Parker, already three beers in, interjected. “I don’t know about that. Not all of them, for sure. My Rainie is a rare gem, but before I met her, I kissed plenty of dogs. Didn’t have a real dog back then—the canine version, I mean—but if I had, I would have liked it a lot better than some of the gals I dated. Mojo is a great bed companion. Only off to the side or at the foot, because I’ve got my Rainie, but in a pinch, he’d be a fine cuddler on a cold winter night. Before Rainie, I’d gone out with the lady I still think of as Claws.” Parker crooked one hand in the air. “I mean, acrylic nails so long and sharp, she could have gutted a steer.”
Clint got a swallow of ale down the wrong pipe. When he caught his breath, he said, “I hear you. Right before I met Loni I went out with the Giggler.”
“The what?” Quincy asked.
“The Giggler.” Clint grinned. “She sounded like a sheep baaing. Drove me clear over the edge. Nice enough lady, I guess, but I never could get past that laugh of hers.”
Zach chimed in. “That’s better than the Silent Farter.”
It was Quincy’s turn to choke on his beer. “You’re kidding.”
“Nope,” Zach said, waving a hand in the air. “She let out blue smoke that made my eyes tear up; I kid you not.”
“I dated a gal once,” Tucker inserted, “who blew bubbles in her cheek as I laid one on her.” He shook his head and shuddered. “I don’t know how she accomplished it, but hearing the pop when I kissed her was a major turnoff for me.”
Quincy didn’t know how his waddle celebration had ended up as a walk down memory lane for everybody. “Hey, guys, this is my party. I bought the pony keg.”
Clint laughed. “I can make a few toasts to the waddle, Quincy. Loni was at her most beautiful during the last few months of pregnancy. Carrying my baby, her tummy so swollen she couldn’t find a comfortable position to sit, and she got leg and belly cramps at night. I used to massage her all over with olive oil. Best damned preventative for stretch marks you’ll ever come across. Dee Dee told me to do it.”
Parker held up a hand. “More than I want to know, bro. What happens behind our bedroom doors stays behind our bedroom doors, if it’s all the same to you.”
“Oh, yeah?” Zach never learned and stuck his foot in his mouth again by saying, “So how come I know all about how much you like Mr. Purple?”
* * *
The following evening, Quincy took Ceara to the Saturday vigil Mass in Latin, which had become his wife’s weekend preference for worship. She claimed that hearing the liturgy in Latin made her feel more at home, because it was similar to the Mass she’d grown up attending in Ireland. Over the last month, they’d also started to go to some of the weekday morning celebrations, which Father Mike also offered in Latin especially for his more elderly parishioners, who sorely missed the Masses of their childhood.
Ceara, who loved hearing Father Mike’s Irish brogue, sat through the homilies with a beatific smile on her glowing face, asked to stay after simply to sit in the presence of the Eucharist, and told Quincy every time they drove back to the ranch that the old-fashioned Masses made her feel close to home and the old ways.
“’Tis still the same Christ, ne’er mind the language,” she’d say, “but the Latin—ah, Quincy, hearing the Latin touches me heart.” Then she always dimpled both cheeks at him, a sure sign to Quincy that she was happy beyond words. “In me time, every Mass anywhere in the world was said in Latin. ’Tis a dead language, ye ken, so it ne’er changes. At home, ye can travel to a foreign land, attend Mass, and except for the homily, ye can follow along without confusion.”
Quincy’s father was an old-school Catholic who often lamented the changes in the Mass that had come about after Vatican II. Frank claimed the Church had made a huge mistake in allowing the liturgy to be said in country-specific languages, because now world travelers could no longer follow along if they didn’t speak the local tongue. Quincy could understand Frank’s point, but having been raised hearing the Mass in English, he wasn’t sure he wanted to revert back.
“ ’Tis good fer the babe, do ye na think, to sit all quiet in the church with Mum and Da, so peaceful and close to Jesus?” Ceara said.
Quincy never even tried to argue the point. He felt certain that whatever made Ceara feel at peace would also have a calming effect on their baby. Attending weekday Masses cut into his stable hours, but he had Pauline to oversee things in his absence, and both Pierce and Bingo were bucking to be the future foreman, so they weren’t slackers, either. With such dedicated, horse-smart people in charge, Quincy could afford to take extra time off to make his wife happy.
Before driving home that particular Saturday night, Quincy pushed the movable console back so Ceara could sit beside him with a seat belt stretched almost to the max across her swollen belly. She spoke softly of the Mass with her cheek pressed to his shoulder. “’Tis good worshiping on Saturdays, ye ken. But sometimes I’d still like to go on Sundays.”
Quincy was surprised to hear that. “Really? I thought you preferred the Latin liturgy.”
“I do,” she replied. “But when it is Sunday here, it is also Sunday in Ireland, and it makes me feel close to me loved ones when I know I’m receiving the Eucharist on the same day that they are.” She turned her head slightly to smile up at him. “’Tis lovely knowing that, ye ken?”
The yearning Quincy heard in Ceara’s voice made his heart hurt for her. He would have moved heaven and earth to make her happy, but closing the gap between her century and his was impossible. “Tomorrow let’s go shopping for a crib, top-of-the-line, the finest made.”
She nuzzled his sleeve. “’Twill be a long while afore our babe is big enough fer a crib, Quincy.”
“Point taken, but won’t it be fun to shop for one? Picturing her in it?” He searched for something to say about cribs that would make her stop missing her family. “Dad loves to tell about the time he went up to check on me during my nap—hell, how old was I?—almost two, I guess, because I was in a crib by then. His mum and da were visiting . . .” Quincy paused, realizing that he was starting to echo Ceara’s speech patterns in many ways, but after he considered for a moment, he decided he also parroted his dad occasionally, using incorrect English simply because he’d grown up hearing it. Maybe it was good for Ceara to hear bits and snatches of her time, little echoes of how her family spoke. “They were Irish, ye ken. Me grandmother, she had a brogue as thick and lovely as yours. And Dad was hoping to cart me downstairs to show me off.” Quincy smiled at the memory—well, not really a memory, but over the years it had come to seem like one, because he’d been told the story so many times. “Anyhow, us boys all shared the same room way back then. It was before Dad built a bigger house. Mama kept harmless things in my crib for me to play with, but apparently I was far more interested in Clint’s finger paint. Da found me having a fine old time with a Tupperware bowl and a plastic baby spoon, stirring up a delightful concoction of paint and eating it.”
Ceara’s head came up from his shoulder, and her beautiful blue eyes fixed on his with curiosity. “Ye ate paint?”
“It wasn’t poisonous, and I guess it looked good to me.”
Ceara looped an arm over her belly and burst into giggles. “What did yer da do?”
Quincy so enjoyed the ring of her laughter. If the sound could be bottled, he’d be a billionaire. “Dad says I was happy as a clam and grinned up at him with a blob of rainbow colors stuck between my two front teeth.”
Her mirth so overcame her that tears slipped down her cheeks. “Ach! Ye must ha been a mess!”
“Such a mess, according to him, that when he picked me up, he got paint all over himself, so we ended up in the shower together, with me da using his own toothbrush to get the stuff out from between my pearly whites because he couldn’t find my tiny one.” Quincy bent to kiss her forehead. “Back then, he was still struggling to make it as a horseman, so he says he couldn’t afford a new toothbrush and poured straight bleach over the old one befor
e he used it again.”
Ceara giggled for nearly a full minute, recovering only to shake her head and start laughing again. “I see it. Clear as water in a barrel. Ach, what a moment!”
“And when he had me all dressed up cute, and himself all dressed again, he carried me downstairs to show me off, whispering to Mama that they had a hell of a mess to deal with upstairs. Later, praise God, Mama had an old toothbrush she’d saved for special cleaning chores, so they used that to scrub the ridges in the vertical slats of my crib rails, because I’d smeared the stuff everywhere.”
Ceara fixed sparkling blue eyes on him. “I may ne’er kiss you again, Sir Quincy.”
That set Quincy to laughing so hard that he nearly drove into the ditch.
* * *
The following morning, Quincy took his wife into Crystal Falls to go shopping for a crib. He parallel-parked on Main, because there was a specialty baby shop on the four-hundred block where he felt certain they would find high-quality baby furniture. Once inside, they spent some time at an infant rack, looking at tiny dresses, then moved on to consider the cribs. In the end, they saw no baby bed that interested them, but Quincy was quick to grab a flyer from a stack by the cash register.
“Lamaze classes.” He flapped the paper in front of Ceara’s nose. “It says most couples start taking them at six months along. We need to sign up.”
“What are Lamaze classes?”
Quincy was explaining to his wife as they left the shop and headed up the sidewalk toward his parked truck. Suddenly Ceara stopped dead in her tracks to stare at the display window of a place called Curbside Antiques. “What is it? Do you see something special?” Quincy peered through the glass. “We can go in if you like.”
“’Tis a crystal ball just like me mum’s,” Ceara whispered.
Quincy released his grasp on her elbow to step closer. Sure enough, there was a gigantic glass ball on display. It sat on a scarred wooden stand. He wasn’t much into hocus-pocus stuff, but he’d come to accept that it was serious business to his wife.
“Let’s have a look.” Quincy caught her hand and led her to the door, relieved to see an Open sign. An overhead bell clanged as they entered the shop, which had poor lighting. Quincy guessed it added to the old feeling, but the musty smell alone should have been enough. Ceara stepped around Quincy and went straight to the display.
“Ach,” she said softly. “’Tis me mum’s all o’er again, Quincy. Near exact the same.”
The clerk, an older fellow in tan Dockers, a blue-striped shirt, and brown loafers, hurried over. “I see you’re fascinated by the crystal ball. A lot of people come in just to get a closer look at it.”
Ceara had bent forward to peer deeply into the ball, as if answers to all life’s mysteries might be found there. “’Tis real,” she said.
“Oh, yes, of course. I’d never have it on display without first getting it appraised. It dates back to the middle seventeen hundreds.”
Quincy glanced at the man. “How much?”
“Well, sir, it isn’t cheap,” the fellow replied. “Not one of those dime-a-dozen new ones that you can find online. This is the genuine article, and the purchaser will, of course, receive a certificate of authenticity to verify its worth.”
“How much?” Quincy asked again.
“Twenty-five hundred, and that’s rock-bottom.”
Quincy almost laughed, but one glance at his wife’s yearning expression wiped all humor from his mind. He searched her pleading blue eyes. “Ceara, if I buy it for you, you’ve gotta swear you won’t try to use it until after the baby is born.”
She nodded. “I give ye me word, Quincy.”
Quincy relaxed and smiled. “So you really, really want that old thing?”
She placed a hand over her belly, looking so adorable in a blue floral maternity top and a gathered denim skirt that Quincy wanted to kiss her right there in the shop. “I do. ’Tis special to me, ye ken. Verra special.”
“Sold,” Quincy told the shopkeeper. “Make sure you bubble-wrap the sucker. I don’t want it getting broken on the way home.”
* * *
Ceara wanted her crystal ball in their bedchamber near one of the fireplace windows. “’Tis important for it to be in a high room. To home, Mum does her scrying in the little tower. She says ’tis easier there to focus.”
In one of the extra bedrooms, Quincy found a walnut-base pedestal table with a round marble top wide enough in diameter to accommodate the crystal ball and its stand.
“Out from the wall a bit,” Ceara directed, standing back and then circling to make sure he situated the table just right. “Ye need light, ye ken. To see things in the ball, I mean. It must be placed to catch the reflection of the fire at night and sunlight during the day.”
“You swore you wouldn’t use it,” Quincy reminded her.
She flashed a mischievous grin. “I did, yes, but I dinna say I wouldna ask Loni to try using it.”
Quincy didn’t relish the idea of all the hens gathered in his bedroom to peer into a crystal ball. Hell, before he knew it they’d be chanting and lighting candles on every available surface. On the other hand, when he considered the sacrifice Ceara had made by coming here, how could he deny her the chance to truly connect with her mum? He couldn’t imagine doing the same himself—leaving this land and his horses, and never being able to see his family again.
“’Twill be like yer television fer me, Quincy. If Loni can conjure up me mum and da in the ball, I shall see them again.” She steepled her fingers as if she were praying. “Please do na spoil this fer me, I beg ye.”
Quincy gathered her into his arms. She’d already given up so much to keep the baby safe—no more driving lessons, no more riding his horses or using her gifts. “It’s not that I want to spoil it for you, honey. I’m just worried is all. What if you forget and try to do some conjuring of your own? You know how weak you feel after using your gifts. It can’t be good for the baby.”
“I willna try.” She pressed her face against his shirt. “’Tis me word I give ye, Quincy. ’Twill be Loni, and only Loni who will try to see in the ball. I shall peer in only if she is successful. Looking willna hurt me or the babe.”
Quincy sighed and gently hugged her closer. “If you’re sure of that, I’ll support this one hundred percent.”
“’Tis verra certain I am. ’Twill be Loni’s power used, na mine.”
* * *
The next morning, Dee Dee volunteered to chauffeur Aliza to preschool and watch the child afterward while Loni spent the day with Ceara in the upstairs master suite, trying to conjure up images in the crystal ball. Ceara was so excited that she hurried Loni straight upstairs, promising to serve her guest some refreshments later.
“I’ve never used a crystal ball,” Loni warned. “I’ve never needed one. By touching your hand, I can go back in time to see your parents, but I honestly don’t know if I can do anything with this particular medium.”
Loni angled her chin forward to peer into the sphere. After a long moment, she smiled apologetically at Ceara. “I’m sorry. I see nothing. I know you’d love it if I could call up images of your family, but I’m afraid it’s not going to work.”
Ceara closed her eyes. ’Twas too great a temptation to peer into the ball herself and try to call up images. “Me mum speaks softly to the ball, a prayer of sorts, if ye will, asking to see what she wishes to see.”
“Did your mum have any one special prayer she used?”
Just then Ceara glimpsed Quincy in the open doorway that led to the hall. He winked at her. “I’m going to leave you ladies and go to the stable.” He patted his cell phone. “If you need me, just wing a text my way.”
Ceara nodded, blew him a kiss, and returned her attention to Loni. “’Tis uncertain I am if ye should use me mum’s words or if ye should simply speak from yer own heart.”
Loni nodded and focused on the ball again. Then she began speaking softly. “Powers that be, allow me to see, in this sphere of
glass, the people Ceara loves in a time long past.”
Nothing. Ceara’s heart sank. She felt like crying, but gave herself a stern mental lecture to battle the tears. If she wept, Loni would feel responsible, and ’twas not her fault if scrying wasn’t one of her gifts.
But Loni was determined. “Ceara,” she said, straightening away from the ball, “one of the things wrong here is that we have no mood.”
“Mood?”
Loni laughed, her blue eyes dancing. “Yes, mood. I’m a very prayerful psychic. I truly believe my gift comes directly from God. At home when I work with the FBI, I keep religious things around me: a crucifix on the wall above my computer, a Holy Bible on my desk.” In a lower voice, she added, “I even bless my work area each morning by sprinkling holy water around it. It centers me, helps me stay focused.”
Quincy’s bedchamber crucifix was hung on the wall above the bed, clear across the room. Ceara ran to fetch it.
“Be careful,” Loni cried. “You can’t be standing on the mattress in your condition. Let me climb up there to get it.”
While Loni fetched the cross, Ceara hurried downstairs to get Quincy’s Bible from the living room. She’d stopped in the kitchen to get some tea lights and a lighter when Loni called down from upstairs, “I have a travel-size bottle of holy water in my purse. It’s in the big pocket with a zipper. Get my rosary out of there, too.”
Ceara was breathless by the time she gained the top of the stairs. She took a moment to rest and then entered the bedchamber to help Loni create the right mood. “Me mum has her Bible and rosary with her in the little tower room when she sees inside the ball. Mayhap ye’re right, and one canna see without religious things near at hand.”
Loni chuckled. “I don’t know about that, but for me, knowing that God is holding my hand makes all the difference. No matter how it’s sliced, psychic ventures can very easily become dark. I always surround myself with my faith for protection.”
Ceara agreed. “If it comes na from God, I want no part of it, either.”