Kate Hoffmann - Danny

“Buying books for their looks is like buying art because it matches the paint on the wall.” Danny reached out and plucked a book off the shelf and held it up to her. “You should start with an Irish poet.”

“Who is that?”

“W. B. Yeats.” Danny leaned back against the bookshelf and closed his eyes. “‘When you are old and gray and full of sleep, and nodding by the fire, take down this book, and slowly read, and dream of the soft look your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep.’” He opened his eyes to find her staring at him.

“That’s beautiful,” she murmured.

“I would still love you when you were old and gray,” he murmured. It was an impulsive statement that startled him, as it was based on the assumption that he loved her now-or would in the future. Was that even a possibility in his subconscious? And if it was, what would that mean to her?

Her gaze softened, as if she were searching for the truth in his words. Danny held his breath, hoping that she might return the favor and provide a clue to the depth of her own feelings. Was she falling in love with him? Did she think about a future together?

“You have to have Yeats,” Danny finally said, handing her the book.

She drew in a sharp breath and nodded. “Yes. Good.”

Danny forced a smile. He’d given her an opening and she hadn’t stepped through it. “And you’ll need collections of Swift and Goldsmith. And Wilde and Joyce.”

“How do you know so much about this?” Jordan asked.

“I’m Irish. We take great pride in our literary heroes. Bram Stoker and Samuel Beckett were Irish, too. And C. S. Lewis. Sister Mary Frances, my high-school English teacher, was a tyrant when it came to homegrown talent. I can still recite ‘The Lake Isle of Innisfree.’ It was my favorite poem.”

“Say it for me,” Jordan said.

Danny cleared his throat and stood up straight.

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,

And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;

Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee,

And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

“That’s beautiful,” she murmured.

Chuckling, Danny dropped a kiss on her lips. “That’s not the end of it. Maybe I’ll finish it tonight, when we’re in bed.”

“Thank you, Sister Mary Frances.”

“I used to think that’s what I wanted. To escape my family, my brothers mostly, and find a place to be alone, in a bee-loud glade. But I’m starting to realize that life alone wouldn’t be much fun.”

“Not even in a cabin of clay and waddle? What is waddle?”

“Wattle,” Danny said, emphasizing the ts. “Wattle is strips of wood held together with clay or mud. Although sometimes, in olden days, they used animal dung and straw.”

“You know a lot of trivial things,” she said. “I’m impressed.”

“What do you know?” Danny asked. “Recite a poem for me.”

“No.” Jordan laughed. “Outside of nursery rhymes, I’m not sure I know a single poem by memory. Not that I didn’t at one time. Things just seem to come and go from my mind if I don’t really think about them.”

He leaned into her. “So you’ll forget all about me soon enough?”

She slowly shook her head. “No, I don’t think I’ll ever forget you.”

Danny cupped her face in his hands and captured her mouth with his. He loved to kiss Jordan. She was always so sweet and willing, her fingers clutching at his shirt. When he lingered over her lips, she moaned softly and Danny slipped his hand beneath her shirt to caress her breast.

His thoughts returned to the lines of Yeats he’d recited, the words drifting through his head. For the first time in his life, he could imagine spending the rest of his days with one woman. Jordan fascinated him with all her foibles and quirks. At once she was steely, yet vulnerable, serious, yet silly. With every contrast he discovered, he became more and more intrigued. Was this really the woman who could keep him interested for a lifetime?

And then there was their physical compatibility. He’d always enjoyed sex, but sex with Jordan was so much more than the simple satisfying of a need. It was how they communicated, how they conveyed the feelings that they hadn’t yet put into words. Did he love her? He wasn’t sure. But was he falling in love with her? There was a very good possibility he was.

“Books,” she murmured when he finally drew away. “You have to stop distracting me.”

“All right,” he whispered. “Let’s get your books. We’ll continue this later.”

As Danny followed her around the bookstore, pointing out volumes that belonged in her library, he thought about the time they had left together. He had at least another two weeks of work to do and he could maybe stretch it into three. But her work in Ireland would eventually end.

He tried to imagine how that would look, how it would feel. Would they just kiss each other goodbye and end it? Or would they make plans to see each other again? Though he’d always been one to make a break up clean and simple, somehow he knew it wouldn’t be simple with Jordan. He was already thinking of ways they could be together, of trips to New York.

He needed time. Or he’d have to make better use of the time he had. Riley had only been given a couple of weeks with Nan. How had he managed it? Maybe it was time to find out.

THEY’D PACKED THE CAR with boxes of books, the scent of old leather filling Jordan’s station wagon. More books would be delivered to the house tomorrow and the shopkeeper had found additional sets in Dublin and Galway that he’d ordered for Jordan and send on through a delivery service.

As they drove along the coast, the sun disappeared, replaced by steely-gray clouds and a soft drizzle. Jordan stared out the window as she listened to the gentle rhythm of the wipers.

Even on such a dreary afternoon, the countryside still looked so green and magical. Until Danny had come into her life, she’d been immune to its charms. But now, caught in an affair with a sexy Irishman, she could appreciate the place that had made him.

There was something about the light, how it shimmered over the landscape, intensifying the colors and the contrasts: soft green moss growing on weathered gray rock, white clouds blowing above the deep blue of the Atlantic. Ireland was alive.

Was it the land or was it the man she was with? Had Danny made her more aware of her surroundings? Her senses were so much more heightened now. Smells and tastes could elicit an overwhelming pleasure for her. Back home, there was a quiet sameness to all her days and nights, as if she were just wandering from one day to the next, waiting for something important to happen.

Now it had. She glanced over at him, then reached out and ran her hand through his hair, brushing a stubborn curl away from his face.

“What?” he said, looking over at her.

“Nothing,” Jordan replied. “I just felt like touching you.”

Danny smiled. “I know how you feel. I pretty much think about touching you all the time.”

“I know,” Jordan said.

“You do? How do you know?”

“I just do.” She looked out the window at the landscape passing by. “I love Ireland. I didn’t think I would, but I do. Even in the rain, it’s beautiful.” She paused. “Have you ever thought of leaving?”

Danny shook his head. “No. Maybe for a holiday. I could imagine living in another country for a year or two. But I’d have to come back. Some of my cousins live in America,” he said. “In Boston. And I have cousins in New York and California, too. But I’ve never met them.”

“I feel like I haven’t really seen a lot of the country. I’ve been to almost every antique store, but I haven’t been to Blarney Castle.”

“Blarney Castle is for the tourists. We’ll go to the Burren and the Cliffs of Moher. We’ll see the natural sites, not the ones with lines of tourists.”

“What else will you show me?” Jordan asked.

“There is a place I could show you right now,” Danny said. “I think you’ll like it. And it’s on the way to Ballykirk.”

“It’s raining,” she said.

“Even better,” he replied. “We may see something interesting in the rain.”

“Is it a stone circle? I went to visit a stone circle here. I thought it would be like Stonehenge, but it was really small.”

“Our stone circles aren’t nearly as grand. But they’re populated by much more interesting spirits.”

“So, where are we going? Is it on my map?”

“I’m not going to tell you,” he said.

“Will it have a gift shop?”

Danny chuckled. “No. No gift shop.”

Jordan continued to question him, making a game of it, trying to tease the answer out of him. Danny grabbed her hand and laced his fingers through hers. “Look how happy you are when we’re out of that house,” he said. “We need to make a point of getting away more often. You never look like this when you’re sitting in your office, worrying over your reports.”

“How do I look when I’m in my office?”

He pulled a silly face and Jordan couldn’t help but laugh. “I look constipated?”

“That was cheesed off,” Danny said. “You look annoyed. As if you’d rather be doing anything else.”

“And how do I look when I’m in bed with you?”

He made another face, his eyes fluttering and his lips parted.

“Drunk,” she said. “You’re not very good at faces.”

Danny navigated the station wagon through brilliant green hillsides along the coast. At a rocky pass, they waited for a herd of sheep to cross the road and when they wouldn’t move, Danny jumped out of the car and helped the farmer hurry them along.

No matter where she looked, there was something beautiful to see-a thatch-roofed cottage, an old cemetery filled with ornate Celtic crosses, the ruin of an ancient church.

They passed a number of signs for tourist attractions, but Danny continued on. Then he turned off the main road onto a narrow lane. Drystone walls lined either side of the road and bushes arched above them until they were driving through a tunnel of thick greenery. They came out on the other side and he pulled the car into a small parking spot, cut into the stone fence.

“This is it,” he said, hopping out of the driver’s side. He reached in the backseat and grabbed his jacket, then hurried around to help her out. They found a muddy footpath leading through a grove of trees.

The drizzle had turned to a light mist and Jordan pulled her jacket more tightly around her. Danny held the umbrella over her head, helping her over rocky spots along the path. And then he stopped. “This is it,” he murmured.

Jordan glanced around. There wasn’t much to see. They stood in the middle of some sort of circle, the earth mounded up with trees planted on either side of the small ridge. The entire circle was no more than forty or fifty feet in diameter. “What is this place?”

“This is a fairy circle,” Danny said.

“It looks like a little shallow in the woods. Maybe there was a pond here at one time.”

“No, it’s a fairy circle. They’re all over Ireland. Sometimes you find them in the middle of a meadow, just a ring of mushrooms. Or they can be made of stones. The farmers won’t touch them for fear of grievous bad luck.”

“Where are the fairies?”

“They’re watching us. You should be able to see them, sidhe.”

“I’m not a fairy.”

“That’s what a fairy would say.”

Jordan slowly walked along the elevated ridge, careful not to trip on the exposed roots from the trees. “How did this happen?”

“They say the fairies dance round and round in a circle and the earth rises up beneath them. If you walk around the circle and make a wish, it will come true.”

“I don’t believe that,” Jordan said. “Someone piled up the dirt in a circle.”

“They also say, if a man finds himself alone in a fairy ring with a fairy, then he belongs to her forever.” Danny took her into the center of the ring, then stood behind her, lifting her arms up to the sky. “Close your eyes,” he whispered.

Jordan did as she was told. Without sight, her hearing became more acute. At first, she thought it was merely the wind whistling through the trees, but then she began to hear singing. Soft, sweet voices on the breeze. “I hear them,” she said, opening her eyes and searching the landscape.

The magic was all around them, like electricity in the air. “I feel their presence,” she said. Slowly she turned, searching the trees for a sight of them.

“I told you. You have fairy blood coursing in your veins. Leanan sidhe. She chooses a human to love and if the human doesn’t love her, she becomes his slave. But if he does love her, then he is hers, forever. But forever isn’t very long, because the lovers of the leanan sidhe always die young. They say that’s why so many Irish writers and poets and artists die young, because they are captivated by the leanan sidhe.”