A strong gin and tonic, with no umbrella.
A second followed it in short order and Conall loosened his hateful tie and rolled up his shirt sleeves.
It was the third drink before he was drunk enough to look at Tex. “You got an electric tuner?” he asked in challenge.
Tex, surprised, glanced at the guitar that had been taunting Conall from the corner. “No, sir. Always tuned her by... ah... ear.”
Conall kept his gaze steady. “Can you tune it to an open G?” Did he sound as desperate as he felt? It was impossible to know.
Tex after a perplexed moment, nodded, and reached up to turn down the radio that must be playing.
Conall watched him sit and bend over the strings with a hunger that only rivaled what he felt when he’d seen Gizelle standing at the edge of the restaurant in the red dress. He didn’t comment on Tex’s questionable technique, only watched him strum out the chords and adjust the pins until it obviously satisfied him.
Conall understood the reluctance in the bartender’s motions when he finally passed the instrument over the bar, and took the guitar with the reverence the favor deserved. It was a worn instrument, mass-produced and of decidedly pedestrian quality, but it had clearly been treated with care.
Conall cradled it into his lap, ignoring the gaudy country strap, and gave it a test scale that told him nothing.
His fingers remembered, after ten years of inactivity, and without thinking, he was falling into a Spanish lament, a song that had always brought him comfort, with its aching trills and slow progressions.
He had learned it as a challenge, for its complicated fingering and changing tempos, but it had become a favored song for informal concerts and for impressing company when his family was entertaining. It rarely failed to draw a tear from the aunts who were visiting, and Conall always took the extra time to linger over the last minor runs, squeezing each last emotion from the music.
At the last phrase, he stumbled, and let his fingers stop.
It was useless.
The familiar strains brought no peace when he couldn’t hear them, even if his fingers did remember how to coax them from the strings. Probably. He could only judge by his audience, and he had no interest in looking at any of them.
He put the guitar down on the bar, knowing from the vibration in the neck that it had thumped down too hard, and he shoved it across at a shocked Tex before he noticed that there were glasses between them. He couldn’t hear them shatter as Tex caught the precious guitar and let them fall.
He muttered what might have been an apology as he shoved back from the bar and took a page from Gizelle’s book, fleeing the scene.
His feet took him to the beach, away from the hated Christmas lights now strung all along the pool deck. Behind him, the resort was a twinkling cathedral; before him, the dark ocean stretched forever. He could feel the surf rumbling through the sand that threatened to fill his shoes at once.
Gritty socks were nothing compared to the bleakness inside.
Motion caught the corner of his eye as he considered wading out into the water, shoes and all.
Gizelle had followed him, still in her antelope form, and was stepping carefully towards him over the sand she hated. She froze when he glanced her way.
Conall sighed and looked away, hands limp and empty at his sides. Did she feel like he did? Was she impossibly drawn to him, but sure it was a terrible mistake?
Then there was a whiskered muzzle tickling his hand, and his world exploded in sounds.
He crumpled to his knees, hands clasped uselessly over his ears, and howled.
Chapter 29
Gizelle had never shifted so quickly in her life.
“Did I hurt you? What’s wrong? What did I do??” She flung herself at Conall, trying to lift him back to his feet, and he took hold of her bare shoulders as she remembered he wouldn’t be able to understand her in the darkness. “I’m sorry!” she cried anyway.
“Gizelle,” he said roughly, voice cracking. “Gizelle,” he repeated in wonder. “Say something!”
Gizelle froze. “I don’t understand,” she squeaked.
He gathered her into his arms and sobbed into her hair. “Don’t stop talking,” he begged. “Don’t stop.”
“You can hear me?” Gizelle asked wonderin