A Celtic Witch - By Debora Geary Page 0,4

stared at the little container, warmed right down to her toes. It was the small things that made a day worth living, and she found so very many of them here. "Thanks."

"It's good to have you back." Dave's eyes shone with sincerity. His good nature and charm made his inn legendary - his soft heart made him a very good friend.

"I wouldn't miss it." She leaned back in her chair, ready to talk and knowing he was always ready to listen. "It's been a tough tour this year."

His eyebrows knitted. "You said that last winter too. Maybe you need to slow down that breakneck schedule of yours. Give your fingers a rest every now and again."

"Like coming here?" She grinned at him companionably. If history was any indicator, she'd spend more hours with her fiddle on her shoulder in the next three weeks than she would any other three months of the year.

"Well," he said, slowly taking the lid off the jam pot, "it seemed safer than suggesting that maybe that wandering soul of yours needs a rest."

It bothered her that something inside her chest agreed with his last words. She leaned on humor to chase it away. "I would, but so far, you haven't agreed to marry me."

His happily married eyes twinkled in return. "Just say the word, and the town ladies will be happy to find you a nice man to settle down with."

The ladies had been threatening that for years. It concerned Cass more than a little that each year, it sounded a bit less awful. She shrugged her shoulders, trying to shake off the odd melancholy. "I've always liked the traveling." New places, new things. New faces to feed her need to create and challenge and endure.

No ordinary life, full of normal, to compete with her beloved music.

"Sure." Dave smiled at the server as a heaping plate of French toast settled between them. "In another lifetime you'd have been a bard or a seanchai, feet always wandering the earth."

She snorted. "I'm no storyteller." And not much of a singer, if it came to that.

"Of course you are." He winked and passed her the jam. "Not all stories are told with words."

She frowned as the rocks hummed in agreement. They didn't use words either.

He followed the jam pot with a lopsided jug. "Blueberry syrup - made it myself."

She grinned at the adorable workmanship. "Jenny and Jack?" Dave doted on his grandkids.

"Yup." He picked up his fork. "Made me five of them for Christmas. Run their kindergarten teacher around in circles, those two do."

"Either of them picked up a ladle or a fiddle yet?" Most people in Margaree drifted toward one or the other.

"Nope." And Dave seemed plenty content to leave it that way. He glanced at the syrup jug and grinned. "I think they're going to be famous artists."

You had to admire a grandfather's blindness. Cass tilted the jug, inhaling the warm blueberry goodness that wafted off the purple waterfall. "How do I get a truckful of this to follow me around?"

His eyes twinkled. "Come back in the summer and pick a whole helluva lot of blueberries."

That figured - the good stuff was never for sale. She swirled the syrup around with her fork, mashing it into hills of blueberry jam. Breakfast of the gods.

Dave poured a much-smaller helping over his own pancakes. "You going to spend the whole three weeks here this time, or are you headed out on a walkabout?"

Cass shrugged. Some years, she never left Margaree. Others, she felt a need to hit the road for a few days. "Not sure yet." The rocks hadn't voted, and unless they did, she was staying warm and safe and close to the blueberry jam.

He nodded. "Well, if you do head out, you might check out the Sea Trance Inn for me. Way off the beaten track, a nice little B&B in a place called Fisher's Cove. Had a couple last week who reported a lovely stay there."

Dave collected information like crows collected shiny things. "Have they got anything to rival your French toast?"

"Not a chance." His eyebrows danced as he gathered up his papers to make room for delivery of a second platter. "But the owner has a nice hand in the kitchen, I hear. And his wife makes jewelry from sea glass. Pretty stuff."

That was preying on all her weaknesses at once. She had a deep fondness for quirky and pretty, and he knew it. "So where is this Fisher's Cove, anyhow?"

"On the mainland. Down