“C'mon,” he said. “Wipe the dirt off your hands and help me out.”

“Doing what?”

“The grandstand, my love. Camille says it's too rickety, and she wants me to tighten it up.”

They took their coffees over to the gazebo, beside which had been erected a four-tier viewing stand. It was brought out of storage every year for the Gaelic music competition—and every year, Aunt Camille worried that the whole thing would give way, sending Cape Hawk's local dignitaries toppling down the hill.

Jude gave the wooden stand a good shake; although it seemed completely solid to Anne, he pulled some nails from his jeans pocket, began driving them in with the hammer. The sound effectively blocked out “Minstrel Boy”—which, Anne realized, may have been the whole point.

Anne climbed to the top tier, four rows up. A nail was sticking up from the bench—she gestured to Jude, and he handed up the hammer. She whacked the nail in, then made her way down the bench, making sure there weren't any more like it. The breeze was fresh, full of music and excitement—she had the feeling that this year's festival was going to bring something completely unexpected to the town.

“What do you think Liam is doing right now?” Jude asked.

“I think he's helping Lily, so she and Rose can get back home here.”

“Did you ever think he'd find someone?”

“I know we all had our doubts,” Anne said. “But then Lily came along.”

“It's not sealed yet,” Jude said. “She might still see the light—ask herself what she's doing with a one-armed shark researcher.”

Anne looked down the hill, taking in the beautiful view. Life had a way of healing even the worst injuries. She gazed across the sparkling blue bay, ringed by rock ledges and tall pines. She had been in love with Jude since first grade, even before the shark attack—and she loved him still. She wanted to tell him that one-armed shark researchers didn't have the lock on being difficult, but she just held her tongue and hammered in another nail.

“Finally that song is finished,” Jude said.

“So it is,” Anne said.

“You're in charge of the festival and contest. Maybe you can make it a requirement that the bands leave ‘Minstrel Boy' out of their repertoires next year.”

“Hmm,” Anne said, smiling out over the water again, as if she was giving his idea due consideration. She wasn't. She hoped every band would play it—this year and all years. When she heard it, she knew that Connor was close—and she suspected that Jude knew it too. It was what she loved about Irish music—especially the fiddles that played it. Fiddlers caught spirits and dreams whirling through the air, pulled them down to earth, where mere mortals could hear and see them. They brought the dead to life, and brought magic down from the sky, and made dreams more real than logic.