“I’m working to be more trustworthy.”
She watched him but didn’t reach out, didn’t touch his hand as she’d sometimes done. “Are you meaning to be more honest with me, as well?”
“Aye. Starting with something I’ve not told even m’family.” Saints above, he could hardly believe what he was about to do. “During the thirteen years I was away from them, I learned to play the fiddle. I played it around the campfire during the war, then on m’own while working in Canada. I’ve not played it in front of anyone since Grady died. It’s always felt too personal, too vulnerable.”
“I can appreciate that.” She was still guarded, but she wasn’t sending him away.
“You told me you needed me to be more open about m’self and who I am. So, I’m no longer hiding the parts of me I think might earn me dismissal or laughter. And I’m starting now.” He rose.
“You’re going to play? In front of everyone?”
“I’ll have to borrow an instrument—I sold mine to buy whiskey.” He tossed her a chagrined look. “It’s feeling good to be a little less under that spell. I’m hopeful that’ll get better and better.”
She pressed her open palm to her heart, watching him with wide eyes. Now was the moment of truth.
He approached the musicians just as they were finishing a tune. A dozen pairs of eyes turned to him. Seamus Kelly, who always served as the voice of these evenings, moved to stand next to him.
“What’s your policy on guest musicians?” Patrick asked.
“We encourage ’em, provided they can keep a tune.”
“I’m a bit out of practice,” he admitted, “but I’d like a chance to try.”
Seamus nodded, eying him. “I don’t spot an instrument.”
“I’d be needing to borrow one.” He looked back at the musicians. “A fiddle.”
Mary’s husband, Thomas, was among them, he being quite the penny whistler. “You didn’t used to fiddle.”
“I picked it up during the years I’ve been away.”
“Your da and ma haven’t mentioned it.”
Patrick’s nerves were growing more raw by the moment, but he wouldn’t back out now. He needed Eliza to see that he was sincere. “Da and Ma are about to be surprised, I’ll tell you that.”
“A debut performance, is it?” Seamus sounded excited at the prospect.
“Something of.”
That seemed to satisfy them all. Rowan O’Donaghue stepped to him from among the others and held out his fiddle.
“I’ll be careful of it,” Patrick promised.
The lender didn’t seem overly worried.
Seamus called the gathering to attention. “We’ve a new musician among us. Let’s give him a listen, shall we?”
And with that, Patrick prepared to share with a town of near strangers, and a family he was barely coming to know again, a bit of his carefully hidden self. He did a quick check of the strings, making certain the instrument wasn’t in need of tuning. Satisfied, he took a breath, then pulled the bow and began a tune he knew all too well.
The strains of “Irish Washerwoman” echoed around him. He knew he wasn’t the most expert player, but he felt he did the song justice. Ma drew nearer, delight on her face. Da popped his arm around her and listened at her side. All the family were there, except Finbarr, who never attended the weekly parties. And they all appeared pleased.
He hadn’t looked at Eliza. Not yet.
Only when he’d finished, and the crowd applauded, did he hazard a glance in her direction. He couldn’t entirely make out her expression.
He returned the fiddle to Rowan with a word of gratitude. The musicians offered myriad invitations to join them again at futurecéilís. He didn’t know if he’d take them up on the offer. That hadn’t been the purpose of the song.
Patrick accepted compliments as he determinedly made his way back to Eliza. It took a little doing to get there. By the time he arrived at the seats where she’d been sitting, she was gone.
