He imagined they would face the house that way, with at least one good-size window in the front room so they could watch the moods of the water.

In back there was the rise of distant mountains, shadowy bumps up into the cloudy sky. Then on either side was the fall of hills and fields, the deep, wet green shimmering through winding ribbons of mist.

He didn't have the talent to build a house in his mind, sketch one on paper, or take materials and tools and make it a reality. Not as Brenna did. But he could, particularly when the interest was personal, conjure up a glimmer of it.

He wanted a music room-well, not just for music, he thought, as he walked away from the area that he thought most likely for planting a house. It would have to be comfortable and welcoming so others would feel easy about coming in and staying awhile. But a room, and not a tiny, cramped one, where he could have his piano, and his fiddle. He'd want a kind of cabinet-perhaps Brenna could build it-for his music. And a stand, or whatever could be devised for a good tape recorder.

He'd always meant to record his music, and it was time to begin. If he ever meant to get to the next step, which he did in his own time and way, and polish a few of his pieces, the recorder was essential. Then he'd see about choosing one and going about the business of peddling the tunes.

Because the thought of it stretched his nerves, he shook his head. But not quite yet, of course. Not quite yet. He had a great deal to do first, and more than enough time.

He and Brenna had to come to terms first, and the house had to be built. Then they'd want to settle into it, and into each other for a while. He would get to the other business by and by.

The road leading to the plot he was considering was a worse mess than the track that led from Ardmore to Faerie Hill, then down to the O'Tooles' house. Still, it wouldn't worry him overmuch, and if it troubled Brenna it could be leveled some or widened or whatever. That was a business he'd leave to her.

It wasn't a big plot, but enough for a sturdy house and garden. Room enough, he calculated, for a cabin as well, as she'd want one for her tools and perhaps a workshop. She would need that just as he would his room for music. They'd do very well with their separate interests, he thought, and was grateful neither of them was the type who needed to be in each other's pockets day and night.

They had mutual and opposing ground, and he thought it a nice mix.

There was a skinny stream in the far back, and a trio of tough-looking trees that put him in mind of the three crosses near Saint Declan's Well..

The man who wanted to part ways with the land had said that there was a turf bog behind them and that no one had bothered to cut it for years. He himself hadn't cut turf since he was a boy and went out with his grandfather on his mother's side. The Fitzgeralds had been more people of the land and the Gallaghers people of the town.

Shawn thought he might enjoy it, if his life and comfort didn't absolutely depend upon it.

He wandered back toward what was grandly called a road, where the hedgerows grew tall and had the first haze of spring on them. As he did three magpies darted by like bullets shot from the same gun in rapid succession.

Three for marriage, he thought, and decided it was more than sign enough for him.

When he drove away toward the village to work, he considered himself a landowner, as hands had been clasped and shaken on the deal.

Brenna worked at home the early part of the morning. The wind had torn a few shingles from the roof, and a couple of leaks had sprung with the rain that had been driven hard by the wind.

It was simple enough work, no more than a patch here and there, and it gave her a fine opportunity to sit in the wavering sunlight and look out at the water.

When she built a house, she thought, she'd choose higher ground so her view of the water would be from windows rather than a rooftop. It was good to look and see the boats out again and know that life was sliding back into its regular rhythm.

And maybe she'd have some sky windows as well, so she could look up and see the sun or the rain or the drift of stars. It was time for a home of her own, she knew, though she'd miss the sounds and scents of family.

But there was something inside her that told her the time was now for the next stage of what she was and where she was going. There'd been a different tone between her and Shawn the night before, and it had changed everything in her once and forever. Her mind and her heart were in one place now.

It was time to tell him, to ask him. To browbeat him if there was no choice. Whatever it took, the O'Tooles were going to be planning another wedding.

God help them all.

She scooted over to the ladder, climbed down. Leaving her toolbox by the back door, she went in to tell her mother the job was done and she'd be on her way.

When the phone rang, she picked it up without thinking, then guiltily tucked the receiver under her chin and wiped the shingle grime off her hands onto her jeans. "Hello."

"Miss O'Toole?"

"This is one of them."

"Miss Brenna O'Toole."

"Aye, you've hit the target." Automatically Brenna pulled open the refrigerator door and perused the contents. "What can I do for you?"

"Would you hold the line, please, for Mr. Magee?"

"Oh." She shot up straight, bumping the door with her hip and slamming it on her own hand. She bit back a yelp. "Yes, I could do that. Goddamn it," she added in a mutter when she heard the line click, and sucked at her sore fingers.

"Miss O'Toole, Trevor Magee."

"Good day to you, Mr. Magee." She recognized his deep, smooth voice from the time she'd waded through what had seemed like an army of assistants to speak with him. "Are you calling from New York City?"

"No, actually I'm on my way to London."

"Oh." Her initial disappointment in not taking a call from New York vanished in a fresh thrill. "Are you calling from an airplane, then?"

"That's right."

She wanted to shout for her mother to come quick, but thought it would sound just a little too countrified. "It's kind of you to take time out of your busy schedule."

"I always make time for what interests me." He sounded like he meant it and that the reverse was entirely true as well. "Then perhaps you've had time to look at the package Aidan Gallagher sent you."

"A good look. You and your father are quite a team." Because her hand was throbbing, she pulled some ice out of the freezer. "We are. And I have to add, Mr. Magee, I know Ardmore and what suits it."

"I can't argue with that, Miss O'Toole." She thought she caught a hint of amusement in his tone and braced herself. "Perhaps you could tell me what your thoughts are on my design, then?"

"It interests me. I have to look at it more thoroughly, but it interests me. Gallagher didn't mention where you had studied design."

She narrowed her eyes, then decided if it was a trap it was best to fall into it now as opposed to later. "On the job, sir. My father has worked in the trade all his life, and I learned at his side. I would imagine you had some of the same sort of experience with your own father."

"You could say that."

"Then you know a lot can be learned by the doing of things. Between the two of us, my father and I, we handle most of the building and repairing in Old Parish. And if we don't, we know who does. As that, we'd be some considerable help to you with your project. You'll find no better than the O'Tooles in Old Parish-or all of Waterford, for that matter. You're planning to build in Ardmore, Mr. Magee, and it's good business, I'm sure you'll agree, to use local skill and labor when you're able. We'll be happy to send you references."

"And I'll be happy to see them. You build a strong case, Miss O'Toole."

"I can assure you I build better with wood and brick than with words."

"I'll see that for myself, as I'm hoping to carve out a day or two to visit the site personally before too much longer."

"If you let us know the particulars, my father and I will be happy to meet you at your convenience."

"I'll be in touch."

"Ah- I don't mean to worry you, Mr. Magee, but I'm wondering if you had a moment to look at the music I sent along to you."

"Yes, I did. I'm not sure I understand. Are you representing Shawn Gallagher?"

"No, I'm not, no. It's- a bit complicated."

"Then he doesn't have representation?"

"Ah, no. Not at the present time." How the devil did this sort of thing work? "You could say I'm acting on his behalf in this particular instance on a personal level."

"Hmm."

She winced, thinking there was entirely too much knowledge in that small and casual sound. "Would you mind telling me what you thought of it yourself?"

"Enough to buy it if Gallagher's selling, and to want a chance to negotiate for his other work. I assume he has other work."

"He does, yes. Scads of it." She forgot her throbbing hand, dropped her ice in the sink. While her feet danced, she fought to keep her voice cool and professional. "You're saying you'd buy the tune. But for what purpose would that be?"

"For the purpose of recording, eventually."

"But I was under the impression that you build things."

"One of the things I've built is a record company. Celtic Records." He paused, and sounded amused when he spoke again. "Do you want references, Miss O'Toole?"

"Well, now, could I be getting back to you on that? I'll need to discuss this with Shawn."

"Of course. My New York office knows how to reach me."

"Thank you for your time and consideration, Mr. Magee. I hope to meet you in person before much longer. I-" She simply ran out of words. "Thank you."