Page 72 of Heart Strings
My mobile vibrates in my hand again before I even put it down.
Martin’s rapid-fire voice comes through the line. “Aidan, how are you? I wanted to see if you need anything before the festival.”
“Can you please schedule some practice with the touring band? The new songs are really shaping up.” Fionn’s been providing a steady beat on the bodhrán while I experiment with different arrangements. Lyrics have been coming easier, too. I filled up my notebook and had to run to Dunnes for another.
“None of that sad bastard shit, right?”
“I think you’ll like them.” Why did the label even sign a singer-songwriter if they wanted to control what I wrote? I bet Glen Hansard never had to deal with this.
“We don’t have time to waste on something that won’t sell.”
I bristle at the idea that song crafting is ever a waste of time. Even if the song is never recorded or performed, the act of creation itself matters.
Nevertheless, I promise to record what I have so far and send it to him.
Breaking Lo’s heart got me to the top of the charts, and I’ve avoided writing a song about it for two years. Mostly because I didn’t want to end up regularly performing something that would force me to confront my guilt. I’m finally getting over my cowardice enough to articulate just how much regret I feel.
For the rest of the afternoon, until it’s time to pick up Lo, I work on a new song, tentatively titled “Apology Tour.”
Da practically leapsout of his battered La-Z-Boy when I bring Cielo home.
“Glad you’re here, love.”
“Thanks for the invitation to dinner, Mr. O’Toole,” she answers with a kiss on his cheek.
“James,” he insists. “I keep telling you.”
The smell of freshly baked bread, smoked fish, and garlic fill the house. Lo inhales deeply. “I literally just started salivating.”
“My mam’s trying to impress you.” I appreciate the sentiment; I want Lo to stick around, too.
“I’ve been thinking about her seafood chowder for the past two years.”
We turn the corner into the kitchen. Mam’s rapping a spoon against the shells of mussels gathered on the chopping board. They pinch closed except for one, which she puts atop a heap of potato peels.
“Oh my goodness. Cielo!” She pulls her into a hug that nearly crushes the autumnal bouquet she brought from Saoirse’s shop. Cielo isn’t a big hugger, but she can’t escape my mam. “These are brilliant.”
“Thanks for having me, Ruth; this smells incredible. Can I give you any help?”
Mam rummages through a cupboard until she finds a vase and drops Lo’s flowers into it. “You’re sweet, but I can manage the last few minutes on my own,” she assures Lo. “Aidan, willyou hand me the dill, please? It’s in the press behind you. Then go tell Marie and Fionn supper’s almost ready.”
Distracted by the relaxed smile on Lo’s face and the way her shoulders have dropped, I reach into the press. If only she felt the same ease around her own family. When I turn to find the bottle of dried dill, soulless painted eyes stare back at me from among the spices and pantry staples. I recoil with a yawp.
One more ventriloquist dummy scare and I’ll need to be fitted for a pacemaker.
Mam chuckles heartily and Lo collapses in laughter. A lovely flush paints her cheeks. Marie pops into the doorway with a cackle worthy of a cinema villain.
“You’re a menace!” I yank the dummy from the press by its neck and shove it toward my sister. Mam’s outfitted it in its own Fair Isle jumper.
Batting her lashes, Marie cradles it in her arms like a baby and stretches her mouth into a sinister smile. “He just wants to be your friend.”
“Stop being creepy.”
Cielo throws an arm around her and examines the dummy. “I think he’s kinda cute. Maybe you can teach me how to throw my voice?”
Marie’s eyes light up. “Of course!”
“And he’ll sit next to me for dinner,” Lo jokes.
