Born in Ice
Page 88
“That bad?” He smiled a little, surprised to find himself nervous.
“It’s wonderful.” She reached into her apron pocket for a tissue. “Truly. This part where Tullia’s sitting alone in her garden, thinking of her child. It makes you feel her grief. It’s not like she’s a made-up person at all.”
His second surprise was that he should experience embarrassment. As far as praise went, hers had been perfect. “Well, that’s the idea.”
“You’ve a wonderful gift, Gray, for making words into emotions. I went a bit beyond the part you wanted me to read. I’m sorry. I got caught up in it.”
“I’m flattered.” He noted by the screen she’d read more than a hundred pages. “You’re enjoying it.”
“Oh, very much. It has a different . . . something,” she said, unable to pinpoint it, “than your other books. Oh, it’s moody, as they always are, and rich in detail. And frightening. The first murder, the one at the ruins. I thought my heart would stop when I was reading it. And gory it was, too. Gleefully so.”
“Don’t stop now.” He ruffled her hair, dropped down on the bed.
“Well.” She linked her hands, laid them on the edge of the desk as she thought through her words. “Your humor’s there as well. And your eye, it misses nothing. The scene in the pub, I’ve walked into that countless times in my life. I could see Tim O’Malley behind the bar, and Murphy playing a tune. He’ll like that you made him so handsome.”
“You think he’ll recognize himself?”
“Oh, I do, yes. I don’t know how he’ll feel about being one of the suspects, or the murderer, if that’s what you’ve done in the end.” She waited, hopeful, but he only shook his head.
“You don’t really think I’m going to tell you who done it, do you?”
“Well, no.” She sighed and propped her chin on her fist. “As to Murphy, probably he’ll enjoy it. And your affection for the village, for the land here and the people shows. In the little things—the family hitching a ride home from church in their Sunday best, the old man walking with his dog along the roadside in the rain, the little girl dancing with her grandda in the pub.”
“It’s easy to write things down when there’s so much to see.”
“It’s more than what you see, with your eyes, I mean.” She lifted her hands, let them fall again. She didn’t have words, as he did, to juggle into the right meaning. “It’s the heart of it. There’s a deepness to the heart of it that’s different from what I’ve read of your writings before. The way McGee fights that tug of war within himself over what he should do. The way he wishes he could do nothing and knows he can’t. And Tullia, the way she bears her grief when it’s near to bending her in two, and works to make her life what it needs to be again. I can’t explain it.”
“You’re doing a pretty good job,” Gray murmured.
“It touches me. I can’t believe it was written right here, in my home.”
“I don’t think it could have been written anywhere else.” He rose then, disappointing her by hitting buttons that jangled the screen. She’d hoped he let her read more.
“Oh, you’ve changed the name of it,” she said when the title page came up. “Final Redemption. I like it. That’s the theme of it, is it? The murders, what’s happened to McGee and Tullia before, and what changes after they meet?”
“That’s the way it worked out.” He hit another button, bringing up the dedication page. In all the books he’d written, it was only the second time he’d dedicated one. The first, and only, had been to Arlene.
To Brianna, for gifts beyond price.
“Oh, Grayson.” Her voice hitched over the tears rising in the back of her throat. “I’m honored. I’ll start crying again,” she murmured and turned her face into his arm. “Thank you so much.”
“There’s a lot of me in this book, Brie.” He lifted her face, hoping she’d understand. “It’s something I can give you.”
“I know. I’ll treasure it.” Afraid she’d spoil the moment with tears, she ran her hands briskly over her hair. “You’ll want to get back to work, I’m sure. And I’ve whittled the day away.” She picked up her linens, knowing she’d weep the moment she was behind the first closed door. “Shall I bring your tea up here when it’s time?”
He tilted his head, narrowed his eyes as he studied her. He wondered if she’d recognized herself in Tullia. The composure, the quiet, almost unshakable grace. “I’ll come down. I’ve nearly done all I need to do for today.”
“In an hour then.”
She went out, closing the door behind her. Alone, Gray sat, and stared, for a long time, at the brief dedication.
It was the laughter and the voices that drew Gray, when the hour was up, toward the parlor rather than the kitchen. Brianna’s guests were gathered around the tea table, sampling or filling plates. Brianna herself stood, swaying gently from side to side to rock the baby sleeping on her shoulder.
“My nephew,” she was explaining. “Liam. I’m minding him for an hour or two. Oh, Gray.” She beamed when she saw him. “Look who I have here.”
“So I see.” Crossing over, Gray peeked at the baby’s face. His eyes were open, and dreamy, until they latched onto Gray and stared owlishly. “He always looks at me as if he knows every sin I committed. It’s intimidating.”
Gray moved to the tea table and had nearly decided on his choices when he noted Brianna slipping from the room. He caught up with her at near the kitchen door. “Where are you going?”
“To put the baby down.”
“What for?”
“Maggie said he’d be wanting a nap.”
“Maggie’s not here.” He took Liam himself. “And we never get to play with him.” To amuse himself, he made faces at the baby. “Where’s Maggie?”
“She’s fired up her furnace. Rogan had to run into the gallery to handle some problem, so she came dashing down here just a little bit ago.” With a laugh she bent her head close to Gray’s. “I thought it would never happen. Now I have you all to myself,” she murmured. She straightened at the knock on the door. “Keep his head supported, mind,” she said as she went to answer.
“It’s wonderful.” She reached into her apron pocket for a tissue. “Truly. This part where Tullia’s sitting alone in her garden, thinking of her child. It makes you feel her grief. It’s not like she’s a made-up person at all.”
His second surprise was that he should experience embarrassment. As far as praise went, hers had been perfect. “Well, that’s the idea.”
“You’ve a wonderful gift, Gray, for making words into emotions. I went a bit beyond the part you wanted me to read. I’m sorry. I got caught up in it.”
“I’m flattered.” He noted by the screen she’d read more than a hundred pages. “You’re enjoying it.”
“Oh, very much. It has a different . . . something,” she said, unable to pinpoint it, “than your other books. Oh, it’s moody, as they always are, and rich in detail. And frightening. The first murder, the one at the ruins. I thought my heart would stop when I was reading it. And gory it was, too. Gleefully so.”
“Don’t stop now.” He ruffled her hair, dropped down on the bed.
“Well.” She linked her hands, laid them on the edge of the desk as she thought through her words. “Your humor’s there as well. And your eye, it misses nothing. The scene in the pub, I’ve walked into that countless times in my life. I could see Tim O’Malley behind the bar, and Murphy playing a tune. He’ll like that you made him so handsome.”
“You think he’ll recognize himself?”
“Oh, I do, yes. I don’t know how he’ll feel about being one of the suspects, or the murderer, if that’s what you’ve done in the end.” She waited, hopeful, but he only shook his head.
“You don’t really think I’m going to tell you who done it, do you?”
“Well, no.” She sighed and propped her chin on her fist. “As to Murphy, probably he’ll enjoy it. And your affection for the village, for the land here and the people shows. In the little things—the family hitching a ride home from church in their Sunday best, the old man walking with his dog along the roadside in the rain, the little girl dancing with her grandda in the pub.”
“It’s easy to write things down when there’s so much to see.”
“It’s more than what you see, with your eyes, I mean.” She lifted her hands, let them fall again. She didn’t have words, as he did, to juggle into the right meaning. “It’s the heart of it. There’s a deepness to the heart of it that’s different from what I’ve read of your writings before. The way McGee fights that tug of war within himself over what he should do. The way he wishes he could do nothing and knows he can’t. And Tullia, the way she bears her grief when it’s near to bending her in two, and works to make her life what it needs to be again. I can’t explain it.”
“You’re doing a pretty good job,” Gray murmured.
“It touches me. I can’t believe it was written right here, in my home.”
“I don’t think it could have been written anywhere else.” He rose then, disappointing her by hitting buttons that jangled the screen. She’d hoped he let her read more.
“Oh, you’ve changed the name of it,” she said when the title page came up. “Final Redemption. I like it. That’s the theme of it, is it? The murders, what’s happened to McGee and Tullia before, and what changes after they meet?”
“That’s the way it worked out.” He hit another button, bringing up the dedication page. In all the books he’d written, it was only the second time he’d dedicated one. The first, and only, had been to Arlene.
To Brianna, for gifts beyond price.
“Oh, Grayson.” Her voice hitched over the tears rising in the back of her throat. “I’m honored. I’ll start crying again,” she murmured and turned her face into his arm. “Thank you so much.”
“There’s a lot of me in this book, Brie.” He lifted her face, hoping she’d understand. “It’s something I can give you.”
“I know. I’ll treasure it.” Afraid she’d spoil the moment with tears, she ran her hands briskly over her hair. “You’ll want to get back to work, I’m sure. And I’ve whittled the day away.” She picked up her linens, knowing she’d weep the moment she was behind the first closed door. “Shall I bring your tea up here when it’s time?”
He tilted his head, narrowed his eyes as he studied her. He wondered if she’d recognized herself in Tullia. The composure, the quiet, almost unshakable grace. “I’ll come down. I’ve nearly done all I need to do for today.”
“In an hour then.”
She went out, closing the door behind her. Alone, Gray sat, and stared, for a long time, at the brief dedication.
It was the laughter and the voices that drew Gray, when the hour was up, toward the parlor rather than the kitchen. Brianna’s guests were gathered around the tea table, sampling or filling plates. Brianna herself stood, swaying gently from side to side to rock the baby sleeping on her shoulder.
“My nephew,” she was explaining. “Liam. I’m minding him for an hour or two. Oh, Gray.” She beamed when she saw him. “Look who I have here.”
“So I see.” Crossing over, Gray peeked at the baby’s face. His eyes were open, and dreamy, until they latched onto Gray and stared owlishly. “He always looks at me as if he knows every sin I committed. It’s intimidating.”
Gray moved to the tea table and had nearly decided on his choices when he noted Brianna slipping from the room. He caught up with her at near the kitchen door. “Where are you going?”
“To put the baby down.”
“What for?”
“Maggie said he’d be wanting a nap.”
“Maggie’s not here.” He took Liam himself. “And we never get to play with him.” To amuse himself, he made faces at the baby. “Where’s Maggie?”
“She’s fired up her furnace. Rogan had to run into the gallery to handle some problem, so she came dashing down here just a little bit ago.” With a laugh she bent her head close to Gray’s. “I thought it would never happen. Now I have you all to myself,” she murmured. She straightened at the knock on the door. “Keep his head supported, mind,” she said as she went to answer.
