Charles de Lint - Forests of the Heart

Except that gap in their ages didn’t seem all that terribly wide—at least not anymore. When she was younger, yes, but now… And if they could get along as well as they did as friends, why should a closer relationship be any different? She’d always believed that lovers should be friends as well, because otherwise—

She looked up suddenly, realizing that the band had jumped into the reel that followed “Violet Tulloch’s Hornpipe” and she’d missed her cue to come in with them. The audience wouldn’t know, but Emma Jean was giving her a puzzled look. Miki shrugged an apology to her bandmate, then waited for the “B” part of the tune to come around. It’d sound better if she came in then—like it was part of the arrangement.

No more woolgathering, she told herself.

When the others came to the end of the “A” part’s repeat, she was ready and joined in. Actually, she thought, that sounded pretty good. Gave the second part of the tune a nice little lift.

She made herself stop thinking of anything but the music then, concentrating instead on the wash of sound coming back from the monitors, letting it pull her back into that fey state she could fall into so readily when a great tune banged up against a great audience. It didn’t take long before she was jigging in her seat once more, grinning wildly as she worked the bellows, the fingers of her right hand dancing up and down, and back and forth, between the two rows of melody buttons.

It wasn’t until after the break, when they were playing their second set, that she noticed the line of tall, dark-haired men standing at the very back of the community center. Six, no, seven of them. She recognized them immediately from the sessions at The Harp. The hard men. Dressed in their dark broadcloth suits, cans of Guinness in hand. Appreciating the music, no doubt, though it was hard to tell from the guarded look in their eyes.

She hoped they weren’t here to cause trouble.

Well, it wasn’t her problem if they were. Jigabout had only been hired to play the music tonight, not deal with security as well.

The a cappella song that Amy and Emma Jean had been singing came to a conclusion. Next up was a set of Johnny Doherty reels that she and Geordie started off as a duet before the others came in. She looked away from the hard men and raised an eyebrow to Geordie.

“Anytime,” he said.

She counted them in and they were off, fiddle and accordion playing the first tune on their own until Emma Jean joined them on guitar for the second time through. Miki cocked her head, smiling when Amy’s pipe drones cut in at the beginning of the second tune. She loved the way they bottomed a tune with their bass hum. By the time Amy had joined them on her chanter, Miki had put the hard men right out of her mind.

“I don’t get it,” Ellie said to Donal.

They were standing on the edge of the dance floor, waiting in line to get a drink from the makeshift bar that the Newford Traditional Music Society had set up in the community center’s kitchen. Donal had already wrinkled his nose earlier at the idea of Guinness in a can, though that hadn’t stopped him from finishing one and probably planning to order another.

“Why hasn’t Miki made an album yet?” Ellie went on. “For that matter, why isn’t she off on tour somewhere instead of working at the record shop and only playing her music part-time?”

Donal shrugged. “I know why she hasn’t recorded. She figures the tunes already exist on enough tapes and CDs by other artists and she doesn’t see the point in recording one more version of them.”

“But they’d be her versions.”

“I know, I know. Only try telling her that. It’s like trying to argue with a drunk—you’ll get no sense out of her.”

The man in front of them stepped away with his order and it was their turn.

“I’d like a Kilkenny Cream Ale, please,” Ellie told the woman taking orders. She glanced at Donal. He offered up a weary sigh. “And a Guinness,” she added.

She pushed his hand back into his jacket when he tried to pay.

“I feel like a kept man,” he said.

“You should be so lucky.”

After getting her change, she left a couple of quarters in the tip jar and they went and claimed a section of wall to lean against. From where they stood they had a good view of both stage and dance floor. Jigabout were in the middle of a set of Kerry polkas. Out on the dance floor, Jilly and the others they’d come with were doing impressions of mad Irish dervishes, combining spins and twirls with their own rather curious ideas of stepdancing. Riverdance it wasn’t, but they were obviously having a great time.

“They’re like bloody dancing machines,” Donal said. “I don’t know how they keep it up.”

“You’re just jealous because you don’t have their stamina.”

“I suppose that could be one theory,” he said. He popped the tab on his can, pulling a face when he took a sip. “Thanks,” he added, toasting her with the can, eyes mournful.

“Oh, at least pretend you’re enjoying it.”

“Never tasted better,” he assured her. “At least from a can____”

Ellie shook her head. “You’re incorrigible.” She had a sip of her own drink. “Anyway. So Miki won’t record. But why won’t she tour? I mean, listen to them.”

“I know,” Donal said. “Bloody magic, isn’t it? And they don’t even play together regularly.”

Ellie nodded. “Exactly. Fall Down Dancing are even better.”

“Or at least different.”

“But easily as good.”

“Easily.”

“So why does she stick around here?”

“I don’t know.” Donal reached forward and tapped the shoulder of a man standing in front of them. “What do you say, Hunter?” he asked. “Is it true that the only reason Miki doesn’t go off touring is because you’ve got her locked into some fairy-tale contract that she can only buy her way out of with her firstborn child?”

When Hunter turned around, Ellie recognized him from the record store. He was of medium height, an inch or so taller than Ellie herself, with green eyes and short brown hair. She’d always liked his features—there was so much character and kindness in them—but she’d never gotten up the nerve to ask him to pose for her. He smiled a hello to her, then frowned at Donal.

“I think I’m supposed to be irritated with you,” he said.

He didn’t really seem to be put out, Ellie decided, since the frown didn’t reach his eyes.

“What for?” Donal wanted to know. “It’s not about the other night, is it? Jaysus, can’t you take a joke?” Turning to Ellie, he explained, “I was telling him at the session how much Miki fancies him.”

“And does she?” Ellie asked.

“Who knows? I only said it for a bit of a laugh.” He winked at Ellie before turning back to Hunter. “But I’m thinking someone took it seriously.”

Hunter nodded. “See, I knew there was a reason.”

“I’m the one who should be annoyed,” Donal said. “After all, you gave your solemn word to keep it to yourself, only the next thing I know you’ve told Miki herself and who knows how many others.” He glanced back at Ellie again, adding, “A word to the wise. Never trust your man here with a confidence.”

“Don’t mind him,” Ellie told Hunter. “As I’m sure you know, he has no sense of propriety or manners.”

“I’d resent that,” Donal said, “except it’s true.”

“And he’s surly, too,” Ellie added.

“No, I draw the line at surly,” Donal said. “Morose, yes. Even bitter. But I’m a bloody artist.” He patted his pockets with his free hand. “And somewhere I’ve got the license to prove it. I’m allowed to be melancholy. Actually, if I read it right, I’m supposed to be melancholy.”