The Awakening: The Dragon Heart Legacy Book 1 Read online

  The cliffs speared up, dramatic and sheer above the wild waters of the Atlantic on one side. On the other, the pretty little village spread its color and charm ahead of the green fields and farms.

  They walked the trail while the cliffs made their steady rise and the waves crashed.

  “Can you imagine seeing this every day?” And she couldn’t see enough. “I can’t believe you’d ever get used to it.”

  Gulls streamed, feather white, smoke gray, and called to the wind. With Marco she hiked the gravel path, took the rough flagstone steps, and just stopped to bask and wonder.

  “Oh, look at the wildflowers. Wait, I know that one—I think.” She nearly reached in her pack for her book, then did a little hip wiggle as she remembered. “Thrift. That’s thrift.”

  She hunkered down to take a photo. “Isn’t it amazing how it pushes up through the limestone, so pink and pretty? I swear I’m going to start growing plants—nice potted plants when we get home.”

  “You figure you’ll stay in the apartment?”

  She looked up. “Marco, what would I do without you?”

  When she straightened up, they walked again. “We could think about finding another place, same neighborhood,” she considered. “With a little balcony. Or a garden apartment with a little patio.”

  “I wondered if you’d think about moving out, maybe getting a house or something.”

  “A house.” She said it like a sigh. She’d never dreamed that big. “I could get a house, with a yard—for a garden. For a dog!”

  “Now you’re thinking.”

  “Now I’m thinking. If I get a house, you’re coming with me. But you know what? Today’s today. And look where we are. God, look at the cliffs! We were over there just a couple hours ago. From here they look like some ancient giant hacked them into being with his axe. It’s all drama and ferocity. Then you look that way.”

  She turned her back to the sea. “And it’s so peaceful, all pastoral. Like some quiet painting done in saturated colors.”

  She rolled her eyes when she realized he’d taken her picture.

  Satisfied, he nudged his Wayfarers back down. “That one’s headlining the blog.”

  They hiked across fields, along rises, and she soaked up everything.

  The sun beamed so bright, so clear, she took off her jacket to tie it around her waist.

  “You can see for miles! Those islands out there.”

  “Aran Islands,” Breen said when Marco pointed. “I read people there still speak Irish, and some plow the land with horses. I think I dreamed about it. Did I tell you?”

  She told him about the dream of the forest and the fields and cottages, and the one where she rode a flying dragon.

  “How come I don’t dream cool shit like that? I’ve gotta work on it. It’s like a dream, all of this. I mean, who’da thought, Breen, you and me, hiking cliffs anywhere, much less here.”

  “We’re going to start traveling more, doing more. It may not be castles and the Wild Atlantic Way, but we’re getting out of the rut, Marco.”

  “I’m for it.” He held out his pinky. “Breen and Marco see the world. Or at least the East Coast. We can get ourselves a car next summer, drive up to Maine or down to Key West or anywhere in between. But no more just working and thinking about doing and going.”

  “No more.”

  On the cliffs, above the crash of waves, they pinky swore.

  They logged a solid five miles by the time they looped back to the village.

  “How’re your boots holding up?” Marco asked her.

  “Fine.” She glanced over, narrowed her eyes. “Yours?”

  He had the grace to look sheepish. “I maybe might’ve worked up a blister, and yeah, yeah, I should’ve used that glide stuff you offered me.”

  “I have moleskin in my pack.”

  “Course you do.”

  She just pointed at the car. “Sit, take off the boots and socks. We’ll fix you up.”

  “It’s not bad. I just started feeling it in the last mile.”

  He had indeed worked up a small blister on each foot.

  “This’ll cushion them,” she told him as she applied the moleskin. “And since it’s pub time, you’ll be sitting down awhile.”

  “I’m ready for pub time.” He wiggled his toes before sliding on his socks. “It’s sure nice going into a bar and not working it. Music, too, right?”

  “Absolutely music, too. And I’ll be designated driver.”

  “It’s my turn.”

  She just shook her head. “I’ve still got the keys.”

  She’d researched the pubs and figured they could do a crawl or settle into one—with her sticking to soft drinks and water.

  She wanted the atmosphere, the music, but also wanted to try for the long shot. Doolin was famed for its traditional music, and her father had made his living playing that music.

  Wouldn’t he have, at some point, played here?

  He might play here still, she thought.

  When they walked into the pub, Breen decided they’d made the perfect choice. It held a long bar of dark wood backed by an old stone wall where shelves held a myriad of bottles and jugs.

  Most of the stools there were already occupied, as were the scatter of low tables. The music of a bright fiddle played out of the speakers as people ate, drank, talked.

  A low fire burned, red at its heart—a peat fire, which made it all the more perfect. On the wall crowded old photos, signs for Guinness and Harp and Jameson.

  It smelled just as she thought an Irish pub should, of peat smoke and beer and food fried in the kitchen.

  One of the waitstaff, a woman with stick-straight black hair in a bouncing tail, paused on her way to the bar with a tray.

  “Are you after a table then?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “Take your pick, but for the one in the corner there. That’s for the musicians.”

  They grabbed a two-top.

  “It’s kinda like a movie, right?”

  Breen could only grin. Lunch at a pub had been wonderful, but this? A perfect cap to a perfect day.

  “It’s everything I wanted.”

  “You gotta have one beer,” he insisted. “It’s like sacrilege or something otherwise. We’re going to eat, stick around for music. We probably won’t drive back for hours.”

  “A half pint,” she agreed. “My dad drank mostly Smithwick’s, so I’ll have a glass of that.”

  The same waitress came back to them.

  “And how’s it all going then?”

  “As good as it gets,” Marco told her.

  “That’s lovely to hear. Americans, are you?”

  “Philadelphia.”

  “Philadelphia,” she repeated, and made it sound as exotic as the cliffs. “I’ve not been there, but been to America twice. Once to New York City to visit cousins, and to Wyoming.”

  “Wyoming?”

  The waitress smiled at Breen. “I wanted to see cowboys, and so I did. A vast place is Wyoming. And so I’m Kate, and I’ll be serving you this evening.” She handed them menus. “Can I get you some drinks?”

  “I’ll have a pint of Guinness, and my friend wants a half pint of Smithwick’s. I bartend at home,” Marco continued.

  “Do you now? Well then, we may call on you to pull some pints once the evening rolls on. The Cobblers Three are popular, and will fill the place before we’re done. You’re fortunate to have come early enough for a table. I’ll get those drinks for you.”

  Marco, being Marco, picked up the menu. “That hike gave me a serious appetite.”

  “Waking up in the morning gives you a serious appetite.” But she glanced at the menu herself. “I’m going to try the shepherd’s pie.”

  “I’m going for the mussels for a starter. Want to split?”

  “Have you ever known me to eat a mussel?”

  “More for me. And they’ve got Irish lasagna. What makes it Irish? I need to find out. Man, I haven’t checked your blo
g since lunch.”

  While he did, Breen just sighed into the moment.

  “Breen, you got sixteen more comments on yesterday’s, and you’re up to fifty-eight on today’s.”

  “Really? What do they say?” She scooted her chair over to read with him. “They really seem to like it.”

  “Damn right. Wait till they read what you write about today. What are you going to write about today?”

  “I—I don’t know. It’s getting real.”

  “Don’t start.” He knocked his knuckles lightly on her forehead. “Just keep it up. I like how my best friend’s a blogger.”

  “A couple of blog posts don’t make a blogger. Let’s see how it goes when I’ve got two weeks.”

  The waitress brought their beers, nodded toward the menus. “Have you decided what you’ll have?”

  “I’ll try the shepherd’s pie.”

  “You can’t go wrong with it. And you, sir?”

  “I’ll start with the mussels, then go for the Irish lasagna.”

  “There’s a treat. My mother’s recipe, cobbled from my two grannies. Hers being from Italy, and my da’s from right here in Clare.”

  “Your mom’s the cook?” Marco asked.

  “She is, yes, along with my brother Liam. The pub was my grandparents’, you see, and now my parents have it. It’s family.”

  “Speaking of family, Breen’s father used to play in pubs like this. Maybe even here.”

  “Is that the truth?”

  She’d intended to ease into all of that, but Marco liked to wade straight in.

  “Yes. He was born in Galway, but I know he played here in Clare, as that’s where he met my mother. It was all before I was born, so you wouldn’t know. But he might’ve played here.”

  “My father might remember.”

  “I don’t know the name of the band. He’s Eian Kelly.”

  “If a man played in Clare, he likely played in Doolin. If he played in Doolin, he likely played in Sweeney’s. I’ll put your orders in for you.”

  Marco hefted his beer, tapped it against Breen’s glass. “To another best day ever.”

  “Who wouldn’t drink to that?” She took a sip of beer to prove it. “Do you want to hear what I’ve mapped out for tomorrow?”

  He shook his head. “Still into today. You can surprise me. I never thought about coming here, you know? Like when I made my if-I-could-go-anywhere lists, it was usually Paris or Rome or Maui. But this really hits it, Breen. Who knew?”

  She had—for herself—as long as she could remember. “I never thought I’d go anywhere. Just work through the day, the week, the year. And maybe one day find somebody, get married, have kids. Then we’d go places, pile everybody in the minivan and drive to Disney World or the beach, wherever, so they didn’t feel so stuck in one place.”

  She looked around, families at tables, friends at the bar, the fire simmering. “If I ever have kids, I’d bring them here. It’s heritage, and I’d want them to have that. I’m glad I’m taking mine back.”

  She glanced up as a sandy-haired man with a barrel chest and bright blue eyes stopped by the table.

  “I’m Tom Sweeney. My daughter tells me you’re Eian Kelly’s girl.”

  “Yes. I—You know my father?”

  “He and his mates played right over there.” He gestured to the corner. “Sorcery they called themselves, and that’s what they were with the music. Too many years ago to count,” he said with a wide smile. “And how he is then, your da?”

  “I don’t actually know. He and my mother . . .”

  “Ah, that’s a sad thing to hear. And lost touch, have you?”

  “Yes. I’m hoping to find him while I’m here, or at least find out more from people who knew him.”

  “Well, I can tell you a story or two if you like.”

  “I really would.”

  “I’ll get you a chair.” Marco popped right up.

  “Thanks for that. Darling!” he called to his daughter. “Bring your old da a pint.”

  “I’m Marco, this is Breen.” Marco pulled a chair over.

  “More than pleased to meet you. I can see him in you,” Tom said as he sat. “Your hair, bold red, your eyes, soft gray. That’s Eian Kelly all over. Are you musical?”

  “Not very.”

  “Your da never met an instrument he couldn’t play, and like a magician, he was. Strong, clear voice as well. Close of age I’d say we were when I tended the bar here and he and his mates played.” He grabbed his daughter’s hand as she brought over his beer. “I have this one, her two brothers, and her sister because of Eian Kelly.”

  Marco grinned at Tom, at his daughter. “This is going to be a good story.”

  “Oh, he’s no lack of them.” Kate kissed her father on the top of his head, then went back to work.

  “Well, I’ll tell you. I was shy in those days. Not of people, but of girls. Never could get my tongue untangled around a pretty girl. And there was one in particular I had such a pining for. Sarah Maria Nero with her raven hair and gypsy eyes. Should she walk into the pub or should I see her on the street or in the market I could barely remember my own name much less speak to her.

  “And then.” He paused, drank, sighed a long sigh. “In she came one night with her friends—for she was a girl with many friends—to hear Sorcery. I pulled their pints, listened to her lovely, lively laughter, and suffered knowing she was forever out of my reach.”

  “It’s hard being shy,” Breen said. “And believing you’re not quite good enough.”

  “It is that.” His bright eyes held hers as he nodded. “It was during a break Eian Kelly came up to the bar, and he said to me, ‘Tom,’ he said, ‘tell the girl you like her sweater.’ I make a business of not knowing who he means, but he leans in. ‘She fancies you,’ he tells me. ‘She wonders why she can’t get you to say more than two words to her.’

  “And I’m bumbling on how he couldn’t know such a thing, and she doesn’t so much as know my name. He tells me to trust him on this, and I won’t be sorry for it.”

  “What color was her sweater?” Marco wondered, and made Tom laugh.

  “Blue, all the blues from the palest to the deepest, one bleeding sweet into the next. And up she comes to the bar. I could all but hear Eian’s voice in my head. ‘Don’t be a git,’ his voice said. ‘Talk to the girl.’ So out the words popped, and she smiled at me.

  “Oh!” Tom slapped a hand on his chest. “My heart near to burst. She said something, and I answered, but to this day I can’t tell you what the words were with my heart beating so loud in my ears. Later, she stayed for more music when her mates went on. And Eian whispered in my ear to walk her home. I asked her if I could, and so I did. Eight months, two weeks, and four days later, she was my bride. I’ve had twenty-eight years with the love of my life because Eian Kelly told me to talk to the girl.”

  “That’s a wonderful story.”

  It had tears stinging the back of Breen’s eyes as it made her father real again.

  “He had a way, Eian did, not just with music, but people. When he said trust me, as he did to me, you did just that. It wasn’t long after that night, I heard he went back to Galway, and it may be other parts, for it was a year or so before he returned. I wanted to invite him to the wedding, and to book Sorcery into the pub again, but we couldn’t reach him. Then back he came, and we had Sorcery to play. That was the night he met your mother.”

  “Here?” Her dreamy, weepy mood snapped into shock. “They met here?”

  “Here, on a stormy summer night.”

  “Are you going to talk their ears off?” Kate set Marco’s mussels on the table along with a basket of bread.

  “Her mother’s daughter she is. I’ll let you eat in peace.”

  “No, please.” Breen reached out to lay a hand on Tom’s arm. “I’d really like to hear more, if you have time.”

  “I have that and more for Eian Kelly’s daughter. You eat then, and I’ll tell you.”

  So
he settled back once more with his pint.

  “She walked in, your mother, with a group of others. Four, maybe five of them. College girls from the look, on a holiday tour. Well into the evening we were, as I recall, and not a table left to be had. They all crowded up to the bar. Your father was singing . . . ‘Black Velvet Band,’ it was. Yes, I’m sure of it. And the wind blowing, thunder rolling, rain lashing. And I happened to see—I could never tell you why—the minute their eyes met.

  “‘No sooner met but they looked.’”

  “‘No sooner looked but they loved,’” Breen added.

  “Might’ve been written for them. The lightning flash of it. With me and mine, it was a slow yearning, cautious steps. But this, a rocket launched. When he returned in three days’ time to play again, she was with him. And the same two weeks later. I heard they went back to his homeplace to be married, and it was my thought they settled there or went to her home in the States, for I never saw him again.”

  “We lived in Philadelphia.”

  “And did he play still?”

  “Yes, he did, and it meant traveling. I guess it was a strain, the traveling. They divorced when I was about ten. Then he left to come back to Ireland about a year later. He told me he’d be back, but . . .”

  Tom put a hand over hers. “I’m sorry to hear it, and just as surprised. He’s a good man, and I’d swear to it. And it was love he felt for your mother. A man as in love as myself sees it and knows it in another. Not just the heat but the love. We talked, Eian and myself, here and there during the time. He said he was taking—I’ve lost your mother’s name along the way.”

  “Jennifer.”

  “Ah, yes. Jenny, he called her. He was taking Jenny back home, and there to be wed. We talked about me soon to be a father, and how much he looked forward to having children, a family. He talked of his farm back home, and raising a family there with Jenny, and how he wanted to settle, a family man, on his own land.”

  Now he gave Breen’s hand a pat. “I hope I haven’t made you sad with all this talk.”

  “No. Mr. Sweeney.”

  “Tom.”

  “Tom. You’ve given me pictures of my father I never had. He is a good man. I remember him as loving and patient, and fun.”

  “I hope you find him, and if you do, tell him Tom Sweeney wants to stand him a round. Now here’s our Kate with your mains. You eat, and well, and it’s on the house.”