Free Adrift by Elizabeth A. Reeves Page B

were my little girl… I would keep you as far from the sea as I could.”
    I blinked hard.  I hadn’t thought of it like that.
     
     
     
     

 
     
     
    Chapter Seven
     
     
     
     
      I made a sandcastle.  I was walking down the stretch of white sand, past the rocky shore, an in a moment of spontaneity dropped to my knees and started digging.  A piece of tide-washed oyster shell was my shovel.  I built mushy towers and a wide moat.  I draped seaweed over the bottom half and pebbled the towers with bits of shell washed up by the tide.  I worked until the tide came in, then stood there, oddly at peace, as the waves swept forth and pulled my labors down.
    I turned and Devin was watching me.  I laughed, showing him my sandy hands.
    He waved back, but he didn’t smile.
    I scrambled up the sand hill towards him, seeing his serious eyes watch me as I trudged.
    “Where are you going?” I asked, noting the violin case he held in one hand.
    One of his eyebrows swept upward.  “To work,” he said, concisely.  He raised the violin case up in his hands.  “I play for my supper.”
    “Can I come?” I hated the eager tone of my own voice.  He obviously didn’t need me following after him like a sad-eyed puppy dog.
    He hesitated, his eyes on the water, rather than on me.  “I don’t see why not,” he said finally, though the stiffness of his shoulders made it clear he was unhappy with it.
    I wanted to ask him why, to know why there was such anger and resentment in his eyes, when he looked at me.  He knew what I was—he had told me himself, so why the anger?
    I followed him through the dwindling twilight, long grass tickling my legs, the ever-present ocean sighing beside the well-worn path, calling for me to come and play.  I brushed my sandy hands off on my water-logged jeans, wondering if I should have cleaned up before inviting myself along, knowing that I would never have another chance if Devin got his way.
    The walk to Trinity was not far.  The town was lit up with tourists and I could hear someone singing an old Irish song in a sweet, lilting voice.  I picked up my pace, guessing from the direction our destination.
    The singing emanated from a restaurant courtyard, where a make-shift stage was set up.  The singer was accompanied by someone on the guitar, with another playing a lap harp, and yet another playing some large flat drum held flat in the palm of one hand.
    To my surprise, applause rose up around us as Devin came into sight. He raised his hand and laughed and grinned in response to the warm welcome.
    I felt very alone.
    I knew now that Devin purposely excluded me from the sunny sphere around him—that his disposition wasn’t naturally unfriendly.
    It was just me.
    I settled at an empty table and put my chin in my hands, trying to understand how I had so offended him.
    I was startled from my thoughts with the first rich tones as he pulled his bow across the strings.
    There was no question of his incredible skill as he began to play, first gently, then quickly, in a lilting Irish jig.  He swept the audience up with him, filling them with energy.  Laughing tourists rose to dance between the tables, falling over themselves, unable to keep from moving to his music.
    Yet there was something more to it.  Behind the music I could sense what I was beginning to associate with my dreams of Faerie.  He was more than just a talented musician. He had a Gift. There was something there, something more. There could be no other word for it but Gift. My guess was confirmed as he and the group behind him changed pace and he began to play a slow, sorrowful song.  The rich tones swept me up, and I was carried off in the waves of the notes, feeling each note race through me, pulling at my heart.
    And then it ended, leaving me empty again. I felt strangely bereft, emptied of the wholeness the music had lent me. 
    There was a pause. I held my breath. Then the tourists leapt to their feet and applauded.
    And