The Gypsy Ribbon. Shannon MacLeod

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СКАЧАТЬ he said. “How are you? Is everything all right?”

      Ian laughed. “Everything’s fine. I just called to give you a bit of news. I asked Lily to marry me and she said yes.”

      “Em…bad connection, I think. Sounded like you said you and Lily are getting married. Didn’t see anything on the news about hell freezing over.”

      Ian laughed again. “Nope, you heard right. We’re getting married.”

      James whooped in delight. “It’s about time. I’m deliriously happy for you, old man. Can’t wait to meet her.”

      “I’ve got to talk to her da to get his approval, but I think he’ll agree to it,” he explained, his voice softening. “I can’t even begin to tell you how happy I am, Seamus.”

      “I’m happy for you, my brother. Set a date yet?”

      “Not yet, but I’ll let you know as soon as I can. You’ll be here, right? I can’t get married without you here.”

      James smiled into the darkness. “I’ll be there, come hell or high water. You won’t keep me away.” Changing the subject, he asked, “How are you feeling these days?”

      “Pretty good. I still get headaches here and there, doctor said they might be ongoing. They’re manageable, though. Lily’s good as new, thankfully,” Ian said. “I’m sure you’re busy doing rock star stuff, so I won’t keep you. It’s good talking to you, Seamus. I miss you, pompous wee git.” After a pause, he added quietly, “Are you well? You don’t sound so good.”

      James felt a lump form in his throat. “I’m grand, thanks, just…a little tired. I miss you too, you big bastard. Call me as soon as you set the date so I can schedule around it.” He lay back on the bed after the call ended, letting the phone slip from his fingers. Ian willingly settling down and get married–that was something James never thought he’d see.

      For a long time he drifted lost in thought, absently fingering the Celtic touchstone suspended on a leather thong around his throat. He untied it and held it tightly in his hand, running his fingers over the smooth surface. Within moments, he had turned the bedside light on and was digging around in his suitcase.

      “Where’d you get off to,” he muttered, going through pocket after pocket of the oversized bag. He finally found the worn linen pouch hiding near the bottom and grunted in triumph. Taking his prize over to the table, he opened it up to pull out a cigarette lighter, an old white candle stub and a wooden holder. He held up the homemade candle and peered closely at it, still able to smell the fragrant oil Grandmother had rubbed on it. “No, dressed, Ian called it,” James corrected himself, lowering his voice to mimic Ian’s slightly deeper one, “and not to be used for romancing women in your room.” Smiling at the memory of his brother’s stern warning, he took a deep breath and lit the blackened wick, setting it in the holder.

      He sat back in the chair and took several deep breaths, staring fixedly into the flame. He remembered his grandmother’s implicit instructions. Light the candle, ask the question, snuff–never blow–the flame and let the rising smoke carry the question to the wind.

      Clearing his throat, he began to speak in a hushed whisper. “I want to find someone of my own, someone who will love me for me, not just because of who I am. Who is she? Where is she? What should I be looking for? How much longer am I going to have to wait for her?”

      I’m gonna need a bigger candle, he thought with a wry smile. “Okay, last question. How will I know her when I see her?” When no mysterious voice issued forth from the flame–and James half-expected there would be one–he sat a few more minutes thinking about what he had asked for, then licked his fingertips and deftly pinched the flame between thumb and forefinger.

      The rising smoke from the candle drifted toward the open balcony door and was gone within seconds. When he was certain all the smoke was out, he slid the door closed, then lay back on the bed. Sleep eluded him for nearly an hour before he gave up and reached for the TV remote.

      “Wonder how I’m going to know her when I see her,” he mused. “Maybe there’ll be a clue or something. Trumpets…trumpets would be good.” He turned on the TV and began surfing through the channels.

      He landed on a public broadcast channel concert featuring five men singing Celtic music. The group moved from one familiar song into the next. James gave a low whistle of approval. “Man, they’re tight. Good harmonies,” he said, singing along with the traditional “Raggle Taggle Gypsy.”

      That was the last song before the commercial break so James moved on, his eyelids beginning to droop. His next stop was a classic movie channel. He watched as Charles Laughton’s Quasimodo tried valiantly to save the beautiful Esmeralda in The Hunchback of Notre Dame. “Sanctuary,” he murmured in sympathy.

      Another commercial and he began surfing again, landing on an infomercial for a Sounds of the 70’s CD package. When the image of Cher singing “Gypsies, Tramps and Thieves” filled his screen, he watched only a moment before clicking the TV off and tossing the remote on the nightstand.

      He yawned wide and shrugged. “I’ll have to keep my eyes open,” he said. Pulling the spread and sheet up over him, he had one last fleeting thought before sleep finally claimed him. If Ian found someone maybe there’s hope for me yet.

      * * * *

       Myrtle Beach, SC–Three months later, Early Spring

      Aaron Nicholson sat behind the oak desk in his expansive eighth-floor office, one hand drumming anxiously while the other clutched a bottle of Maalox. It was only 10am, but his stomach already felt like it was on fire and he knew without a doubt he had yet another ulcer coming on. When he got the phone call demanding an appointment last week, the pain started and hadn’t let up. He wasn’t in the habit of naming his ulcers, but by God he was going to christen this one James Kelly in honor of the man he was certain had triggered this latest flare up. He glanced out the window at the traffic whizzing by on Oak Street, wondering what he had done to deserve this latest internal assault.

      James was the lead singer for his hottest and most lucrative commodity, the rock band Horizon. Their CD sales and merchandising were through the roof and scores of screaming fans mobbed them wherever they went. Every venue they played sold out within minutes. The show in Charleston the night before had been amazing with three encores and the crowd still chanting for more even as the band climbed into their limos to leave for the hotel. He had been their manager long enough to know that not everything was as rosy as he desperately tried to pretend and had the sneaking suspicion that this was the reason for Mr. Kelly’s visit this morning.

      “Musicians,” he growled, taking another sip of the antacid. He looked up at the framed promotional poster on the wall of James in all his glory–wailing into his microphone, head thrown back a la a young David Coverdale, his open shirt showcasing the muscles of his chest and stomach. Twenty-three years old with eyes of dark emerald green, bedroom hair and a devilish grin that made female hormones stand up and salute, he was “six feet of gorgeous,” Aaron’s thirteen year old daughter had proclaimed, insisting her father introduce her to the talented young star. He categorically denied her on the grounds that he was certain just being in the same room with the man was a danger to her virginity. Eying his bottle of antacid morosely, he wondered if it was going to last the entire day. He doubted it.

      A few minutes after ten, the intercom buzzed. “Mr. Nicholson, Mr. Kelly is here,” his persistently pert СКАЧАТЬ