Нора Робертс - The Becoming

“She loves me, in a way I barely remembered my father loving me. The way you and Sally and Derrick love me. For me. And she opened my world.”

“Then I guess I’m going to love her, too.”

Flowers pooled and spread, spicing the air with autumn. The cottage stood, sturdy stone under its thatched roof with its bold blue door open.

Mairghread stepped out, wearing one of her long dresses in forest green. Her bright red hair crowned her head. And with her misty blue eyes going damp, she laid a hand on her heart.

“You look a lot like her,” Marco murmured. “And she don’t look like nobody’s granny.”

“I know. Nan!”

Marg stretched out her arms as Breen ran into them.

“ Mo stór . Welcome home. Welcome. My sweet girl. You’re well.” She lifted Breen’s face in her hands. “I can feel it, and see it, too. My heart’s so full.”

She drew Breen to her again, and smiled at Marco over Breen’s shoulder. “And it’s Marco, isn’t it?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You’re welcome here, always.” She stretched out a hand for his. “My door is open for you. You’ve had a strange journey.”

She held his hand a moment longer as she studied his face, the deep, dark eyes, the tidy goatee, the anxious smile.

“A good friend to my Breen Siobhan you are, and a good man as well. I can see this, and thank the gods for it. Come in and sit.”

She led them through the living room, with its simmering fire and sofa plumped with pretty needlepoint pillows, into the kitchen.

“Kitchens are for family. We’ll have some tea, and didn’t Sedric bake lemon biscuits just this morning?”

“Where is he?”

“Oh, around and about,” Marg told Breen.

“No, I’ll get the tea, Nan. You sit with Marco.”

“Then I will.” Marg sat at the small square table, patted her hand on it so Marco joined her. “And you’re a musician.”

“I try to be.” He saw Breen in her, and Breen’s dad—a man he’d loved. “I pay the rent tending bar.”

“At Sally’s. Breen told me all about Sally and Derrick and their place of business. Sedric says they have good craic.”

“He’s been there?”

“The silver-haired man you thought I imagined,” Breen said as she measured out tea leaves from one of the jars on a shelf.

“Oh. Sorry about that.”

“We worried for Breen, you see. In this last year or two, more and more we worried. Dragging herself to the classroom when she didn’t feel suited for teaching.”

“I wasn’t.” Breen filled the blue teapot with water from the copper kettle on the stove, then pressed her hands on it to steep the leaves.

“That you weren’t, but you were a good teacher just the same, and far better than you gave yourself credit for. This was a worry, you see,” Marg said to Marco. “She thought so little of herself, expected so little for herself.”

The resemblance had already cracked the ice for him. Her words melted it away. “Speaking to the choir.”

That made Marg laugh and lean in as if sharing secrets. “Cover her pretty hair with brown so as not to be noticed, and wearing such dull clothes to hide her fine body.”

“Sing it.”

Marg laughed again as Breen rolled her eyes. “Would the two of you like to be alone?”

Marco ignored her as Breen set the teapot on the table, went back for white cups and plates. “Her mom pushed her that way. Mrs. Kelly was always good to me, but …”

“You won’t hear me speak against her. A mother is a mother, and when she and Eian made Breen, they made her with love as true as any.”

“I loved him. I want to say how sorry I am he’s gone. He gave me music, he taught me. He gave me a guitar on my ninth birthday, and changed my world.”

“He spoke of you.”

“He did?”

“Oh aye, and often. I knew you as a boy as well through my boy. Such talent, he told me, such a bright light. And as good and true a friend to his girl as he could wish for. He loved you, Marco.”

When his eyes filled, Marg reached over to take his hand. “Breen will take you to where he rests while you’re here. It’s a holy place. I know your visit here wasn’t planned, but if I’m honest, I’m so pleased you came. I’m so pleased to meet Breen’s dearest friend from the other side.”

“I can’t get used to it.”

“Well now, it’s a lot to take in, isn’t it?”

“It all happened so fast, and I haven’t had time to tell him everything.” Breen set the biscuits out, started pouring the tea. “We’ll go over to the cottage if that’s all right.”

“Well, of course. It’s yours, isn’t it? Finola’s having it stocked for you right now. And she’s looking forward to seeing the handsome Marco again.”

He flushed a little. “She didn’t have to do all that. We could go into the village for supplies. Jeez, we have to change money, Breen. I don’t know how much I’ve got on me.”

“You don’t need any in Talamh.” She sat, took a biscuit. “They don’t use money here.”

“Well, how do you get stuff?”

“Barter and trade,” Marg said as she sipped her tea. “And it’s our pleasure to make Fey Cottage welcome for you.”

“Breen said her dad, then you, sent the money to her.”

“That we did. There are ways to come by coin. Trolls mine, and we’ve craftsmen and so on. We have those on the other side, in other worlds, who buy and sell.”

“Ma’am, it changed her life. Not just the money, but the knowing her dad looked out for her. That she could use it to stop doing what she didn’t love, and try doing what she did.”

He looked down to where Bollocks happily snacked on the biscuit Breen had given him. “The book she wrote about this guy? It’s just great. Did you get to read it?”

“I did. So bright and fun, like its namesake.”

“She’s got the other going, the one for grown-ups. She won’t let me read that one.”

“Nor me.”

“It’s not nearly finished,” Breen put in. “I still feel like I should take a walk and leave the two of you alone.”

“We’ve considerable catching up to do, don’t we, Marco?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Oh now, call me Marg, as most do. Or, as you’re a brother to my girl, you can call me Nan.”

As she spoke, the back door opened, and Marco saw, for the first time, the silver-haired man.

Breen jumped up to embrace him, and Marco recognized pleased surprise. “Welcome home, Breen Siobhan. And welcome to you, Marco Olsen.”

“You really are real. Sorry I didn’t believe you were.”

“Ah well, you wouldn’t be the first.”

“Sit. No, sit,” Breen insisted. “I’ll get the desk chair from my room. Is it still there?”

“It will always be there,” Marg assured her.

Breen got another cup, another little plate. “When I came back to Philadelphia, and went to confront my mother … It was hard.”

“I know, honey,” Marco said.

“I walked a long way when I left her house, trying to settle myself. She kept all of this from me, all of this, my heritage, my gifts, put me in a box. I know it was fear for me,” she added before Marg could speak. “But when I sat down, finally, at the bus stop, Sedric was there. He was there because I needed someone to be. I won’t forget that. And I won’t forget what Keegan told me. That it’s fear of me for her, too. Fear of what I am, what I have. And I think, one day, I’ll be able to forgive her because of that.

“I’ll get another chair.”

When she left, Marg sighed. “Her heart will be easier when she’s able to forgive.” She picked up the pot, poured Sedric’s tea. “Now, Marco, you came through without having a moment to bring what you might need or want during your stay. You’ve only to make a list for Sedric, and he’ll fetch what you like.”