She was alone.
She was alone, the winds were lashing rain that beat furiously at the clothesline of separated whites and darks and, more importantly, she had slipped.
"Help," she cried out, but no one was around to answer.
Lucas was down in the barn, tending to an ill horse. He wouldn't hear her over the storm. Nuala had gone into town with her mother, at Brenda's insistence. Nuala's father had taken her siblings to visit their ailing grandmother. Brenda had decided to do the washing, one of the few chores she was permitted by the overprotective family to do following her visit with Doc Haloran.
It was the first time Brenda had been alone in the two months she had lived with the Buckleys, and it had to happen when the radiant sun decided to hide behind enraged clouds.
She had been close to the house when an unexpected twinge in her lower back caused her to step into a rotted wooden plank and fall into the grass below.
It was a wonder she could walk at all, in skirts that trailed to the ground and feet she couldn't see.
She missed jeans. Summer dresses. Shorts. Shirts with skinny straps.
Trousers. Fuck, she desperately missed trousers; pants, as she had grown up calling them.
Her hand instinctively went to her stomach, cradling the child hidden beneath her skirts; or children, she couldn't be sure. There had been no further bleeding following the visit with Doc Haloran, but there had also been significantly less movement than Brenda had felt prior to that night in the bathroom.
The night she left Connor behind thinking him a copy seemed so long ago, as if it had only been a scene in one of her books.
If it weren't for the pregnancy, she'd have convinced herself she had always been Brenda Walsham, County Cork's disappearing act.
It was the dreams that helped her to remember, dreams that often involved Dylan.
She never recalled what he said, only that she faced a constant barrier blocking her from seeing him.
"Help," said Brenda again, weaker this time. "Please."
She was answered by the raindrops upon her face. The creaking of the old house. The rattle of a snake through tall blades of emerald grass.
No. She imagined that. There weren't snakes in Ireland. The legend said Saint Patrick had banished the snakes by decree. The reality was that there had never been snakes in Ireland.
She had once inquired of Connor why the legend existed when it was untrue.
"Every legend has a wee bit of truth to it, my love," he had said.
"Is that why you became a producer? To find the truth in legends?"
"A bit why you became an actress, isn't it? To tell stories. Relive history. Share it with the public, so it is remembered."
A different creature must be crawling nearby, searching for a chunk of her flesh.
A pound of flesh, like the Venetian merchant in Shakespeare's controversial play.
She pondered who would remember her if she were devoured.
Would anyone grieve for her, when they were unaware of a reason to grieve?
No one was around to hear her. No one would come.
They would all remain in the images soaring about in her mind: Brandon. Val. Nicola. Maddie. Ellie. Steve. David. Caoimhe.
Her plethora of cousins. Her parents. Grandparents. In-laws.
Connor.
Dylan.
Connor.
Dylan.
Connor.
Brenda forced herself to sit up, to carefully shimmy over on her bottom to the stairs.
A difficult task, with the overlarge beach ball that determined to stay duct-taped to her front whilst she moved.
She looked from the ground, to the top of the stairs, to the door and then latched onto one of the steps to pull herself up.
Brenda had made it to the third step out of five when her energy failed. She slackened, spreading her legs over the stairs until her feet once more touched the ground.
Perhaps Lucas would come for supper soon and see her lying there.
Perhaps he wouldn't and she would be buried beneath a flood.
A fierce clomping of hooves. The whipping of weighted garments descending from a horse. A man's worried voice. The shifting of her body as she was raised into strong arms. The pleasing fragrance of the forget-me-nots shaded in violet that grew beside the house. The frustrated growl and release of foreign curses that accompanied the attempted turning of a doorknob. The dip towards the porch when the hand that held her retrieved a spare silver key from a crack in the wall. The soft padding below her back of the sheets she had laundered the day before.
"Ye must be careful, lass," said the voice. "We're of the opinion that it would be a great shame to lose ye again."
She thought he sounded familiar, but the voice was unlike any she had known.
When Brenda opened her eyes and turned her head, her vision met a pair of eyes so known to her, they had become ingrained in her mind.
The eyes of Dylan McKay.
But he wasn't Dylan. He wore a hooded ruana wrapped in the style of the Celts and a charcoal tweed flat cap. His chin was layered in scruff. His hands were coarser than Dylan's had been, indicating he worked in manual labor that her Dylan had avoided.
Yet, she still knew him.
"Lucas' message neglected to say you are with leanbh." His eyes had left hers to glue themselves to her stomach.
Connor had also used the Irish word for baby, having retained certain words from his years of required Irish language.
But in this century, for Diolùn to say any Irish was courageous.
She suddenly felt self-conscious, wondering how slim the Brenda had been whom he had known.
"I came as soon as I received word that you've returned to us," he said. In true Corkonian style, his spoken th's dropped the h consonant. "Brenda Walsham, back where she belongs."
Not exactly.
"Lucas said you were in Bayonne," she got out, in her now permanent accent. "He was told by Stephen Cassidy."
"I was," said Diolún. "I had spoken with Stephen before I sailed. I," he lay a hand at his side that curled into a loose fist, "I looked for ye. They said it was foolish, but I would have been more of a fool to not try. It is why I chose life on the sea: to find ye."
"I've been in Boston," said Brenda.
"Yes," said Diolún, "under the name Monaghan, as Lucas' message told it. I was searching for a Walsham."
"I'm still a Walsh…am."
Brenda hoped he wouldn't notice her hesitation.
"Boston knew me only as a Monaghan," she added, for extra measure.
"Where is yer man Monaghan? I should like to meet him."
"He is not in this world." It was a statement she had begun to use after what she felt had been too many lies about her husband's death.
"My condolences. And sincerest apology. It is not right for me to carry another man's wife."
"There is no need for apology. Connor would have been more upset if you had left me out there."
"I assure ye I would not do that to someone I lo - like a great deal. Here." He removed his ruana, wrapping it around her. "Rest now and I'll brew us a pot of tea."
"We've no tea," said Brenda.
"No tea?" asked Diolún. "Ah, but I have." He withdrew a pouch of tea leaves from his pocket. "One should never be without their tea," he said. "Where is my brother?"
"Down in the barn."
"And Nuala?"
"Travelled into town to see what food could be scrounged up."
"So ye are alone? They left ye, a grieving widow, alone in your condition?" he asked with a tick of his defined jawline.
Fuck, no man should have been half that attractive when incensed.
"Oh, but I am not alone," said Brenda, "for you have come."
"I suppose I felt that ye were in trouble. I had initially planned to arrive tomorrow."
"I thank God you came when you did."
"As do I." He examined her. "Ye seem different; but then, ye were younger when last I saw ye."
"As were you," she said, sliding the back of her hand over his cheek as he closed his eyes.
She was not his Brenda. He was not her Dylan.
Yet a connection had arisen between them regardless.
"Forgive me." Diolún opened his eyes. "I forget myself. Your touch is unchanged, but I cannot feel about ye now the way I did then when the child of your departed husband grows within ye."
"How did you feel then?" asked Brenda, uncaring about outdated propriety.
"About the same as ye felt, I would wager."
She clasped his hand in both of hers. "Then we were in love?"
"Aye, or something in that vein. But that was years ago, and ye were unwed."
Though he spoke the words, they both knew Diolún was unlikely to release her.
"Ye still have it." He reached out to finger the dainty chain carrying a golden harp that had mysteriously been discovered around Brenda's neck when she first arrived.
There had been a harpist at her wedding who had played mystical versions of traditional folk songs.
"You gifted me with it." It was a question, phrased as a statement.
"It was me Ma's. A rare possession of hers we were not forced to sell."
Lucas had told her his and Diolún's father had passed whilst they were children; their mother, shortly after.
The Celtic harp, the national symbol of Ireland. A symbol of sovereignty, of what would become a Free State shortly after the birth of Brenda's grandfather.
The simple necklace felt more valuable to Brenda than did the exquisite collection of royal jewels that she had once viewed with Dylan.
"To serve as a reminder to ye of the land we were leaving behind," said Diolún.
Thinking of those she had left behind - or rather, ahead, in the far future - brought a slight twinge to Brenda's side, and she coaxed her mind to drift to other topics.
"I have been told you missed my ship."
"Aye." The disconsolation on his features yanked at her soul. "'Twas that bosthoon O'Connell. I told him I had to get to ye. He didn't care. We'd a score to settle, he said. By the hour I arrived at the harbor, ye and the lea - ye had left."
It seemed cruel for her to unintentionally cause Diolún such pain.
"I am sorry to have shown up here, like this."
"Do not ye be sorry," he firmly replied. "Ye are a vision." His eyes followed her hand that she subconsciously planted on her stomach. His expression became forlorn. "May I?"
In response, she rested his hand along her swell.
He looked a bit the way Connor had when he had first felt their twins move, as if he had encountered something majestic that was shared with few.
It had initially been tiny ladybug wings fluttering in her belly. As the twins had developed, it had become powerful swings of a hurling player, like Connor had been in his youth.
"I've imagined this often," Diolún admitted in a rush of caffeinated breath. "My mind wanders to ye. To the places we dreamt of seeing and the people we discussed meeting. Escaping this desolation. Seeing the culture of Paris. The art of Vienna. The architecture of Rome. Carrying it all back with us to beautify our once rich land."
They were all places she had seen, either with Dylan or without him.
"Was it an arduous journey, then? To America?"
Brenda guessed it would have been, in those days, and faked a response.
"Ye had just begun to curve." A single tear streaked down Diolún's cheek, followed by another and still another.
"Begun to curve?" asked Brenda.
"It was why we had decided to run when yer father was seized."
"My father was - was what?"
"Easy, brother. Brenda has had a difficult time of it. She has often suffered perplexity since the shipwreck that killed her husband."
Diolún stood erect, staring down Lucas as Lucas shut the heavy door behind him. "And ye left her alone in this state?" he asked with an amount of steel that would easily coat several ships.
"I was tending to her horse," said Lucas smoothly. "Brenda assured me she was, and I quote, 'just fine on my own, Lucas McKay. I do not require any hovering.'"
Diolún's rage slipped into a smile that waltzed at the corners of his lips until his dimples displayed, as Dylan's always had.
The reaction confirmed to Brenda that he must have been a past version of her Dylan; if a man she hadn't seen in fourteen years could still be considered hers.
"Yes, well," Diolún cleared out the catch in his throat, "I think, for the time being, until this leanbh is delivered, it is best to ignore our Brenda's unfortunate obstinance in order to avoid her taking another unwanted dive onto the ground."
Irked that both versions of Dylan falsely believed her stubborn, Brenda argued against his comment.
Neither Diolún, nor Lucas, accepted her denial.
Diolún eyed her as she drank her tea, which may have been the best tea she had ever tasted.
"Elderberry," he said. "I acquired it during my travels."
"Have you been to many places?" asked Brenda, wiping her lips with the back of her hand.
"A number of them, yes. I have been to France; never Paris. Austria, but not Vienna. Italy, bypassing Rome. I could not bear to see them without ye."
Fuck, but he was sweet; sort of like her Dylan had been, in the beginning.
And the middle.
She debated if examining Diolún's lips counted as having an affair.
If she never saw Connor again, would it still be an affair?
You've been emotionally cheating with Dylan's memory since fucking Val put it into your head that Dylan would crash your wedding. Fucking asshole won't leave your dreams. What does it matter if you end up kissing Diolún?
They're my dreams. It isn't as if Dylan dreams of me.
He can exit my dreams at any time.
The crease of Diolún's brow raised an internal alarm. "Lucas, prepare the wagon. I want to get Brenda examined by the Doc." His palm cupped her cheek, which she realized had become flushed; either due to her ordeal, or due to the handsome Diolún McKay's hand against her cheek.
"I haven't a wagon," said Lucas. "I had to sell it."
"You sold the wagon?"
"It fetched a good price. Enough to buy loaves for the entire household."
Diolún's expression held a combination of concern for Brenda and frustration with Lucas. "How have ye been getting to the factory?"
Lucas appeared reluctant to answer.
"Lucas," said Diolún.
"Do not you become upset," said Lucas.
"By all that is holy, Lucas McKay, do not tell me ye are working for scraps at the estate of that lord!"
"We needed food," said Lucas.
"Ma and Da would turn in their graves if they knew ye were accepting handouts from that lowlife scum."
"Ma and Da aren't the ones required to provide food for this family."
Nuala had told Brenda that Lucas had worked as a stable hand for the Buckleys. The Buckleys had been required to shed their staff after Daragh Buckley had been dismissed from his work at the local bank under suspicion that he was fighting for a Free Ireland.
He was, said Nuala, but no one had been meant to know that outside of the McKay boys, and they would have never told a soul.
Lucas continued on in the Buckley's services, maintaining his work in their barn with the work he did for a lord whom Diolún evidently loathed.
A third twinge occurred, this time in the form of a rather large dog that decided to curl up on Brenda's stomach whilst the men quarreled; a sleeping German shepherd, perhaps.
There were not any dogs in sight.
"Then ye should have written me," said Diolún. "I would have returned to work the fields."
"There is more income in your travels."
Brenda shifted, attempting to swat the imaginary dog off of her stomach.
It seemed perfectly content where it was.
Until it began to perform cartwheels.
She pushed herself out of the bed, calling to the lads.
They continued to argue.
"Lads," she repeated, without response.
She arched out her back. Gripped the bedpost. Released a loud moan.
It was the moan Diolún noticed.
"Brenda?" His walk was brisk. "Lucas, are there any wagons around?" Diolún wrapped an arm around Brenda's shoulder, who leant into him and clutched at his baggy shirt.
His other hand returned to her belly and became interlaced with her hand.
"Daragh took the only one," said Lucas.
"Is there anything we can attach to my horse? I cannot carry Brenda and navigate Shadow all at once. She cannot ride like this. It would jostle the babe. Yet, we must get her to the Doc."
"Oh God," cried Brenda, folding into Diolún's arms.
With minimal effort, he slid his hands under her legs and raised her into his arms as a man would his new bride.
"She needs to see a midwife," Diolún insisted.
"We've a wheelbarrow."
"Then make haste, lad, and prepare the wheelbarrow."
A popping sound. A steady, warm trickle that soon gushed out of Brenda's skirts.
Then continued to gush.
"It's my waters," she said, horrified at the realization. "They have broken."
"I will get a bucket," said Lucas.
"You eejit," said Diolún. "It means the leanbh is coming. The wheelbarrow; hurry now, go on!" He cradled Brenda closer to him. "I must confess, Brenda, I've not delivered a babe. I don't believe you'd like for me to start with yours."
"I trust we are both in capable hands," said Brenda, before her body contorted in a contraction.
Connor should be here.
No, he shouldn't. This shouldn't be his baby. This should be Dylan's.
But it's not Dylan's and would've never been Dylan's, so Connor should be here to see his child born.
Yeah, well, he's not. You're alone.
Except I'm not alone, am I?
"I haven't the faintest what to do," said Diolún, swiping every cloth and blanket in sight, in addition to a flask he noticed laying out. "You have done this before. Tell me what to do."
"Done this before?" Brenda asked between breaths.
"That is, you've seen yer mam do this before," he hurried to correct.
The flicker of agony in Diolún's eyes told her that he had meant something else entirely, but the agony pummeling her body prevented her from deducing his meaning.
Brenda had never seen labor. She was the first of her close friends to become pregnant - would have been the second, had she remained friends with Donna Silver.
She had the recap of Janet's difficult labor from Steve, which did nothing to reassure her of her own wellbeing.
"Have you known many women to pass on from childbirth?" asked Brenda, curving into herself.
"A fair few, but ye will not be among them." Diolún opened the door with his free hand. "Have ye finished yet?" he yelled.
The skies had darkened considerably. Ferocious winds howled. A tree toppled over, in time with a contraction.
Tennis balls of ice began to smash down.
Hail. Fucking hail, over a land that rarely saw hail.
The next contraction slammed into her, stealing her breath.
Brenda tried to remember the coaching from the classes she had attended with Connor.
"It's no use!" called out Lucas. "Do you want to chance Brenda in this?"
"He's right," said Diolún, crestfallen. "We cannot chance ye or your child in this storm. I'll ride into town and fetch the Doc."
He crouched over, shielding Brenda when a bang reverberated against the house.
A smashing of a window. A scratching of horsepower winds into their faces. Another fallen tree, this time poking into the bed where Brenda had lain.
And a fierce contraction, the fiercest one yet.
"Sweet, merciful Jaysus!" Brenda yelled, surprising herself with the phrase.
"Ye alright?" he was forced to shout, despite being directly behind Brenda.
"Do not leave me," she pleaded, uncaring that Diolún was nothing more than a stranger.
In that moment, he was all she had.
"That I will not do," he promised. A second window smashed. "We cannot stay here. The house isn't safe. Ye would have been crushed if you'd remained in the bed."
"The barn," Brenda moaned. "Get me to the barn."
"Ye want your child born in a barn?"
"Less windows," she said. "It's warm, but not unbearably warm. Enclosed." Fuck, and she thought she had known pain two months previously. This was far worse. An entire battle was occurring within her stomach. The clashing of a thousand swords brought her close to tears. "If it is good enough for Mary, it's good enough for me."
Diolún belly laughed. "Aye, ye are your father's daughter. A true Catholic."
"Are you a Catholic?" she asked.
"No." His laughter suddenly ceased. "We McKays are Huguenots. It was one of the reasons we had planned to run."
"What was the other?" she pressed, hoping for a distraction from her body turning against her.
She swore his gaze dropped to her jiggling stomach, but it had shot back to the door before she could be certain.
"What would you prefer for me to do, brother?" Lucas inquired from the doorway.
"Help me get Brenda to the barn," said Diolún. "I will not stand around here with her waiting for a third shattering."
"Will you ride into town to fetch the Doc?"
"He swore he would not leave me." Brenda slung both arms around Diolún's neck to make leaving impossible.
"Then he will not," said Lucas. "My brother is a man of his word. Should I ride in?"
"Do ye think ye can make it?"
"Of course." Lucas' mischievous grin reminded Brenda of her twin brother's, though the two men lacked similarity in appearance.
She wished Brandon were there with them.
"Then go," said Diolún, "but first, the barn."
Brenda clung to Diolún, tucking into his chest to avoid the winds pounding against her face.
"I don't suppose this is how you expected our reunion to go," she said, her voice struggling to be heard over the howling.
"Not at all," said Diolún. "Nor did I expect for us to have a reunion. I would rather it be this than nothing."
They lay her on a blanket in the barn, surrounded by sweet-smelling hay and giddy horses.
Following words of caution from Diolún, Lucas took off.
"Will he be alright?" asked Brenda, rolling to her side.
"He will. McKay men are the best riders around, if I do say so myself. Let us hope he returns in time."
She asked how long it would take Lucas. In good weather, said Diolún, it could take a quarter to the hour.
"In this; it depends on the condition of the road. The Germans, they have developed a product. It is called a motor car. Me men say it moves faster than a wagon. The speed of a cheetah, they say. One day, I will purchase for ye a cheetah car. If we had it now, we could get ye to the Doc."
Brenda acted enthralled at the concept of a product that could get them from point A to point B at a quickened pace compared to a horse and wagon.
Diolún grasped her hand. "Tell me about him, then. About your husband."
"I'd rather you tell me about my Da," she grunted, for the pain had become too unbearable to properly speak.
She could have been in a sterilized hospital, with Connor. With a needle poking into her that would have lessened the pain.
She had a sudden appreciation for all the women throughout time who had given birth, with and without medication.
"What do ye want to know?" asked Diolún. He had requested permission to peek at Brenda's lower half, which she had thought a no-brainer until she realized the decorum of the time period and her purported status as a widow.
She appreciated Diolún's gentlemanly endeavor, but considering she was about to shit a barrel out of her ass, she really didn't give a damn about nineteenth century decorum of what would become the middle class.
His intent look diverted from Brenda's own eyes to the space between her legs and back again.
About her childhood, she said as she wriggled about. The Walsham family. How she and Diolún had first become acquainted.
He wiped the blistering sweat back from her brow, telling the story with an emanating happiness that she believed he had not experienced in quite a while.
They had met through Nuala, the girl Brenda had called her platonic soulmate since they were children. Diolún's family had long been employed by the Buckleys, and it was Nuala who convinced her father to allow the McKay boys to have their schooling. He had been about eight years old; Brenda, seven. They had developed a close friendship that had blossomed into far more.
What Brenda hadn't known then, said Diolún, was that he had fallen in love the moment he heard her sing.
"Sing?" Brenda had always been self-conscious of her voice, despite the rigorous vocal training she had undergone at her alma mater of RADA and the operatic roles she had accepted since.
"Yes," he said, gently massaging her aching belly. "You've a voice that would make the angels sit up and take notice."
"I hope the babe feels the same," said Brenda.
Mom, I'm sorry for every bad thing I ever told you, she thought. You're amazing for doing this with Bran and I.
God, I wish you were here.
I don't think I can do this without you, Mommy.
"I am certain of that." Diolún's masterful hands moved to press along her legs.
She could tell he had masked his own fear to sway hers.
Connor would have been a wreck; one of those fainting husbands in the scripts he had produced.
Dylan; well, his reaction would have been in-between Connor and Diolún.
I need to focus on the baby. Stop thinking about Dylan and focus on pushing this baby out without dying.
'Cause there's no fucking way I'm gonna go out like Jane Seymour.
Or she would track Dylan down wherever he was and become a poltergeist that would never leave him alone.
Bracing herself on all fours, Brenda jutted her ass into the air as she swung back and forth.
Her position reminded her of a prized animal on display at the county fair she had attended with her family as a child.
She had unintentionally prepared for labor through the many yoga poses she engaged in whilst in her twenties and those done in her thirties at the suggestion of her fitness trainer.
"Still the best dancer in the whole of Europe," said Diolún, kneeling beside her.
Midnight black in color, a nearby horse sat to watch the commotion.
"Did we do much dancing, then?" she gritted out.
"A great deal more than thought appropriate."
She angled her face towards him. "We did not care what others thought?"
"No," he surveyed her fondly, "we never did."
He then began to rub in a rhythmic motion across her back.
After some time in which the storm continued to rage and inhuman whimpers echoed across the barn, Brenda decided that Lucas wasn't coming.
"He must be delayed." Diolún failed to conceal his brotherly worry. "The road may be impassable."
"I do hope nothing terrible has occurred." She pinched her face together, puffing out heavy breaths.
"Ye need not concern yourself with that when ye have enough to focus on. Ye planned to do this with your husband and I am, I'm sure, a pitiful substitute for him -"
"If you had not come when you had, Diolún, I would be doing this alone."
"'Long as I remain in this world, ye will never be alone. Nor will your child," vowed Diolún. "But I am ill equipped. The midwife would have had healing herbs, I am sure. I have nothing." He had used the last of the flask to sterilize the cloths. There had been an offer to Brenda of a drop of ale, with Diolún suppressing his surprise when she declined. He told her that he himself drank on occasion, which he felt the moment certainly qualified as had there been more ale. "Is there anything I can do to ease the transition?"
"Can you sing?"
"Oh, ye do not want to hear me sing."
"Please. It will help."
He stroked back her hair, took her hand and gave her knuckle a kiss.
He sang a haunting, gorgeous Irish lullaby he said Brenda Walsham's mother had taught them.
Connor had not been one to sing.
Diolún's voice brought Brenda a peace that no epidural could have matched.
"With our magic halls of brightness / Trips many a foot of snowy whiteness / Stolen maidens, queens of fairy / And kings and chiefs a sluagh shee airy. Shusheen sho, luo lo!"
It almost carried Brenda into sleep.
"Christ." The lullaby abruptly ended when Diolún looked down. A blanching of his face resulted in a prominence of his dark eyes, seen even through the barn's weakened light. "The head. I see the head."
"Then we'll have to do this by ourselves," she said.
"Aye, that we will. Afraid you've no choice. I will have to assume the roles of doctor and midwife."
"On a count of three, I will push into my contraction and you will prepare to catch the babe, alright?"
"Grand. To the count of three in English?"
"No," said Brenda, determined as she propped herself against a stack of hay. The smallest of movements was excruciating; the stomachache, unlike any she had ever felt. "We are Irish. My husband was Irish. I want my child to know what it is to be Irish. They can forbid our language. They can steal our food. They can force us to work upon the lands they have claimed as theirs. But our identities, they cannot take."
"There's my Brenda," said Diolún with Dylan's heart-stopping, devilish grin. "Good to know ye have not changed."
I've actually changed quite a lot.
And I'm only a quarter-Irish, but I'm married to an Irish lad, so that counts.
I think.
Well, the baby is half-Irish, anyway.
"Táimd bródúil as a bheith Éireannach." Brenda uttered a phrase she had heard from Connor's grandmother.
"Aye," said Diolún, "quite proud to be Irish. You've learnt the language since ye have been away, I see."
Shit, thought Brenda, but Diolún simply assumed Connor had taught her.
Which he had, sort of.
"A haon," said Diolún.
"A dó." Brenda raised herself up on her elbows. Both of her arms encircled his shoulders.
"A trí."
Clenching her teeth, she pushed.
xx
He had three minutes to get to the school.
All because the fucking press had to show up and swarm the beach club to talk about Jack's appeal.
Not that Dylan expected much to come of it.
His father was guilty. No appeal would change that fact.
"Wasn't sure you'd make it," Brandon said, moving down a seat.
"And miss the opening act of Brenda's labor of love that she's been pushing away at all summer? Not a chance. Just had to dodge the damn press."
"The appeal?"
Dylan nodded, accepting the program Brandon handed over. "It's useless. Jack's not leaving the slammer."
He's safer in there, anyway.
No Marchette coming after him.
"Maybe his attorneys think there's a chance."
"Brandon, he's in there for a reason. It's stupid for them to think he has a shot of getting out early."
"What would happen if he did? Would you move back in with him?"
"Hell no. I'm just fine where I am."
"Brandon," hissed a voice. "Brandon, shush. It's starting."
The production had gone from individual Shakespearean scenes to a blend of Shakespearean characters in the same setting that told the audience Chris Suiter truly knew his Shakespeare.
There were the siblings, Viola and Sebastien, separated by a shipwreck that led Viola to presume her brother dead. There was Leontes, accusing Hermione of infidelity to the point that she was forced to give birth in captivity. Troilus of Troy, feeling betrayed by Cressida after she was forced to join her father in a Greek camp. The banter of Beatrice and Benedick. The rapid feelings of love from the King of Navarre and his friends. Andrea as Lady Macbeth, manipulating her husband to commit murder. Donna and David as the infamous, unthinking lovers of Verona.
Yet, not a single actor on that stage carried half the stage presence of Brenda Walsh.
If Dylan had believed his girl stunning before, playing the Queen of the Fairies raised her to a level no human could touch.
Upon sight of her, he forgot the simple task of breathing.
She seemed to inflict the same reaction in every audience member within his eyeline.
"First, rehearse your song by rote / To each word a warbling note / Hand in hand, with fairy grace / Will we sing, and bless this place," said Brenda; though, with the voice she had used for Titania, Dylan would not have been surprised if an angel had taken over Brenda's voice.
Titania danced and sang a duet with Oberon, which Dylan had to admit wasn't half-bad on Reina's part.
He braced himself for the kiss between Titania and Oberon, but, to his befuddlement and great relief, it never came.
"We've got a future West End star on our hands," he muttered to Brandon.
"You think so?"
"I know so."
Dylan slipped backstage before the encore; a stage far too busy for anyone to notice his presence.
Brenda turned from where she had joined her fellow students for their final bow. Her already glowing visage increased in radiance upon sight of Dylan. He nodded towards the audience, persuading her to focus not on him, but instead on the cheers and whoops being rightfully bestowed on her.
"Dylan!" She darted behind the curtain and sprung into his awaiting arms. "I was hoping you'd sneak back here. Do you think I did okay?"
"Bren, if you did okay, then there's a whole lotta Broadway and West End stars who either need to be re-trained or spent a shit ton of money on performing arts school for nothing."
"Really?" Every rainbow that had been cast upon the earth was harnessed into her smile. "Thank you. I thought I totally fudged up the line."
"I told her she didn't." Reina appeared behind them. "Suiter wants photos before we take off our costumes, Bren. Girls first, then guys, then the group."
"Okay," said Brenda. "I won't be long," she told Dylan.
"Noticed you skipped the kiss scene," said Dylan, keeping his voice as nonchalant as possible.
"Well, you know, Bren has a cold," said Reina. "Wouldn't want to catch anything right before the season. Gotta be top of my game this year if I want to go pro. The college recruiters are gonna start flocking in. There'll be other kiss scenes for us to do, when she's feeling better."
"Bren has a cold?" Dylan's head swung to look for Brenda.
"That's what Brandon said," Reina explained before he went to join his castmates.
Attempting to not worry about Brenda's cold, Dylan helped to clean up the backstage area and chatted with the assistant director about Brenda's options for scholarship.
If Brenda continued to perform at the level she had that evening, he was told she would be a shoo-in for a top scholarship in theatre.
Dylan found Brandon, who assured him that the twins had lied to Reina.
The reason, Brandon said, was that Brenda had asked her brother to say she had a cold.
"Because when I kissed Emilio in dress rehearsal last night, I saw another vision of the past us," Brenda explained when they were able to have a moment alone. "Kissing him just seemed wrong after that, like I was having an affair or something. This way, if he finds out I don't have a cold, he'll think Brandon lied instead of me. I told Bran to say I had mono, but he said that would get back to Mom and Dad."
"Yeah, I'd rather not have Jim kill me for thinking I gave his daughter mono. How'd Suiter take it?"
"He thought the scene played out better without the kiss. More longing than passion, which you know is literary gold."
"Thank God," said Dylan, uncaring that he had spoken his relief aloud.
Brenda knew precisely how he felt. He didn't have to hide anything.
"Y'know, if you want to start pretending we're married, I'm totally cool with that," he added.
His hand slid along her slim midsection.
With the movement, came another mirage.
It was sharper than the others. Brenda, breathtaking Brenda, in hitched long skirts. Face free of cosmetics. Sitting halfway up in what appeared to be a barn. A nightmarish storm battering around her.
And his past self, singing to ease her pain.
In a language he didn't know.
One of the Nordic languages, perhaps.
"Did you see it?" Dylan murmured so as to not attract attention. "Was it the same one you saw last night?"
"I did and yeah, it was." She pulled him into an empty classroom, thankfully one with poor acoustics. "That's the second life we've seen where I've been pregnant. But I don't think it was with your baby."
"Why do you say that?"
"You weren't wearing a ring."
"Maybe we weren't married."
"But I was wearing a ring."
"Maybe I didn't wear rings back then. Or maybe you tragically lost your first husband, we fell in love while you were pregnant, and I raised your kid."
"You would do that?"
"Yes," he said without a moment's hesitation that dropped her jaw.
I'd raise those twins with you if I could, Bren. Doesn't matter that they're half-Monaghan's. They're half-you, and I woulda loved them just as much as I loved their mother.
She fingered the hem of his shirt. "What do you think it means?"
He had no fucking clue, nor why the latest one had clubbed him straight in the chest, unlike the others.
But fuck, that Brenda had seemed so real in a way the others hadn't; older, too. He had been hammered by her pain. Itched to reach into his vision and kiss her. Longed to sit by her side and swaddle the baby whose head he had seen crowning.
Shit, he had problems.
Especially considering that the Brenda in the barn hadn't felt like a past Brenda; rather, like his old Brenda, like the Brenda with whom he had initially fallen in love.
The Brenda that he now knew only in his dreams.
Impossible.
This was his Brenda, resting her head under his chin as he encased her in his arms.
The other Brenda was gone; lost to history. Perhaps existence no longer knew her.
Perhaps his old reality had been wiped entirely.
And if it hadn't, that had definitely not been Monaghan supporting Brenda's legs.
If Itero made a copy of me in the future, my fucking copy better not be taking advantage of my Brenda.
He wasn't sure it had been a copy, for both outfits had certainly come from a different century.
Must have been one of Brenda's scenes, though that didn't explain the presence of his doppelgänger.
"Maybe it means we'll get you knocked up before college," said Dylan.
"No way," said Brenda. "I'm not gonna be knocked up in my graduation gown after all that hard work I've done to keep my GPA high."
"Oh, but your cute butt waddling up the stage to get your diploma from Mrs. Teasly would make a great home video for the kids."
"Until our daughter decides it's the perfect excuse for her to walk across the commencement stage carrying her boyfriend's baby," she pointed out. "But then, I guess you'd have no problem with that?"
He quickly dropped any hypothetical discussion of young Brenda carrying their child.
Becoming a parent at a young age would have previously terrified Dylan. He wasn't overly fond of Jim's possible reaction in such a scenario.
But he had now seen Brenda pregnant four times. Once on fucking Facebook. Twice in his dreams. Once in the visions.
And, in the Elizabethan vision Brenda had seen, it had been with his child.
He wished he could fast-forward the next however many years to ensure all of Brenda's children would be his, not Monaghan's.
Until then, he'd have to leave the pregnancies to their past lives.
He had been getting along with Jim much too well to chance a falling-out worse than the one they had had in the old life.
"You were sensational, darling."
Impeccably dressed, Nat appeared a man of wealth attending ballet in the nineteenth century, rather than a man of lower middle-class means at a school play.
He had told Dylan that one must always dress a certain way for the arts, in whichever form it took.
Dylan had then dressed up a bit himself, but not with the suit Nat had tried to coax him into.
Nat came up to kiss both of Brenda's cheeks, which he said she would need to get used to when she performed in tours that travelled the globe.
"You really think I'll become that famous, Nat?" Natural rouge colored Brenda's cheeks as she happily accepted the large bouquet the gang had pitched in to buy.
Dylan had sent a bouquet ahead to the dressing room, arranged with a colorful bunch of roses and a handful of forget-me-nots.
It was his fuck you to Anteros. The forget-me-nots were a way to imply to Brenda that Dylan wasn't apt to forget her, whether or not they drifted in life.
Not that he expected them to, as it seemed their families had become one.
"Oh, unquestionably," said Nat. "With your immense talent, fame is just around the corner."
Donna came up to squeeze Brenda, both girls engaging in excited chatter about Donna's own performance and a question of whether she would continue in theatre.
Donna told Brenda that between her schoolwork, extension on the internship, and interest in trying out for the school's Color Guard, she would leave the acting to Brenda.
"Don't forget," said Brenda, "we're snooping on your mom this weekend."
"I don't know, Bren," worried Donna. "Won't I get struck down by God if I disrespect my mom like that?"
"Don, do you wanna know why your mom lied to you about the soup kitchen, or not?"
"I want to know," said Donna, hesitantly agreeing to their sleuthing strategy.
Dylan and Brandon both said they would help.
"Brenda, you were amazing!" Steve dipped to embrace her. "Why didn't you try out last year?"
"I was still getting used to things," said Brenda. "New city. New school. New," she looked at Dylan, "it's a lot to take in."
"Well, I hope you get the lead in the fall production and wipe that smug smile off of Ruthann Simmons' face," said Kelly. "She's been getting the lead role every year since second grade. About time someone knocks her off her throne."
"Kel's just mad she lost the lead to Ruthann in fifth," said Steve.
"Whatever," said Kelly, tangling herself around Matt Nguyen whilst looking pointedly at Steve. "I didn't even want it. Jackie insisted I try out after I told her I was done with all of the frickin' beauty pageants."
Sans Stacey for possibly the first time since they began dating, Steve appeared to be stiffening every muscle in his body to avoid pounding Matt.
It was quite similar to how Dylan felt when Reina joined them.
"Emilio!" Brenda rushed to give him a hug. "You were wonderful."
"You make it easy." He smiled at her.
Dylan was tempted to stay planted where he was, tempted to catapult into Reina, tempted to run away.
With Brenda.
From Reina.
"Great performance, Reina," he said.
"Thanks," said Reina.
"Hey!" A girl of taller height and long copper hair tied into a braid by a dangling baby blue ribbon skipped towards them. "It's Brenda, right?"
"It is," said Brenda, smiling.
"Ruthann Simmons," said the girl. "You were fantastic in there. Will you be trying out for the autumnal production?"
She was assured by the gang and Brenda herself that Brenda would certainly audition.
"Great!" said Ruthann with a smile of her own. "It will be wonderful to have real competition, for once." She sent a smug smile in Kelly's direction, who glowered in response. "A group of us will be getting together to practice before auditions." She handed Brenda a Post-It note containing a phone number. "Let me know if you're interested. We'd love to have you join us."
"I will," Brenda beamed. "Thank you."
"Bren, a reporter from ABC7 wants to talk to us," said Reina, setting a hand on her back.
"From ABC7?" Brenda's mouth opened and closed. "But it's a school play."
"There's no such thing as a school play at West Bev," he said.
Not when Chris Suiter decided to cast students surnamed Reina and Martin, or the daughter of a Hollywood casting director as Cressida.
"Brandon!" Brenda called.
Brandon turned from where he spoke with Steve.
"ABC7 wants to talk to Emilio and I."
"Cool," said Brandon.
"No, you dork," said Brenda. "If ABC7 wants to talk to us, you're coming, too." She tugged him away from Steve. "C'mon, Bran. It's your perfect chance to network."
"Best sister ever," said Brandon.
"And don't you forget it," said Brenda.
Dylan was grateful to Brandon for leading his sister away before Reina could make the move to do so himself.
"Dude, you couldn't be more in love with her if you tried." Steve popped over Dylan's shoulder, startling him. "Why are you letting Reina have a shot?"
"I'm not letting Reina do anything, Steve. Bren gets to make the decisions around here."
"Is that why you broke up? Because Brenda made the decision to?"
"That's between me and Brenda."
"I'll take that as a yes."
"Is that why you and Kelly broke up?" Dylan snipped. "Because Kelly made the decision to?"
"Point made," Steve bristled. "I'm just offering use of my girlfriend if you wanna make Bren jealous."
"How would Stacey feel about that? You handing her out to other guys?"
"I'm not sure she'd even care, Dylan. Kel's right." Steve's voice lacked its usual vigor. "Stacey's into Brandon. And the main reason I started dating her was to make Kelly jealous, but I'm not sure I want Kel now after the way she's been acting toward Stacey. So I basically wasted the entire summer on a girl who wants my best friend, for a girl who can't decide if she wants me, you, or our best friend."
"She can't have me," said Dylan before Steve had even finished.
"Then I guess it's between me and Brandon."
"Unless you pull yourself out of the equation. End things with Stacey. Let Kelly figure out shit on her own while you find someone who isn't into me or Brandon."
"There's a better chance of becoming Marty McFly than finding a girl in this school who doesn't have a crush on you or Brandon, but I'll try it. Thanks for the advice, man."
"Glad to provide."
"Hey, McKay." Steve crept out of earshot, to be replaced by Suiter. "Can you get a draft to me by mid-September? We're holding auditions in October."
"It'll be on your desk after Labor Day," said Dylan.
"Sure you can get it done by then?"
"Absolutely."
"Get what done?"
He would have kissed the arms that slid around his shoulders, if her parents were not standing in their direct view.
"Suiter's asked me to write a play," he told Brenda, covering her hands with his.
"Really? That's awesome! I didn't know you write."
"I don't usually tell people."
"You could talk to Dad. He's always reminiscing about the writing career he never got. Maybe he could give you some tips." She swung her face over his shoulder. "This is so cool. You'll write a play, and I'll star in it."
God, that sounded incredible.
Especially after all the films of Monaghan's she starred in and not a single one of yours.
Thanks for the reminder. Asshole.
Overhearing, Andrea asked about Dylan writing reviews for the Blaze. He agreed to reviews on literature and film, but when she asked about music, he suggested she ask David, instead.
Jim offered ice-cream sundaes for everyone in celebration of Brenda's success. Donna reluctantly declined, saying that her parents wanted to take her out themselves. David and Andrea happily accepted Jim's offer, along with their own parents and Steve. Brenda told her father she needed to get an item that she had left at Dylan's. Jim said they could meet up later.
"I think we should see someone about all these dreams and visions we keep having," said Brenda the moment Dylan unlocked the door. "They've got to mean something."
"What, like a psychiatrist?" He walked her into the apartment.
"No." She turned around. "They'd think we were crazy and would probably have to legally tell my parents."
"A dream hypnotherapist?"
"Aren't those people über expensive?"
"I guess." Dylan tucked one arm around her waist, fitting his forehead into the crook of her neck. "We could talk to my mother."
"Would she think we're crazy?"
"Most of Beverly Hills thinks Iris is crazy, so I doubt it."
"Why do you do that?"
"Do what?"
"Call your parents by their first names. Mine would flip. Brandon tried it before we moved here and he got an earful from Grandma about respecting our parents."
Dylan pointed out that Steve was also on a first-name basis with his father.
But not his mother, said Brenda, who added that Kelly was on a first-name basis with both.
"I guess, for a long time, it's been hard to respect my parents," said Dylan. "I was pretty sure for a while there that I was a mistake made in a loveless marriage. You're lucky you have the parents you do. No one should ever feel like they're a mistake."
"My Dylan could never be a mistake." Brenda glided her hand along the nape of his neck.
Perfect seemed inadequate to describe how she felt in his arms.
"What about you? You and Jim don't always see eye-to-eye. Did you try the same thing as Brandon?"
"No way. I'd have been grounded for weeks. But I used to tell people I was adopted."
"I've heard most kids with siblings like to pull that."
"Oh, but you should've heard what I told people. Even Val thought I took it too far. She said I should've said I was kidnapped from my Scottish parents by my American ones, like she did."
"Val pretended to be a Scot?"
"She tried. She's got an awful Scouse accent, so she changed it to her Swiss parents."
"And yours was worse than that?"
"Mine wasn't even the slightest bit believable."
Brenda had said that she had been snatched away by the fairies, carried to another time period from the one in which she had been born.
Dylan metamorphosed into concrete. "You said you'd been stolen by fairies?"
"Told you. Not believable at all. But I always felt out of time, so I came up with a reason."
What The Actual Fuck.
"Is that too much?" asked Brenda, concerned. "We've talked about all kinds of things that people would think weird, but if that's too much, then -"
"It's not too much."
"Good." She sat cross-legged on the carpet and tapped at a spot on the sofa.
Dylan joined her on the floor.
"Did you do or say anything yesterday that implied something about our futures?"
He was surprised by the question. "Yeah, I went to the library and started researching scholarships for you and Brandon."
Brenda appeared touched as she lunged for one of the notebooks that lay out on the coffee table. In meticulous, beautiful print that seemed more typed than handwritten, she penned Researching scholarships resulted in barn storm.
"Whatcha doin'?" He nuzzled his nose into her neck, watching the little stars she drew in place of circles over her lowercase i's.
"Making a list."
"Of course you are." He laughed as he brushed her hair over her shoulder. "Why are you making it?"
"I've noticed we get these visions when we make plans for our future. So maybe if I keep track of them, we can find a pattern."
He was left wonderstruck by her mind.
Denying kiss scene also resulted in barn storm, Brenda wrote.
"We need some kind of code," she said, "in case someone sees the list. So no one thinks I'm trying to get pregnant, or anything."
"But we don't care about what anyone else thinks, right?" he asked.
"Right, except do you really want Dad to explode on you when he thinks you're trying to get me knocked up?"
She had a point. "Not yet, anyway." He mulled it over. "How about fishing?"
Fishing in barn, Brenda jotted down.
"And what about when we see me in labor, like in the barn?" she asked.
"Caught a fish," he answered without missing a beat.
Caught a fish.
"May I?" Dylan gestured to the list.
Nodding, Brenda handed him a pen.
Discussion on scholarship options led to repeat of barn storm, he wrote.
"What about the first vision you saw? The Elizabethan one?" he asked.
Interviews showed golden age of fishing, she added to the list.
She queried if he had seen additional visions.
Change in living arrangements equaled a uniformed dance, he wrote. Talk about future had -
His pen tilted on its side. "What should we code a proposal or engagement, Bren?"
"Surfing," she said.
Talk about future had Victorian surfing.
When he finished, Brenda lifted up the notebook. "I knew it." She swished her hips in a triumphant dance. "We get the visions when we make a decision that means we're planning to share a future. So maybe our past lives are trying to tell us something."
"Maybe they're saying that one of us will have to go back in time someday to fix our future." He wrapped his arms around her from behind. "Like reinhabit our teenage selves."
"Mm, maybe," she said. "But I think their message has to do with the fairies."
Dylan's lips curved into a circle, hidden in Brenda's hair sprayed curls. "The fairies?"
"Didn't you hear what Past You was singing in the barn?"
"I did, but I don't know any Nordic languages, Bren."
"It wasn't Nordic. It was Gaelic. Irish Gaelic, specifically. Though I guess you could argue that the Nordic people might've influenced some of it after the Vikings conquered Ireland."
An entire league of surfers plowed into Dylan, pushing him under a fiercer wave than the one that had temporarily left him housebound.
"What?" He could barely ask the question.
"It's a lullaby, from an old tale written down by William Butler Yeats. Dad's dad sang it to him and then Dad turned around and sang it to us."
"Jimbo speaks Irish?"
"Not well, but he knows a little."
She told Dylan that the lullaby spoke of a babe, snatched away by the fairies.
"And in the Elizabethan vision, Past You was reading something to the belly of Past Me. I thought I recognized the poem, so I dropped into the school library on break from rehearsal to double-check. It was Book Seven of The Faerie Queene."
"Edmund Spenser," said Dylan, amazed at her observation. "No wonder you're the love of my lives, Bren. You astound me."
"You astound me for knowing Spenser," she said.
"I could say the same."
"Anyway, that means there have been two visions that involved the fairy world. So if fairies are real, and people in Shakespeare's day thought they were, so we shouldn't rule it out because every legend starts somewhere and the fairies could've gone extinct for all we know -"
"Or went into hiding, from the humans."
"Right, could've gone into hiding. So maybe they have something to do with our past lives that meant all of this - the barn BD, Victorian BD, Elizabethan BD, etc - didn't get their futures."
Something like a big, giant, monster fuckup by yours truly, thought Dylan.
"BD?" he asked.
"That's what we'll call the past lives," she explained. "If anyone asks, I'll just say you have a thing for Bette Davis."
"Or that you have a crush on Bob Dylan," he suggested.
"Too close to your name. How about Bobby Darin? He's a singer my grandparents like. We'll say he has good music."
"Does he have good music?"
"Haven't listened to him, but Grandma usually has good taste in music, so I think so."
"Bette Davis and Bobby Darin, travelling time." Dylan sailed his double dimples in her direction before he swept a kiss across her cheek. "Fishing. Surfing. Just generally hangin' out. In barns. During hellish storms. With the fairies."
"Bobby wrote the majority of his own songs."
"Bette was an award-winning actress with bewitching eyes."
"An actress and a writer."
"Describes us perfectly. And it'll be our little secret."
"Our big secret, more like, if I'm marrying you and birthing your babies all over time." In embellished cursive, Brenda wrote Bobby Darin loves Bette Davis at the bottom of the page.
And someday, Bette Davis will surf with Bobby Darin, Dylan added below it. He amended Brenda's statement to read Bobby Darin loves Bette Davis with a love that is perfervid.
"That's the first vision we've shared, babe," he said. "Think there'll be more?"
"Probably. Hopefully. Barn You was pretty hot."
"Who's hotter? Me in the barn or me now?"
"I don't know, honey." She licked her lower lip. "I'd say you're both pretty hot. But he might be just a bit more."
"Oh really?" Dylan speedily picked Brenda up as she lapsed into giggles. "I don't think you've seen just how hot I can get, Bren."
"Is that so?"
"I could show you. We could get the ball rolling. Secure the future the BD's lost." His nose nudged against the curve of her elegant neck. "Fly up to Vegas tonight to elope."
"A, you need parental permission to marry underage in California and I assume Nevada; B, I'm never gonna be one of those Vegas chapel brides; C, I have a matinee tomorrow and D, D…"
"Brenda! Dylan! Are you in there?" A voice hollered in tune with a knuckle slamming against the door.
Dylan grudgingly set Brenda back down.
"Brandon!" She flung open the door. "What are you doing here?"
"Don't you ever answer your phone, Jones? We've been trying to call." Brandon pressed his hand on the doorframe, panting to catch his breath.
"Really?" Brenda looked at Dylan. "We didn't hear it ring. I thought Dad said we would meet up later."
"That was the plan," said Brandon. "But that was before."
"Before what?"
"Before a ship collided with the Martins' yacht, Bren."
Silence. Utter silence.
Silent enough to hear a fairy, were it fluttering nearby.
"Guess that's the D," said Brenda in a voice that had rapidly discarded its earlier cheer.
"What?" asked Brandon.
Dylan leapt forward to catch his perceptive girl, just in time for her to crumple in his arms.
-x
There is, thus far, little information I can find on post-Famine and pre-twentieth century Cork. Therefore, there may have been creative license taken with Daragh Buckley's dismissal.
If any Outlander fans are reading this, Claire returning to the future carrying Jamie's child caused me to wonder what would happen if an expectant mother travelled into the past. Brenda wouldn't have time travelled if she had thought she was still expecting.
As always, thanks a million for the readership, reviews, follows, favourites, alerts, discourse, plot ideas, etc. Stay healthy and safe out there. x