She didn’t know what to say. She was frozen in place, and her throat had closed up. She was afraid that if she tried to speak, she would squeak.
Salads arrived along with the mini hot dogs, which were accompanied by delicate little cups that held mustard and ketchup. He drew his hand back. She straightened in her chair and thanked the waitress, who smiled, told them to enjoy their salads and their appetizer, and moved away.
Caer tasted a hot dog and pronounced it delicious.
“There’s an American treat for you,” he promised.
She chewed delicately, taking her time. He seemed to enjoy them himself.
“You like my story because it’s similar to yours,” she told him.
“I don’t like to hear anything that’s painful,” he said. “People shouldn’t have to lose their parents when they’re young. It’s as unnatural as a parent losing a child. I’ve seen that happen, too. All in all, I’ve seen some pretty horrible things out there. So I’m glad to hear you’ve done well on your own, and to know that you have good friends.”
“What if I really had been the child of a faerie and a banshee?”
“Are you?” he asked.
“No.”
“Then…?”
“There are strange things in this world that could be true,” she told him.
He hesitated. “I’ve seen some strange things, I admit, but usually it’s strange people who cause everything around them to seem…strange.”
“So you don’t believe in ghosts?”
She was surprised by his hesitation, but then he grinned and said, “Actually, even my very tough oldest brother might believe in ghosts. I’ve never been really sure.”
“Ghosts are real,” she said softly.
“Have you spoken with any lately?”
“Now you’re making fun of me.”
“No, I’m not.” He shrugged. “There’s real—and there’s not real. That’s just the way it is.”
A string quartet—dressed in colonial style—was playing chamber music in a far corner. She turned to watch them.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” he asked.
“Aye.”
“Puccini,” he said.
Their appetizer plates were whisked away and their dinners arrived. She found that she especially loved the stuffing, which had corn, nuts and raisins in it.
They ordered more beer.
He told her more about Louisiana and the family plantation, insisting that she really had to see it one day. He talked about Florida, as well, growing up in the north of the state, working in the far south. She talked a bit about her work as a nurse and educated him on Irish history. The time passed quickly.
When they finished, she was relaxed. As they returned to the car and headed to the pub, he entertained her with stories about the scrapes he had gotten into with his brothers, and how their mother only had to grab one of them by the scruff of the neck or speak a single word to make them shape up.
“She was that scary?” Caer asked.
“She was that wonderful,” he said, looking straight ahead. “We loved her to pieces. We were a little wild, but we all adored her. And my dad, of course. We all wanted to grow up to be just like him. In a way, we’ve managed that.”
At the pub, she was introduced to jazz. She loved the sound of it. They sat in a booth, and she leaned against him, his arm resting easily around her shoulders.
She didn’t think she’d ever felt more blissful.
There’s real—and there’s not real.
That was what he’d said.
At the moment, though, it was real. And she loved it.
They listened to the music for a long time, the silence between them a very comfortable thing. When they left, she was loath for the evening to end.
“I don’t want to go back,” she admitted out loud.
He glanced at his watch. “Well, I can show you one more thing in Newport, if you’d like.”
“Really? What? It’s late, isn’t it?”
He laughed. “Yes, it’s late, but I can get us in.”
“Oh?”
He drove for about five minutes. They weren’t exactly off the beaten path, but neither were they in the midst of a commercial area.
He parked in front of a long commercial building that looked both very old and very well cared for. She realized that small placards on the different doors advertised an art gallery, a piano store, a photography studio and, on the last door, a music studio.
“Yours?” she asked him.
“My latest acquisition. On the upper level. Just up these stairs.”
He drew out his keys and started up, and she followed.
The reception held a desk, a sofa and several chairs, all tastefully antique. Magazines of all sorts covered the coffee table, and it seemed a very comfortable place to wait. “The sound studios are this way.”
He walked along the hall, opening doors as he went. She was fascinated. There were monstrous machines with all kinds of buttons, and glass cubicles that held nothing but microphones and stools. Headphones hung neatly on rungs by the doors.
“I’m amazed,” she told him. “And extremely impressed. But when do you find time to work here?”