The Gallaghers of Ardmore Trilogy

can do what I like with it. I want to send it to someone who’d know about such things. Who’d know if it’s worth buying.”
    “Without telling Shawn.”
    “I won’t feel guilty about that,” Brenna muttered. “If it doesn’t work out, he’ll never have to know, will he? And if it does, how can he be anything but pleased? I’m not sure how to go about it, or who to send it along to. I thought you might have some ideas on it.”
    “I’d be wasting my breath trying to talk you out of this?”
    “You would.”
    Jude nodded. “Then I’ll save it. I don’t know anything about the music business. I could ask my agent, though I don’t think she’d . . .” As an idea formed, she trailed off, worked on it. “What about Magee? He’s built theaters. He has to know people in entertainment. Maybe he’d have some connections.”
    “That’s a good notion.”
    “I can get you his address. You can write to him.”
    Brenna ran her fingers over the notes and the words on the sheet in front of her. “That takes too long. Do you have a phone number?”

 
EIGHTEEN
     
     
     
    T HE SOFT RAIN became a pounding, and the pounding a flood swept in by gale-force winds that beat against the coastline and rocked the boats at their moorings. For the best part of a week it was too rough to cast a net. From shore to horizon was nothing but angry, churning gray slashed by whitecaps that looked keen-edged enough to slice through a hull.
    Those who made their living from the sea waited it out with the grim patience honed in them over generations.
    Wind screamed against windows and doors in a constant banshee call and snuck through any crack or crevice to chill the bones. Smoke belched back down chimneys in nasty, fitful streams. Plucking fingers of wind tore a few shingles from the roof of the market so that they careened away like drunken birds. One swooped down and sliced at the back of young Davey O’Leary’s head as he rode his bike home with a quart of milk and a dozen eggs. The head required seven stitches. The eggs were a total loss.
    Flowers that had wintered over happily enough and those that had begun to show their spring faces were chewed to pieces by the last teeth of winter. Dooryards went to mud.
    Tourists steered clear, and reservations were canceled as the storm gleefully battered Ardmore. Power and phone lines gave out on the third day.
    The village huddled down, as it had time and again, to weather the storm. Under more than one roof the mood was edgy. Young children, bored and restless, drove their mothers mad. Tears and warmed bottoms were daily occurrences.
    Brenna and her father, shielded with slickers and Wellingtons, stood knee-deep in mud and worse as they searched out the break in the Duffys’ septic system.
    “Filthy work, this.” Mick rested against his shovel.
    “More than one lowlander’s going to find himself wading in shit if this keeps up.”
    “If those bastards from Waterford had showed up, we’d have the tank pumped out, at least.”
    “If they ever get here with their big pumper, I say we toss them headfirst into the muck.”
    “That’s my girl.”
    “Christ Jesus, what a smell. But I think here’s the matter, Dad.”
    They hunkered down, rain beating over their heads, and studied the old cracked line with identical expressions of interest and thoughtfulness on their faces. “It’s just as you figured, Dad. The pipe’s old and gave out under the added pressure. It runs from tank to field and bursting’s turned Mrs. Duffy’s nice yard into a dung heap.”
    “Well, once she’s cleared out Kathy’ll have herself a well-fertilized garden, won’t she?” As the stench was enormous, Mick breathed through his teeth. “It was a good job of you to think of going and getting the PVC pipe ahead of time. We’ll replace it and see what’s what.”
    With a grunt, Brenna got to her feet. They squished over to the truck together. The work was nasty, but the teamwork routine. As they worked, she shot little glances at him.
    He’d said nothing about Shawn, not a word. And though she understood her father would have some delicacy of feeling about the situation, she couldn’t stand having it between them. Unsaid, it was a wedge, and she needed to knock it loose.
    “Dad.”
    “Ha, nearly got her now. Bitch may be cracked, but she’s tough on the joinings.”
    “Dad, you know I’m still seeing Shawn.”
    Mick rapped his knuckles hard against the pipe and his tool squirted