The Gallaghers of Ardmore Trilogy

devised for a good tape recorder.
    He’d always meant to record his music, and it was time to begin. If he ever meant to get to the next step, which he did in his own time and way, and polish a few of his pieces, the recorder was essential. Then he’d see about choosing one and going about the business of peddling the tunes.
    Because the thought of it stretched his nerves, he shook his head. But not quite yet, of course. Not quite yet. He had a great deal to do first, and more than enough time.
    He and Brenna had to come to terms first, and the house had to be built. Then they’d want to settle into it, and into each other for a while. He would get to the other business by and by.
    The road leading to the plot he was considering was a worse mess than the track that led from Ardmore to Faerie Hill, then down to the O’Tooles’ house. Still, it wouldn’t worry him overmuch, and if it troubled Brenna it could be leveled some or widened or whatever. That was a business he’d leave to her.
    It wasn’t a big plot, but enough for a sturdy house and garden. Room enough, he calculated, for a cabin as well, as she’d want one for her tools and perhaps a workshop. She would need that just as he would his room for music. They’d do very well with their separate interests, he thought, and was grateful neither of them was the type who needed to be in each other’s pockets day and night.
    They had mutual and opposing ground, and he thought it a nice mix.
    There was a skinny stream in the far back, and a trio of tough-looking trees that put him in mind of the three crosses near Saint Declan’s Well.
    The man who wanted to part ways with the land had said that there was a turf bog behind them and that no one had bothered to cut it for years. He himself hadn’t cut turf since he was a boy and went out with his grandfather on his mother’s side. The Fitzgeralds had been more people of the land and the Gallaghers people of the town.
    Shawn thought he might enjoy it, if his life and comfort didn’t absolutely depend upon it.
    He wandered back toward what was grandly called a road, where the hedgerows grew tall and had the first haze of spring on them. As he did three magpies darted by like bullets shot from the same gun in rapid succession.
    Three for marriage, he thought, and decided it was more than sign enough for him.
    When he drove away toward the village to work, he considered himself a landowner, as hands had been clasped and shaken on the deal.
    Brenna worked at home the early part of the morning. The wind had torn a few shingles from the roof, and a couple of leaks had sprung with the rain that had been driven hard by the wind.
    It was simple enough work, no more than a patch here and there, and it gave her a fine opportunity to sit in the wavering sunlight and look out at the water.
    When she built a house, she thought, she’d choose higher ground so her view of the water would be from windows rather than a rooftop. It was good to look and see the boats out again and know that life was sliding back into its regular rhythm.
    And maybe she’d have some sky windows as well, so she could look up and see the sun or the rain or the drift of stars. It was time for a home of her own, she knew, though she’d miss the sounds and scents of family.
    But there was something inside her that told her the time was now for the next stage of what she was and where she was going. There’d been a different tone between her and Shawn the night before, and it had changed everything in her once and forever. Her mind and her heart were in one place now.
    It was time to tell him, to ask him. To browbeat him if there was no choice. Whatever it took, the O’Tooles were going to be planning another wedding.
    God help them all.
    She scooted over to the ladder, climbed down. Leaving her toolbox by the back door, she went in to tell her mother the job was done and she’d be on her way.
    When the phone rang, she picked it up without thinking, then guiltily tucked the receiver under her chin and wiped the shingle grime off her hands onto her jeans. “Hello.”
    “Miss O’Toole?”
    “This is one of them.”
    “Miss Brenna O’Toole.”
    “Aye, you’ve hit the target.” Automatically Brenna pulled open the refrigerator door and perused the contents. “What can I do for you?”
    “Would you hold the line, please, for Mr. Magee?”
    “Oh.” She shot up straight, bumping the door with her hip and slamming it on her own hand. She