A Celtic Witch - By Debora Geary Page 0,15

other side, she'd let all the little tugboats in her life guide her feet for a while.

Her cell phone rang as she reached the edges of Halifax. Damn - she must be getting reception again. She picked it up without looking. "Hello, Tommy."

"About time you picked up. How's life in the middle of nowhere?"

His growl sounded like second-generation Mafia - probably on purpose. As a B-list actor, he'd played all the accented tough-guy parts. Fortunately, that was as far as mediocre talent and a big nose had been able to take him. However much he annoyed her, he was an excellent manager.

And a good friend. One who understood her need to head for the hills far more than he admitted. "It's good. I'm recharging."

"That's the point, doll."

She snickered. They both knew if he'd tried calling her "doll" in person, she'd have slugged him in his big nose. "I'll be ready to go in three weeks, as promised." April Fools' Day - it had somehow seemed appropriate. "What's up?"

"You want the big stuff first, or the annoying piddly details?"

They had a deal - he had to handle ninety percent of the piddly stuff without bugging her, and she didn't get to hang up when he needed an answer on the rest. "From the top."

"The Kennedy Center wants you. Celtic gala, huge promo budget."

Even for Cassidy Farrell, that was pretty big. And Tommy's voice was suspiciously neutral. "Okay. What's the catch?"

"They want you for a Thanksgiving deal. Late November. Kickoff to the holidays, all that. Let you dust off those carols you like playing so much."

Ah. "That's way past three months." She had an ironclad rule - no booking gigs more than three months out. Her Irish soul couldn't handle that much commitment.

"It's the Kennedy Center, babe." Sinatra voice this time.

He was trying to make her laugh - that meant it was a really big deal. "Did they promise you Batman's car or something?"

"Would it close the deal?"

Damn. That was serious. "Why this one?"

"Lots of money, lots of fame. Why else do we do this?"

It was easy to take Tommy at face value - she'd spent the first two years of their rocky professional relationship doing just that. "Something else is going on here, dude. Spill."

Vague embarrassment filtered through her phone. "Nonna wants to hear you play again."

Tommy's very Italian grandmother had landed on the banks of New Jersey as a young girl and never left again. Claimed to have an allergy to trains, planes, and automobiles. And she loved every inch of her grandson's big-nosed soul.

She also made a mean lasagna and mailed one out to Tommy every month, regular as clockwork. With instructions to share it.

Cass grimaced - and knew the deal was already done. "You should have led with that, you know." She was good at resisting money and fame. Mafia grandmothers were a whole 'nother kettle of fish.

"You'll do it?" The airwaves were back to gruff.

"Yeah." She sighed. "Just this once." Even ironclad had to bend sometimes.

Her phone was silent for a long moment. "Thanks."

"I get a double helping of lasagna in April." The Irish knew how to negotiate.

"Done."

"Hit me with the rest."

She made her way through Halifax and its quaint, oddly polite traffic circles, listening to a litany of tour minutia. Jonny's new baby had arrived four weeks early. Missing snare drum. Bar in Portland promising the owner's firstborn if she'd come back.

For Jonny, she listened as Tommy trotted out to the tour bus and found the blue-and-gold baby blanket squirreled away at the bottom of her knitting bag. Hopefully the baby would be a Notre Dame fan like his daddy. The drum could be replaced. And the guy in Portland had some of the best microbrew this side of Ireland. No promises, but he'd get a call the next time they headed west.

She spied her turn and angled left, straight for Cole Harbour and Jamieson's. Best food on the mainland - and they always let her play for her supper. Or lunch, in this case. "Gotta go, Tommy."

He chuckled. "Belly's empty, huh?"

By rights it should still be full of three days of beef stew. "Yup. No idea if they have Internet where I'm headed next, so you're on your own."

He snorted. Tommy didn't believe in a world without Internet. He'd never been to rural Ireland. "I'll send a carrier pigeon if I need you." The smile in his voice widened. "Take care of yourself, okay? I want the bouncy Cassidy Farrell back."

Damn. She'd even worried her

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