That’s when Carl emerged from the house, and before he started over, she motioned for him to stay quiet.
Carl squatted next to her. “They’re asleep?” he whispered.
She nodded. “Aye,” she whispered back. He arched an eyebrow and she added, “Music soothes even these little beasties. No, I didn’t give ’em any Guinness.”
He silently snorted. “I’m off the phone if you want a break. I can stay out here with them.”
She nodded and stood, glancing at her watch. “We shouldn’t let ’em sleep more than an hour if we don’t want their parents hatin’ on us for messin’ up their bedtimes.”
He gave her a thumbs-up and she headed inside, straight to her bathroom, where she locked the door and silently cried.
Miss ye, Da. Bloody hell I miss ye fierce.
Later that evening, after dark, she slipped out to the backyard, sat with her back against the same tree, except on the far side, away from the house, and started softly playing “Lark in the Morning.”
Sitting in the bedroom frigging herself in Tamsin’s bed wasn’t the worst idea, but not if she wanted to get her mind off that conundrum.
Instead, she opted to do something she rarely let herself engage in, and that was think about her father and revisit some of the good times.
So many memories, and it was difficult to focus on the good and not her still-seething rage at what happened to him, Paddy, and Nic. How bloody senseless their deaths had been.
Wondered how her father would have loved being a grandfather. What kind of fathers and uncles her brothers would have been.
Shoving those thoughts away, she tried to remember her father’s smile, his laugh, the pride when she played with him and his mates in the pub.
Remembered the feel of his hands on hers as he taught her how to play the fiddle.
Remembered how good it felt to have his undivided attention in those times when both money and time had been desperately scarce in their household.
The little ones she now watched would, hopefully, never know the pain, the grief—the rage—that had shadowed and darkened most of her years.
She’d worked her way through several pub jam favorites when Carl’s voice startled her from the other side of the tree.
“That’s really good. I didn’t know you played music,” Carl said.
Bloody hell, I didn’t hear him. She paused to catch her breath and let her pulse return to normal, but she didn’t look up.
“Ye never asked.” She resumed playing, this time a slow, mournful rendition of “Whiskey in the Jar.”
Then again, anything sounds mournful if you play it right. Or wrong, I suppose.
He walked around the tree, his footsteps crunching in the grass, to stand in front of her. She looked up at him, where his bulk was backlit by the security lights on the fence.
“Why do you always act so prickly?” he asked.
“Are all Americans as rude as ye seem to be, or are ye just special like that? I was sittin’ here mindin’ me own business, ye feckin’ bogtrotter.”
He squatted in front of her, at eye level. “Aisling, I’m really trying, here. It’s like you don’t want to let any of us in, and can I remind you we’re on the same team?”
She didn’t respond, instead slipping into playing “Cheeseburger in Paradise” but more like a reel.
Something that used to irritate the unholy hell out of one of her mates, which of course made her take great pleasure in doing it.
Unfortunately, he never made it home from deployment.
Twenty years on, she could still smell the blood and hear his dying moans.
Carl heavily sighed before a scowl washed over his face. “Is that…Jimmy Buffett?”
