“In most places. It’s one of the things I’d like to speak with you about.” He started back toward the kitchen with her. “How are you feeling today?”

“Good. Really good, actually. I think the morning sickness is passing, and I’m not sorry to see it go.”

“And your work’s going well?”

It would be Shawn’s way, she thought, to wind his way around to the genuine purpose of the visit in his own time. So she found a little bottle for the blossom while he put on the kettle. “Yes, it is. I still have moments when I can’t believe I’m doing it. This time last year I was still teaching, and hating my work. Now I have a book on its way to being published, and another one coming to life every day. I’m a little nervous because this one’s a story out of my head instead of a compilation of others I’ve been told, but I really love the process of it.”

“Being a little nervous you’ll probably write a better story, don’t you think?” At home, he got out the biscuit tin and filled a plate. “Meaning, you’ll have more care with it.”

“I hope you’re right. Are you nervous when you’re writing your music?”

“Not the tunes,” he said after a moment’s thought. “The words sometimes. Trying to find the right way of saying what the music’s telling me. It can be frustrating.”

“How do you handle it?”

“Oh, I bang my head against it for a while.” After the pot was warmed he measured out the tea. “Then if all I get from that is a headache, I’ll take a walk to clear it, or think of something else entirely. Most times, after I do, the words are just there, as if they’d been waiting for me to pluck them.”

“I’m afraid to walk away when it’s not working. I always think if I do I won’t be able to write at all when I come back. Your way’s healthier.”

“Ah, but you’re the published author, then, aren’t you?” While the tea steeped, he got out cups.

“Do you want your music published, Shawn?”

“Maybe, one day. There’s no rush about it.” Which, he knew, he’d been saying for years already. “I write it to please myself, and that’s enough for now.”

“My agent might know someone in the music business. I’d be happy to ask.”

His stomach jumped like a rabbit under the gun. “Oh, there’s no need for that. Actually, Jude, I’ve come by to speak with you about another matter altogether.”

She waited, letting him bring the pot to the table, pour the tea. When he’d settled, and the fragrant steam rose between them, he still didn’t speak.

“Shawn, tell me what’s on your mind.”

“Well, I’m trying to figure out exactly how to say it. I’ll just start this way.” He reached in his pocket, and after drawing out the pearl, set it beside her cup.

“A pearl?” Puzzled, she started to reach for it, then her gaze whipped up to his, and her fingers stopped a whisper away from the round white gem. “Oh. Carrick.”