“The dynamics are different between lovers than they are between friends. Even lifelong friends.”

“I’ve discovered that. Still, I know he often takes a good kick in the ass to get moving in some areas. I’m taking that first step with something that bothers me the most, and that I think, underneath, means the most to him.” Shifting her seat, she tugged out the sheets of music.

“One of his songs?”

“I badgered him into giving it to me. There’s talent here, isn’t there, Jude?”

“I think so.”

“Why doesn’t he pursue it? You understand how the mind works.”

“You’re asking a former, and mediocre, psychology professor.” Jude set the pot on the table, fetched cups. “But my educated guess would be that he’s afraid.”

“Of what?”

“Of failing in the thing that matters most. What if it isn’t good enough? What if he isn’t good enough? There are a lot of us who circle that abyss, Brenna.” She poured out the tea. “You’re not one of them. You just roll up your sleeves and build a bridge over it.”

“Then I’m after building one over his. He gave me this song, and I can do what I like with it. I want to send it to someone who’d know about such things. Who’d know if it’s worth buying.”

“Without telling Shawn.”

“I won’t feel guilty about that,” Brenna muttered. “If it doesn’t work out, he’ll never have to know, will he? And if it does, how can he be anything but pleased? I’m not sure how to go about it, or who to send it along to. I thought you might have some ideas on it.”

“I’d be wasting my breath trying to talk you out of this?”

“You would.”

Jude nodded. “Then I’ll save it. I don’t know anything about the music business. I could ask my agent, though I don’t think she’d . . .” As an idea formed, she trailed off, worked on it. “What about Magee? He’s built theaters. He has to know people in entertainment. Maybe he’d have some connections.”

“That’s a good notion.”

“I can get you his address. You can write to him.”

Brenna ran her fingers over the notes and the words on the sheet in front of her. “That takes too long. Do you have a phone number?”

EIGHTEEN

THE SOFT RAIN became a pounding, and the pounding a flood swept in by gale-force winds that beat against the coastline and rocked the boats at their moorings. For the best part of a week it was too rough to cast a net. From shore to horizon was nothing but angry, churning gray slashed by whitecaps that looked keen-edged enough to slice through a hull.

Those who made their living from the sea waited it out with the grim patience honed in them over generations.

Wind screamed against windows and doors in a constant banshee call and snuck through any crack or crevice to chill the bones. Smoke belched back down chimneys in nasty, fitful streams. Plucking fingers of wind tore a few shingles from the roof of the market so that they careened away like drunken birds. One swooped down and sliced at the back of young Davey O’Leary’s head as he rode his bike home with a quart of milk and a dozen eggs. The head required seven stitches. The eggs were a total loss.