“Why?” I repeated.
“You’re right. I would have signed. So why’d you give it up?”
I shrugged. “I, um. I thought I was choosing between Ivernis and you. And I could never choose a guy over my career. Over something I’d worked on for so long. Over what made me me. Because I wouldn’t want a man to somehow define me more than I defined myself.”
Before us, the waves crashed, a low, dull roar. Above, gulls screeched in a sharp counterpoint, swooped in and out of the moving fog. “But that’s not what the choice was. It wasn’t about me. It was about—being a good person. Being a good friend. And—I don’t know, I guess I thought about the pain. The pain you’d suffer versus the pain other people suffer if this went through. And if it doesn’t, my pain, Jeremy’s pain—yes, it will be personal, but it will be personal about a thing. A place. Not a loved one. And it will affect our professions—but not our families.” I shrugged and tried to swallow, but the soreness and tightness of my throat made it difficult. “And I don’t want to be a bad person.”
He looked at me for a long time, his hands shoved in his pockets, and then he nodded. “Okay. I have a story to tell you.”
I cracked a grin. “Once upon a time?”
He took a deep breath. “I think there are guns buried on Kilkarten.”
My stomach convulsed and I twisted to see him. “What?”
“During the Troubles. There were guns kept there for the nationalist movement.”
No, the words still weren’t making much sense. “The—what, like the IRA?” Weren’t the Troubles about Northern Ireland, whether they were part of the UK or the Republic of Ireland? Protestants vs. Catholics? What did that have to do with farmers in western Cork?
“No.” He rolled over, too, and gripped my hand hard enough to hurt. “God, no. He just...supported a united Ireland.”
“He.” It started to sink in. “You think your dad buried guns on Kilkarten?”
“I don’t know. I just—” He closed his eyes. “He never talked about it. You know how some people want to tell you every last detail of their lives? Not my dad. He’d tell you about his childhood, and about moving to Boston, but there were two or three years in the early eighties that he never mentioned. Like they didn’t exist.
“And then one year, when I was ten, I heard him and my mom talking. About Irish nationalism. About supporting the cause. About being young. And about Kilkarten. About ruining Kilkarten, and wishing he could take it back.
“Later on, after he died, I would ask my mom about it, and she’d just shake her head and say he didn’t like to talk about those years. And I just kept thinking...” He shook his head.
Good God. “And you thought he smuggled weapons in to the nationalists.”
“How else could he ruin the land? Why else would he leave Ireland and never come back?”
“Have you asked your mother? I mean, straight out said what you’re thinking.”
He just looked at me.
My overactive imagination raced across a hundred miles and thirty years. Because didn’t all those groups get their weapons from connections in other countries? I gaped at him. “No.”
He covered his eyes with one arm. “I don’t know.”
I sat up and tugged at his arm. “Come on. Your mom did not smuggle weapons into Ireland to support the nationalist movement. She said she met your dad in Boston.”
He allowed his arm to move. “What if she lied?”
I laughed slightly maniacally. “So you’re trying to protect, what, your sisters from the knowledge, and your mom from the repercussions if she was involved? There has to be a statute of limitations.” I shook my head. “No. No, this is just our imaginations running wild. This doesn’t happen in real life.”
“You’re searching for a lost city based on an ancient map and scribblings in manuscripts.”
Point taken.
“Let’s leave it now, okay? Now you know.”
“Mike... Why’d you tell me?”
“I don’t know. He shrugged. “Because I wanted you to know. Because telling you things—it makes them more bearable. It makes the weight go away.”
I leaned over and kissed him. His hand tangled in my hair as he pulled me down for a thorough exploration that sent longing spiraling through my body until I was weak and melting against him. His hands slid over my skin, blazing heat everywhere they touched.