I put Ronan to bed straight away when we got home, with a sleep mask over his eyes and a warm compress on his forehead, and he dropped off quickly. He continued to sleep through most of Friday, and when he finally woke for good in the early evening, his headache had gone. He relaxed on the sofa with me as I knitted, his bare feet tucked under my thigh for warmth. I had some soft music on the stereo: Celtic melodies played on an acoustic guitar. For once, the music was not his own, and he was intrigued.
“Hey, this is good!” he exclaimed after listening for a few minutes. “I’m pretty sure it’s in one of the alternate tunings, too. It wouldn’t sound quite so modal if the fella was playing it straight.” He closed his eyes and concentrated on it. “DADGAD,” he announced, once the piece had ended. “It has to be. Sean and I were mucking about with that tuning a bit, y’know, towards the end of our sessions.”
“Did you record any of it?”
“Nah. We were just experimenting. It wasn’t worth saving.”
“I bet it was,” I countered. “You and Sean are too damn fussy for your own good sometimes.”
“Perhaps, but we’re getting a really fine album for all the attention we paid to every detail. You’ll not be disappointed.”
“I’m sure I won’t be, but you still have a bit of work left to do, don’t you, before it’s ready for release?”
“Aye, though at this point it’s just the vocal tracks.”
“They need to be edited?”
He shook his head. “No, a chuisle. They need to be laid down. When I’ve got one arm free and can go about on my own again, Sean and I will get back to work.”
I fervently hoped the vocal sessions would not be as grueling an ordeal as the instrumental sessions had been, and my concern must have showed on my face, because he hastened to reassure me.
“Don’t worry, Sarah. The vocals won’t have to go through the refiner’s fire the way the rest of it did. Our voices aren’t perfect, and Sean’s is especially fragile. Did you know, he’s only got one vocal cord?”
“Really?”
“Aye. His first cancer was in the thyroid, and the surgical treatment was extensive. He’s lucky to have as much left as he does, ’cause at one point the doctor thought his larynx might have to go.”
“Thank God it never came to that!”
“Well, it would have, if Sean hadn’t stood his ground. He knew he had to draw the line someplace, and that’s where he drew it. Told them he’d take his chances, and if it killed him, then it killed him, but he would not consent to live in this world without a voice. So, the doctor did as much as he could for him, and after a time, Sean’s throat healed, and he could speak normally again. It took longer to get his singing voice back, but he persevered and eventually it came. He has to be careful, though. The whole structure is weak, and can’t withstand overuse. If he strains his throat, he’ll be out of commission for weeks.”
“I didn’t know any of that. I only knew he’d been ill.”
“I rather suspect that he’d just as soon nobody knew. He only told me because we were working together, and he needed to let me know his limits. Even at that, having established those limits, he was always the one to push it. That last night in the studio, even though we didn’t sing a note, we did talk a lot, and by the time we were done, Sean could scarcely utter a sound.”
“He was still hoarse when I ran into him at the hospital the next day,” I remembered. “At the time I thought he was just trying talk quietly, so as not to disturb you.”
Ronan shook his head. “A gaggle of a bean sí wailing in my ear wouldn’t have disturbed me then, a chuisle. I was too far out of it, remember? Sean kept his voice low because he didn’t have a choice in the matter.”
“I had no idea.”
“Don’t let on that I’ve told you. He’s awfully tetchy about anything having to do with the cancer.”
“With good reason, I’d say. Look what it’s done to him.”
Ronan shrugged. “I’ve no frame of reference, a ghrá. I didn’t know him before his illness.”
“Neither did I, really. I first met him—oh, two or three years ago, I guess. He was jack of all trades at Mary’s Place: chef, waiter, janitor, house musician, and he was also involved with Mary, though I didn’t know that until I’d been a regular customer for awhile. He was a really hard worker, though it was clear he’d been very ill in the recent past and was still recovering. That must have been after his first run-in with the cancer. But he was good-natured and funny as hell in spite of it, even after he broke his leg and had to work the kitchen on crutches. It was a struggle, and I could tell he was in pain a lot of the time, but still, he was always smiling and had something funny to say. It really made my day, bantering with him for a few minutes in the mornings. I was really sorry when our office moved, and Mary’s Place wasn’t on the way anymore.”
“Didn’t you ever go back after the move?”
“Not until you brought me there. It wasn’t convenient, and I was too busy. I knew it would be like that, too, so I made sure I said goodbye properly. It was the end of the summer, the Friday before Labor Day. Sean’s leg had finally healed, but he still had a terrible limp and was using a cane to get around. I remember joking with him as usual, and wishing him well with his leg. He refused to take any money from me that day, and fixed me a ridiculously huge latté, and gave me three hazelnut biscotti to go with it—much fancier fare than I ever bought for myself. I was strictly a plain coffee and muffin gal, but even at that—well, with Sean, you always felt the love that went into everything he did. If I think about it, I can still taste those blueberry muffins he used to bake. He was an excellent cook.”
“His employees don’t do a half bad job themselves.”
“I suspect they’re using Sean’s recipes.”
“Probably. D’you know,” Ronan mused, “it seems I can’t help wondering what Sean was like before he got sick that first time. He won’t talk about it, though. He just insists that he is who he is now, and whatever he was before doesn’t matter. The past is over and done with, and he believes very firmly in living fully in the moment, with an occasional glance towards the future. I suppose being near death more than once could do that to a person.”
“Don’t you think it’s odd that he won’t say a thing about those years, but he will tell you about the cancer?”
“Not really. His past is behind him, but the cancer’s still a real and present part of his life, even though he’s in remission. He’s still in the process of being shaped by it—if you get my meaning.”
I dug the tip of my needle into a tight, stubborn stitch and felt my brow pucker. “I think I do, but—how, if he’s really in remission?”
“Well, you can see it’s wrought some radical changes on him, physically speaking. He’s still adapting to those changes. And emotionally, it’s always in his mind that he’s failed to pass the five-year mark twice now, and he lives in constant fear of not passing it again. He knows—as I think we all do—that he can’t possibly survive another recurrence, and there’s too good a chance he’ll have a metastasis develop at some point. The cancer’s a time bomb, and eventually he will die of it. He may have many good years left, or he may be ill again six months from now. There’s no way of knowing, and he’ll not be easy in his mind until those five years have passed.”
“He’s told you all that?”
“No, a chuisle. It’s what I’ve gleaned from working closely with him. He hasn’t said much, but remember, I’ve been hearing his music for awhile now. There’s a real poignance to it that has a way of getting under your skin. Anyone with a heart can feel it, and feel for him, and that’s just in his instrumental work. I haven’t heard him sing any of his songs yet.”
“But you’ve seen the lyrics?”
“No,” he replied, shaking his head, “and I won’t until he plays the tracks for me. For all I know, he’s got his parts laid down already and is just waiting for me to come in and listen, and have a go at the harmony.”
“Aren’t you going to have any vocal solos?”
“Maybe one or two.”
“But—”
“It’s Sean’s album, a chuisle. I’ve made suggestions here and there, but ultimately, I’m under his direction. His instincts are good, and even if I don’t always agree with his choices, it’s not hard to do as I’m told. And I have to say it’s rather nice not having to make all the decisions for a change. There are certain perameters, but there’s a tremendous amount of freedom and latitude within them, to express myself as I see fit.”
“And that really worked well for you?”
“Once I settled into the proper groove, yes. But I confess, I did get my wrists slapped a few times when we first began. Not literally, of course, but you get my meaning. It wasn’t as easy as I thought, to let Ronan O’Farrell the lead-man step aside to make room for another lead-man, especially one as forceful as Sean Phelan. There are some who would say I know it all, and I should always be the one in charge, but working with Sean proved them wrong. I had a lot to learn, and I probably still do.”
“Really? You?”
“Yes, me. In my position over the years, it was altogether too easy to feel as if I’d become a god of some sort. The expressions on all those faces clustered at the edge of the stage at my feet bordered on religious ecstasy. They’d reach up and try to touch me, like the woman in the Gospel who figures if she could just touch the hem of Jaysus’ robe, all her problems would be solved. Sometimes, after a show, I’d reach down to shake hands with someone, and they wouldn’t let go. I can’t count the number of times I almost got pulled head-first into the crowd, and only my roadie’s intervention saved me. That kind of adulation gave me a rather distorted view of myself, and my place in the grand scheme of things. So, how refreshing and wonderful it is to be reminded, now, that I’m an ordinary human being with lessons to learn, like everyone else!”
I turned my knitting over in my lap and smoothed it out, smiling. “You’re in a rather philosophical mood tonight, aren’t you?”
“Yeah, sort of. My head doesn’t hurt anymore, so I feel like I can think again.”
“Are you hungry?”
“A bit.”
“Good. There’s some nice turkey soup in the crock-pot. Emily and Jon brought it while you were sleeping.”
“That was kind of them.”
“Yes, and I baked some bread this morning, too.”
“Mm, I thought I smelled that at one point, when I was half awake. I could do with a piece, I think.”
“Buttered?”
“Yes, please.”
I laid my knitting aside carefully and stood up, stretching. “What a lazy day it’s been, Ro!”
“Och, well, I guess we both needed that. Would you lend me a hand, please?”
I went to his side and slid my hand behind his back, and pushed him upright so he could turn around and set his feet on the floor. Then I caught him under both arms and lifted, and held on until he was sure of his balance. “All right, Ro?”
“Somewhat, but keep a hold on me. I’m feeling a bit light-headed.”
“Probably from hunger.”
“Aye, most likely.”
I guided him into the kitchen and settled him in his chair, then got out dishes and silverware, and served the soup and bread, and set out tall glasses of ice water with straws. Finally, I sat down close to Ronan and offered him a bite of the bread. “The soup’s too hot, so best wait a bit.”
He chewed and swallowed. “Your breadmaking has improved, Sarah. This is really good!”
“I had a very skillful teacher,” I replied, smiling. “Didn’t I tell you it would pay off someday, if you could just stand by and talk me through the process a few times?”
“You did indeed.” He leaned forward and caught the end of his straw in his mouth and drank a bit. “My appetite’s picking up all of a sudden. How’s that soup doing?”
I stirred it and watched for rising steam. Only a little bit curled into the air and vanished, so I lifted the spoon to my lips and tested it. “I think it’s O.K. now. Try it.”
I held the spoon while he took a cautious taste. “Just right,” he approved, “and it’s delicious, too.”
“Yes, it is.”
We ate in silence for awhile, and soon our bowls were empty. Ronan looked into his and sighed.
“What, Ro?”
“Well, I’m trying to decide if I want more, or—dare I hope that Emily might have sent a bit of dessert over, too?”
“She did,” I answered, laughing.
“Not the cheesecake?”
“Yes, the cheesecake, and a big bar of bittersweet chocolate for you. She said it’s up to you whether you just nibble on it as is, or melt it down and drizzle it over the cheesecake.”
“I think,” he mused, with his eyes twinkling, “that I’d prefer to melt it down and drizzle it on you, and spend as long a time as it takes to clean you up.”
“Dare I ask what you’d propose to use, to clean it up?”
He smiled and flicked the tip of his tongue between his lips.
“Well, I guess you must be feeling a lot better!”
“Aye. Amazing, isn’t it, what miracles a bit of sleep and good food can bring about?”
“Amazing,” I agreed. “So, you’ll have the cheesecake plain, then, and how about a cup of tea to go with it?”
He nodded. “And after that?”
“You really want to play games with melted chocolate?”
“Why not?”
“Well, for one thing, you can’t use your hands.”
“So? It’ll present an interesting challenge.”
“And what about the mess?”
“Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a rat’s arse about that.”
“Well, then, I guess I’ve no choice but to let the games begin.”
It certainly did prove to be a challenging, messy evening, but we had a lot of fun and spent a good deal of time deal laughing at the sheer absurdity of it all. In the morning, everything still smelled of chocolate, and we both needed a bath. Ronan’s hair was spiky with the stuff, and congealed bits of it clung everywhere. His arms alone had been spared, being as I’d insisted he wear his sleeves.
“You won’t be able to keep your arms out of the way, Ro, and I don’t think you really want to explain the chocolate to the orthopedist on Monday. Or do you?”
He agreed that I had a point and allowed me to cover his arms.
Now, upon waking, he was set for his bath already, but not until we’d made love again, and shared a few more chocolate kisses.
“Look who’s talking!” I retorted. “If you could see yourself, you wouldn’t dare make a comment like that.”
“I will see in a few minutes. We’ve got to take a bath, and there’s no way to avoid that mirror on the door. Best get it over with. Help me up.”
He did roar with laughter when he got a good look at himself. “I did get rather the worst of it, didn’t I?”
“I don’t know. I think we’re both equally—um—”
“Glazed?” he suggested, grinning.
I giggled as I started to fill the tub.
He came up close behind me and ran his tongue along my spine, between my shoulder blades and up to the base of my neck, making me squeal.
“Ooh, Ronan!” I cried, not quite sure if I liked that or not.
“We didn’t, but it does have a way of getting into every place you could possibly imagine, with very little effort.”
“Yes,” I agreed as we parted. There were smears on him, too, and I saw that I had missed a big one that trailed from the hollow of his throat to his left nipple. He shivered as I licked it, and groaned softly when I reached the nipple and circled it with my tongue.
“Och!” he gasped. “If you keep on doing that, we’ll have to have another go.”
That made good sense, and I nodded in agreement as I moved close to assist him. Once he was settled, I got in with him and washed both of us, and then we rested there for awhile, the scent of chocolate still lingering.
