The ringing phone wakes me. I groan, pull a pillow over my head, and then throw it aside and hop out of bed, remembering it might be Dad. He'd also be the only one to call this early unless it's an emergency.

I pick up the receiver and say severely, “Do you have any idea what time it is, Thomas Costigan?”

“Long past time you should be out of bed, old man,” Dad replies. “I tried calling last night, but I suspect you were still at the show. How did it go?”

“Really well,” I say. “The crowd enjoyed the original stuff, we sold a few CDs, the usual. We finished with ‘Galway Girl.’”

“Always a good choice,” says Dad in approval. “We’d finish our shows with it sometimes if we were in Ireland or Boston.”

“Maybe our next album will be traditional,” I say, smiling. “How were the Tracys?”

“The concert was good,” Dad says. “William’s technique is flawless, though his playing is somewhat cold. We'll work on it while he's here.” He pauses. “I'm not impressed with the Tracy parents."

"So they won't be staying with us?"

"No," Dad says with emphasis. "They get to stay in a hotel. I've got a suite reserved for them. Will all of the guest rooms be ready by this afternoon?”

“I’ll help Nicola if anything needs to be done.” I feel a start of guilt--I need to clean up after last night before our housekeeper gets here. I don’t want to give her extra work. “Eamonn stayed over last night.”

“Well, that’s fine. If you’re going to have guests, there’s no one I’d prefer." I can hear the bustle of the airport behind him. "Are you all right, Sheeny?”

I fidget with the phone cord. "No," I admit, "but can I tell you about it when you're here?"

"Of course." Dad's tone is gentle, which makes me miss him even more.

“What time will you be home?”

“My flight lands at ten-thirty. The Tracys and Cynthia are taking the ferry, so they’ll be here this evening. Cheaper with the cellos.”

I huff. Transporting instruments is never cheap. Then, "Wait. William is a platinum-selling artist. Why are they worried about price?"

"That is something Cynthia wants Henry and I to look into," Dad says. "I'll catch a cab and be home before noon." He pauses again. “Oisín, about William Tracy. He's had a rough go of it these past few days. Be kind to him while he’s staying with us, will you?”

“Dad,” I begin.

“You don’t have to be his best friend,” Dad says. “Just be kind. I know you can do that.”

“Ah, Dad, you’ll ruin my reputation,” I mumble and he laughs.

“I’m sure your friends think you’re very tough,” he says. “I love you, old man. See you soon.”

“Love you too,” I say, and we hang up.

I start some water for tea, pondering. I can be kind to William Tracy; it's no trouble. But I wonder now how nasty that rough go was, that Dad wants to make sure I'll be kind.

I know there’s violence in all kinds of families--there’s violence all through Dublin, and I know I’m fortunate to have a father who doesn’t use me as a punching bag--but I’d never thought of it being in a family of classical musicians.

But I’ll be kind, I think, as the kettle begins to whistle. The least I can do is be kind.

***

Tea drunk and me showered and dressed, I knock on the door to the grey room to wake up Eamonn and Maura. "Oi, time to move on," I say. "You don't have to go home but you can't stay here."

The door opens and there's Eamonn in jeans, his short strawberry-blond hair rumpled from sleep. He's already stripped the sheets off the bed and holds them in a bundle against his hip. "Maura left already. She gave me her number so I'm sure she didn't steal the family silver."

"Let hope not," I say as we go downstairs together. "The only silver we have is Dad's platinum records. Do you think you'll call her?"

"Maybe." He grins at me. "What's a fella to do?"

"With her hair so black and her eyes of blue," I warble, and dance down the rest of the stairs. At the bottom I hold out my arms. "Here. I'll take those."

"If you insist." He hands over the bundle.

I take the bedding and put it in the laundry. Our house is fancy enough that the washing machine isn't in the kitchen--it's got a room of its own, with enough space for a drying rack and ironing board. Dad and I live in jeans and T-shirts so the board doesn't get much use.

Eamonn lingers in the doorway as I stuff the bedding into the washing machine and start the cycle. "I can stay and help," he offers.

"There's not much needing to be done," I say. "Nicola put fresh sheets on the beds yesterday, and she's made a menu for suppers. The place is pretty tidy." I nod back at the laundry. "Just need to clean those and put them back on."

"I'll head out, then."

"Do you want a ride home?"

"I'll walk," Eamonn says. "The fresh air will do me good." He goes back upstairs to put on the rest of his clothes.

We hug each other at the gate, and he plants a kiss on my lips. "See you, Sheeny."

"See you," I reply and lock the gate behind him. I shove my hands into my back pockets and trudge into the house.

I'm rarely alone like this. Dad works in the basement studio most of the time, or Nicola is around, or we've got guests. If Dad likes someone and trusts them around me, he'll invite them to stay with us for a week or two while they work on music, or we show them around Dublin.

That's to come with the Tracys. I hope they want to see my city. It's so beautiful in spring, even if the skies are dark with the promise of rain like today.

I jog upstairs to get my synthesizer. I'll work on songs and listen for the washer to pass the time until Dad comes home.

I set up my synth on the kitchen island and am soon so absorbed in my current song that I lose track of time. I don't realize the washer is done until I realize how quiet the house is--quiet enough that I hear Dad's keys in the side door lock. I jump up and run down the passage to greet him, hugging him tight before he can pick up his valise.

"Oisín," he says, hugging me back. "I was only gone two days."

"It was a long two days." I step back and take his valise for him. "I've been wanting to talk to you."

"Oh, yes," Dad says as he follows me inside. "The mysterious thing you didn't want to talk about earlier. Should I start the kettle?"

"Yes, please. I'll take this upstairs." I hurry to his room, and come back to find the kettle on the hob and Dad hanging his coat on the back of a chair.

"Tell me what happened." He sits.

I take the chair next to him. Now that he's here, I don't know where to start. I say, "How did you know you were in love with Mum?"

His face softens into a smile. He used to never talk about Mum, but over the last few years, he's opened up a bit about her. "I missed her face."

I have to smile. He smiles, too, and ducks his head a moment.

"We were on tour in Japan, and I missed her so much I could barely sleep. All I could think about was her. She met us at the airport when we got home, and the sight of her made all my weariness disappear." He smiles again, gentle. "It wasn't long after she told me we were expecting you. Getting married was the natural next step. But you know what happened after that. Why do you ask?"

"Bree broke up with me."

"Oh, son," Dad says, and the nostalgic look on his face disappears. He wraps an arm around my shoulders. "I'm sorry."

I nod and lean into him. "But I'm not sad, exactly. I've never felt the way about Bree that you felt about Mum. I’ve never missed her so much I couldn’t sleep."

"What happened?"

"She wanted passion, and I don’t feel passionate about her. She’s just Bree."

Dad squeezes my shoulder. "You'll find someone to be passionate about someday. You’ve got too kind a heart to be lonely."

"I hope so." I cross my arms on the table and rest my chin on them. "I'm not lonely, I don't think, but I do want to love someone."

"That's normal," Dad says. "Most of us do.”

“Do you?”

Dad pauses, then says thoughtfully, “Yes, but it’ll happen when it happens. There’s no need to rush it. We're both young yet." He rubs my shoulder and kisses my head. "You're a good lad, Oisín. You'll find someone who'll want what you can give."

The kettle starts to whistle, so Dad puts the tea together. I stay at the table, my head resting on my arms, until Dad brings over a cup with sugar and cream, just the way I like it.

***

Dad still has the battered old van he used when the Liberties started touring, though he doesn't use it much anymore. Nicola uses it to run errands sometimes or Dad will transport visitors around if we have a big group, so it's not sitting in our carport and turning into rust. He says I can have it once I get my license, but I'm happy with my Vespa for now.

We drive the van to the docks to meet the ferry from Liverpool. The sun is starting to set as the ferry pulls into its slip, causing the cloudy sky to turn pink where there are no clouds.

As we watch the passengers disembark from behind the protective fencing, Dad says, "Oisín, about William--"

"I know," I say, "be kind."

"Yes, that, but part of being kind is not making a fuss over his eye." I look at Dad, and he clarifies, "Mr. Tracy got a little free with his fists last night."

"Shite," I mutter. "Got it. No fuss over his eye."

Henry Beecham, Cynthia's husband, spots us in the crowd and gives us a wave as he joins us. "Costigans," he says as he and Dad shake hands and hug each other briefly. He shakes my hand, too. "Cynthia just called to let me know they'll be disembarking shortly."

"I brought the van for the instruments," Dad says.

"Brilliant, thank you." The three of us lean on the fencing again, elbows resting on the sea-worn wood.

I've known Henry since I was small, even if it was only for a few weeks a year. Henry and Cynthia were already married long before Cynthia began working with Dad as her producer. Henry has the drawling, easy-going manner of most Californians I've known, though he can also turn brisk and businesslike when he wants to be. He's tall like Cynthia, with dark hair and eyes to Cynthia's blue eyes and blonde hair. Their children all look like him. (I look like my mum, with the olive skin and dark eyes and hair of the black Irish. Dad's a Celt through and through.)

They both deeply love Dublin. Their two daughters went to Trinity and lived in the family's Dublin flat until graduation. The eldest lives in London now; the younger married a Frenchman and lives in Paris. Then there's Jonas, young enough from his sisters that he was likely a surprise baby. He's a quintessential Californian: he surfs, plays guitar, wears mostly board shorts and open button-down shirts, and makes Irish girls swoon when he visits with his soulful brown eyes, curly dark hair, and American teeth. His one concession to Irish weather when he visits is to put a baja sweater over his board shorts. When I was a child, he seemed so grown-up that I was fascinated with him and would follow him around like a puppy during their visits.

Henry and Cynthia holiday here a few times a year. Cynthia says that as beautiful as San Diego is, it's also good to remember rain and cool breezes.

Thinking about all this, I ask Dad, "Why haven't I met the Tracys before now?"

"You did, once," Dad replies. "You and William were just small. They came here for William to play at the Christmas Eve mass, and by the time we met after the performance, he was so tired he slept in Cynthia's arms until it was time to go to the hotel."

"I don't remember it at all."

"You were pretty sleepy that night, too," Henry says.

Dad says, "The Tracys don't come to Ireland much."

"Not enough prestigious music festivals where they can show off William," adds Henry.

"That," Dad says, "and Philip doesn't have much respect for other genres of music than classical. That I was a punk musician for a few years makes me worse than trash in his eyes." He looks at me with a wry smile. "That didn't stop him from trying to ingratiate himself to me last night, as if we'd never met before."

"I see why they're not staying with us," I remark.

"Not the parents, anyway," Dad says. "William and Isabel are another story."

"There's Cynthia," says Henry. He steps onto the lowest rail of the fencing and waves. In a moment, I see her, too, waving back. It's sweet--as long as they've been together, they're still excited to see each other when they've been apart.

Walking with her is a couple who must be Philip and Lorraine, and then a pretty teenage girl, dressed all in black, who must be Isabel.

"Where's William?" I ask Dad.

He nods toward the Tracys as he and Henry head to the gate. "The redhead."

I look at the group again. The clouds part enough to let a beam of sunlight peek through.

It's like someone slammed me in the chest. Copper-coloured hair shining in that little beam of light, William Tracy looks nothing like the photos that accompanied his latest interview--instead of a little boy with baby-round cheeks, he's on his way to being a man, with his straight shoulders, sharp cheekbones, and slim chest. Instead of the neutral smile he uses in photos, his expression is weary. The skin around his right eye is a blossom of purple and scarlet.

But it's not his eye that's got ahold on me. It’s him, all of him. He's ethereal, like he should be made of stained glass, his beauty only revealed when the sun shines through him.

The clouds close and the sunbeam disappears, but in the moment between, I imagine that slim body in my arms, those pink lips against mine, my fingers buried in those soft red curls.

I swallow hard.

Dad reminds me, "Don't fuss over his eye."

"It looks like it hurts."

"It probably does." He pats my back.

Henry and Cynthia embrace at the gate and give each other a quick kiss. Dad hugs Cynthia, too, and he and Mrs. Tracy kiss the air beside each other's cheeks. He and Mr. Tracy shake hands--neither with enthusiasm.

"This is Isabel," Cynthia says, her arm around Isabel's shoulders, "and this is William."

"This is my son Oisín," Dad says with his hand on my back. We murmur, "Hi," to each other, me trying not to stare at William. His lips are pink and soft-looking, like they'd taste like candy floss. His uninjured eye shines blue in the fading light. His hands are long, slim and graceful, perfect for holding a paint brush or playing an instrument.

William narrows his eyes at me, and I start guiltily. I hope he doesn't think I was staring at his bruises.

"What you got there?" I say to cover it, gesturing to the small instrument case under his arm.

"A ukulele," he says. He's got perfect posture, too, not folded into himself like a lot of boys I know when they get to his height. "I play it when we're traveling."

"Oh," I say, "cool," and my face flushes. A ukulele is about as uncool as it gets, but William doesn't seem to care as he stands there, looking like an angel in jeans and a gray jumper, holding that ridiculous instrument as if it deserves the same respect as the cello on his back. That is cool.

William and Isabel drift away from the adults as they talk. I amble over to them, where there are benches to relax on. William takes his cello case from his back and opens his ukulele bag. "Any requests?" he asks as he tunes the strings. I'm not sure if he's asking me or his sister, so I shrug.

Isabel says, "'Wonderwall,'" with a mischievous look, and William laughs—-a private joke between siblings. I lean back against the bench and close my eyes, but open them again when William indeed starts playing "Wonderwall" and sings along in tune in a fair approximation of Noel Gallagher's Scouse accent.

His voice is good, but his playing is better. I'd never thought that a ukulele could sound so melancholy, and it makes me want to perform it with him, even if it meant getting someone else to take on the cello parts.

William's eyes meet mine, and I realize that, once again, I've been staring at him. At least this time, I have an excuse, and I focus on his fingers instead of his face. Other passengers form a loose circle around us to listen to him play, especially when Isabel joins him in harmony on the chorus. Her voice is exquisite, clear and low and perfectly controlled.

I thought I lived and breathed music, but these two do in ways I've never considered. I can't wait to bring them to the music room so we can play all sorts of things together.

William finishes "Wonderwall" and the listeners applaud before they trickle away, back to their own lives.

Cynthia joins us before the song ends and applauds, too. "All right, my dears, we've got the transport figured out. Philip and Lorraine will ride with Henry and I, and we'll bring you to our flat, Isabel. We'll take them to their hotel later this evening. William will go with Thomas and Oisín. There's enough room in their van for the cellos, so I'll leave mine at your place until tomorrow."

William puts his ukulele away in its bag. "I need to get some clothes that fit," he tells Cynthia. "Can we do a little shopping today?"

"I don't see why not. Oisín, can you take him 'round the shops?"

An expression crosses William's face that I can't quite read--hope and trepidation at once--and I say, "Of course, once we get everyone settled."

"Thank you, Oisín."

It takes another fifteen minutes to pack everyone into the two cars, and Lorraine says to William as he climbs into the van, "Call us at Cynthia's as soon as you arrive."

"I will, Mom," he says with a slight edge of exasperation. "I need money for clothes."

She sighs, gets out a wallet from an inner pocket of her purse, and hands him a few notes. "We'll do a bigger shop later. Just get a few basics today."

"Thanks." He tucks the money into his back pocket and breathes a sigh of relief when Lorraine finally closes the door and steps away. "Sorry about that. She worries."

"It's no trouble, William," Dad says and starts the engine.

As we drive through Dublin, I glance at the rearview mirror to see how William is doing. He's so quiet I expect him to be asleep, but every time I look, he's just watching the scenery go by, cradling his ukulele in his arms.

I point to a row of shops as we pass them. "We'll get you some clothes there. They're where I get my stuff, so I know the prices and selection are good."

"Thanks," he says softly.

"We could stop now," says Dad.

"I can wait," William says. "I'd like to get everything settled before heading out again."

"All right." Dad shoots a look at me, and I smile wryly in return. He's shy. I would be, in his situation. He's probably in pain, too.

"I'll make some tea when we get home," I say. "That'll help vigorise you. Lots of good things in tea."

"Sure," says William like he doesn't believe me.

The traffic is growing thick, and our progress is slow. I say, "Where do you live, William?"

"San Diego."

"Near the beach?" I've seen pictures of Cynthia and Henry's house and their view of the ocean. Dad keeps saying we'll go there to visit them, but he hates traveling--he says he did enough of that with the Liberties.

"Yeah, near, in La Jolla. Walking distance to the Beechams' house and La Jolla Cove."

That doesn't sound right. I glance at Dad and see him frowning. Given how much William tours and the constant presence of his albums on the classical charts, you'd think he'd make enough to buy a lovely house by the ocean, too.

"Dad says we met once," I say. "I hardly remember it, but it was when you played in St. Patrick's Cathedral on Christmas Eve."

In the rear-view mirror, I can see William smile. It's slight but unmistakable.

"I don't remember much of that night, either," William says. "I know I played 'Ave Maria,' the Schubert arrangement."

"It was lovely," Dad puts in.

"Thanks," William says. "Mostly, I remember the noise and bustle. The performance itself is just a blur. I think I only remember that much because I've seen the video many times. They show it whenever I go on a talk show."

"Do you do that a lot?" I ask, twisting in my seat to talk to him. "Go on talk shows?"

"A couple times a year."

"What do you talk about?"

"Mostly they want to know what being a child prodigy is like."

"What do you tell them?"

He hugs his ukulele to him tighter. "I talk about how many hours a day I practice and teachers I've studied with, that kind of thing. It's what they want to hear."

We're all quiet. I say, "What would you tell them if you could say anything?"

William makes a little huff. "I'd tell them about arrangements I make, and other instruments I experiment with, and the original songs I'm working on, and why I always come back to the cello."

"You should talk about that. They'd love to hear it. I'd love to hear it."

William watches out the window in silence.

"We'll be at the house soon," Dad says, and that's it until we pull into our drive.

Episode 3 | A Prima Vista Home

Continuo: a prima vista © 2025 by Gaenor Gray is licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 4.0