not? It's the story of my life." He gave her waist a final squeeze before stepping back. "Do you need any help here?"

"You've helped enough for one day. Are you heading upstairs?"

"Not yet. I'm going down to the brook to play a little longer."

The moment of intimacy was slipping away, and she felt reluctant to let it go so abruptly. He picked up his violin and Kate caught his arm as he moved past her. "Conor, I don't want to lose whatever this is."

He reached out to sweep the still-damp hair from her face and gently kissed her forehead.

"Nor do I."

F
OLLOWING
SEVERAL
FALSE
starts Conor took the violin from his shoulder in frustration. His objective was the diffusion of passion, not its escalation. He should have known the murmuring undercurrents and shadows below the inn would confuse that effort. The air itself was enough to unsettle him. With an aroma of newly cut grass on its breath, a breeze whispered against his face while the moon lit up the brook like a showcase of crystal.

He was in love with her. One minute he was telling himself to relax a little for fuck's sake, and the next minute he was in love with her. Just like that. His shoulders slumped and he dropped his head. No, not really 'just like that'. The truth was, he'd been tumbling a little farther every day from the moment he'd met her.

The undeniable reality of being in love was all the more unnerving for being alien. His mind wandered back to his years in Dublin and his short-lived engagement to a fellow musician named Maggie Fallon. Such memories were so remote they seemed like the history of someone else's life.

Despite assurances to the contrary—sincere at the time—he'd never been in love with Maggie. Until now he hadn't acknowledged how short of the mark he'd been. He'd assumed his arrest and conviction had prompted her to leave him, but maybe her letter would have come anyway. Maybe Maggie had realized what he was holding back, and now he did as well. He also knew what he was holding back from Kate, and what he stood to lose by it. For the first time he began fearing the consequences of secrecy almost as much as disclosure. Christ, he needed to stop thinking about it.

He shook himself into a more formal posture, and raising his bow like a whip set to crack, he glared at the moonlit brook and launched into Paganini.