Date: Sat, 23 Nov 2002 21:26:23 -0800 (PST)
From: Corrinne S <mdaigle@prodigy.net>
Subject: Sean and Jamie - Part Three

Part three in a series about two fictional lovers,
Sean O'Leary and James Gordon.  All of the Sean and
Jamie stories are about men loving men.  Many of them
include scenes of sexual gratification.  Unless this
is legal in  your  jurisdiction, you must leave now.
To my knowledge, Sean and Jamie bear no actual
resemblance to any other fictional characters.

Part Three - 1955

By M.C.Gordon

The story:

Jamie Gordon put his foot on the shovel and pushed
down hard.

"More rocks," he said to himself as he leaned over.
He picked up several of the offending objects and
added them to the growing pile by the back of the
house.  "There are more rocks in Ireland than ever I
saw in Scotland!"

He moved the shovel a few centimeters, positioned it,
and rammed it into the ground.  "Jesus, Mary, and
Joseph!" he exclaimed as the shovel brought up more
rocks.

Sean glanced out the window of the second story room
that he used when he was writing.  He decided that it
was much more interesting to watch his lover wrestle
with the forces of the land than it was to write a dry
article for the newspaper about Ian Fahy's latest run
in with the local constabulary for drunk and
disorderly conduct.

Sean sipped at the cup of tea that had grown cold as
he stood observing the struggle of man against nature.


Jamie threw the shovel against the stone wall that
enclosed the small yard behind their home.  Sean
watched as Jamie paced around the yard, his hands
waving through the air as his gestures punctuated
words that Sean couldn't hear.

He watched as Jamie picked up the shovel again and
continued trying to dig a hole in the yard.  Opening
the window a little, he sat back down in his chair and
listened to his frustrated lover.

"A few roses!  Is that too much to ask of your
Lordship?!  I only want to plant a few roses!  Do ye
think ye could find it in ye'r heart to let me plant a
few roses?!" he shouted as he shook one fist toward
heaven.  Exasperated but determined, Jamie picked up
the shovel and tried one more time.

Sean chuckled to himself as he saw the shovel take
flight, followed by a sweaty shirt.  Jamie retrieved
the shovel and tried again.  Sean watched Jamie's
muscles ripple and play across his back and arms as he
fought the rocky ground of Ireland.  And he had an
idea.

Jamie was hot, tired, and sweaty.  His temper had
grown short and he knew that he was losing a battle
that many before him had fought with the tough, rocky
soil of his adopted land.  Frustration worked with
fatigue and he was ready to give up on ever having the
roses that he so loved and wanted.  Hearing Sean call
him from the house, he turned to see what he wanted.

"It's time for lunch," Sean called out, and Jamie
stood staring at his lover.  Sean stood inside the
open back door stark naked.

The roses were forgotten.

The next day Sean stood in front of Michael Flynn
arguing his decision to do a small article about the
difference between whisky brewed in Scotland and
Ireland.

"Who cares?" was Flynn's immediate response.  "Whisky
is whisky."

"And that it is not!  I take it you're not a drinking
man, and you an Irishman!" Sean shouted.  "I'll match
Tullamore Dew against Glenlevit or Blairmorh any day!
And that's God's truth!"

"Ah, go on with ye then.  Do your damn story."  The
editor reached into his desk drawer.  "Here's all the
money I'll give you for this folly."

Sean shook his head in disbelief as he looked at the
meager pounds that his editor handed him.  He would
have to dip into his and Jamie's savings to pay his
passage.

"I won't be gone long," Sean said to Jamie two days
later as he packed a small bag with clean clothes to
last for a week.  "I promise," he said, taking Jamie's
face in his hands and looking deeply into the blue
eyes that he loved.  "It's just a quick trip to the
Isle of Skye."

"Can't I go with you?"  Jamie asked.

"No, love.  You'd be that bored.  I've to do a quick
bit for Flynn that he wants for the newspaper on a
distillery there that makes Scotch.  There's an
Englishman now at the paper who told Flynn that Scotch
whisky is better than Ireland's own brew, the bastard.
 I'll be done and back in no time."

Sean held his lover close and kissed his brow
tenderly.  "I'll not cheat on you this time, Jamie
Love, you have my solemn word.  Now, let me go and do
my job so that we'll be able to have tea and porridge
every morn.  I love you, lad."

Sean watched Jamie's downcast face peering at him
through the lace curtains of the window as he headed
down the street toward downtown Dublin and the train
station.  Jamie's birthday was coming soon and Sean
had just the perfect gift in mind.  And in his heart
he was determined to stay faithful to his lover this
time.

He'd already stopped by O'Hara's Pub and made
arrangements for a bottle or two of Tullamore Dew to
be put aside for his return.  Sean had a fine taste
for a nip now and then of good Irish whisky.

Jamie wasn't much of a drinking man, but when he took
a sip of whisky he wanted that of his own homeland,
his Scotland.

Aboard the train, Sean listened to the turning of the
wheels and they seemed to sing to him as the train
swayed back and forth in a gentle rhythm.  The windows
were slightly open and Sean could smell the burning
coal that worked to create the steam that ran the
train.  The hiss of steam was released in an almost
melodious beat and Sean was soon asleep.

An insistent hand on his shoulder shook him awake.

"Here we are, Sorr.  It's your stop."

Sean blinked himself awake and looked up at the boy
who woke him.  He was a lovely boy of perhaps eighteen
or nineteen with a wild mop of auburn hair and deep
blue eyes.  A quick shot of desire ran through Sean's
veins until he remembered his promise to Jamie.  'Not
this time, Seaneen,' he told himself.  'No matter how
beautiful or promising.'

He gave the lad tuppence for his trouble.  The boy
gave him a hopeful look and Sean said, "Perhaps
another time, boy-o."  Sean reluctantly gave him a
quick kiss on the brow, caught at the single piece of
luggage he carried with him, and slowly stepped down
the steps that led to the wooden platform of the train
station.

The train was characteristically late and the last
ferry of the day to the Isle of Skye was already gone.
 Having no money to spare, Sean went back into the
station and settled himself down on one of the wooden
benches.  The bench was uncomfortable and it was
difficult to sleep so Sean let his mind stray to
thoughts of his lover, sighed with content, and
eventually drifted off.

He was on the first ferry early the next morning.  The
salt air was cold and he drew his jacket closer to
fend off the dampness.  He leaned against the railing
of the ferry and let the cold, crisp air clear his
mind of all thoughts but one.  He was on a quest to
find a birthday present for Jamie.

When the ferry landed, Sean stepped down onto the
rocky shore of the Isle of Skye.  There were few
places along the shore suited to the ferry travel that
was the only way of reaching the small island.  The
landing was more of a small cove than an actual
harbor.  To the left and right of where he stood Sean
could see small waterfalls flowing off of the high
cliffs down into the ocean.

Hiring a bicycle, Sean set off for the distillery.
Flynn hadn't given him enough money to cover the
expense of hiring an automobile, and Sean rather
enjoyed cycling.

The distillery was north of the ferry landing and Sean
passed through rocky landscape filled with heather and
Scotch thistle, the front tire of the bicycle
occasionally running across stones in the road that
made it difficult for him to maintain his balance.  In
the recesses of his mind he thought, 'Jamie should see
this.  And the lad thinks there are rocks in Ireland.'
 There were no trees to speak of in what was a
beautiful but desolate world.

It was nearly dark, in this northern part of the
British Empire, when Sean finally stopped for the
night.  A small inn beckoned and he was tired and
hungry.

The innkeeper's wife soon had him seated at a small
table and placed a generous plate of haggis in front
of him.  Haggis wasn't Sean's food of choice, but he
hadn't eaten since the night before and managed to do
the dish justice.

The room the innkeeper led him to was small, with
barely room for the narrow bed and side table.  The
dour innkeeper, who said only that his name was
Connery, directed Sean to the convenience and wished
him a good night.

Sean felt himself fortunate.  The accommodations,
while sparse, were comfortable.  It wasn't the tourist
season and he'd managed to get a reasonable price for
this night and the next two.

Removing his clothes, smoothing them and putting them
across the end of the bed, Sean lay down.  The night
was cold, but the rough woolen blanket on the bed kept
him warm and he was soon asleep.

He awoke cold the next morning, having kicked his
blanket off during the night.  Donning his slacks and
pulling clean underwear from his bag, he headed for
the lavatory located at the end of the hall.

Turning on the hot water faucet, he relieved himself
as he waited for the tub to fill.  When the water in
the tub reached the level he wanted Sean reached up
and pulled the chain on the commode.  The cold morning
air made his nipples hard and raised gooseflesh on his
naked skin as he stripped.  His muscles involuntarily
tightened against the cold.  He walked the short
distance to the bathtub, the muscles in his buttocks
flexing and relaxing with each step.  He eased himself
into the water and, fully emersed, leaned his head
against the back of the tub.  The warmth of the water
took away his chill.  Lathering a small washcloth, he
scrubbed himself vigorously.  When he thought he was
clean enough, he rinsed and pulled the plug.  As the
water drained, Sean stood and drew a towel around
himself.  His warmth quickly dissipated in the chill
morning air and Sean felt his nipples harden again.

Dressing quickly, he headed down the narrow steps from
the second floor of the inn.  Mrs. Connery led him to
the small dining room and placed a large bowl of hot
porridge before him on the table.  Sean ate with
gusto, being very fond of good porridge when topped
with a healthy amount of pure cream.

Breakfast behind him, Sean once again mounted his
rented bicycle and headed off to the distillery.

He was escorted to the office of the master brewer
straight away, having telegraphed ahead from Dublin
with his odd request.  The master was pleased to have
Sean and more than happy to talk about distilling, in
what was his opinion, the finest Scotch whisky to be
found in the civilized world.

He was an odd sort of fellow for a Scot, being
descended from one of the Spaniards of Rome's ancient
armies that had played so great a part in the history
of the British Isles.  He was shorter than Sean,
muscular but lean and compact.  His skin had a slight
olive tone that gave him an exotic appearance.  An
unruly shock of raven hair fell across his forehead
and he kept pushing it back, but it refused to behave
and constantly fell across eyebrows which arched like
wings above amber eyes.  Sean judged him to be around
thirty years of age.

One look into those eyes and Sean knew that here was a
kindred spirit.  The master, whose name was Ewan
MacGregor, looked Sean in the eye and the message was
unmistakable.  He was available and willing.

Sean, always ready to find sexual pleasure when and
where it was offered, wanted to draw MacGregor to
himself and feel another male body in close contact
with his own.  He imagined the Scot on his knees
paying homage to his maleness and drew in a deep
breath.  Then he stepped back.  Not this time.  He had
promised Jamie and he intended to keep his promise.

Ewan understood the gesture and turned his eyes away,
sorry for the loss of what might have been an
entertaining encounter.  "Ye wired that ye wanted some
of our Glenmorangie, Mr. O'Leary?"

"Aye, a case if that's possible."

"Could be.  Are ye in the business yersel'?"

"No.  I've a friend who's that partial to it.  As I
said in my wire, I'm a reporter for the 'Dublin
Voice', here to do an article on Scotch whisky and I
thought I'd take some back to the lad."

"An article is it?  Can ye be fair, being an Irishman
and all?"

"Aye, that I can.  I'm always fair in what I write."

"Good.  Then would ye be wantin' a tour of the
distillery?"

"If you've no objection."

Ewan MacGregor spent the next four hours doing what he
loved, showing the inner workings of the distillery.

"You sound as though this place is your life," Sean
finally said.

"Aye, and that it is.  Me Da and his Da before him
were masters here.  'Tis all I've known my whole life.
 So, Paddy, did ye learn what ye need?"  A mischievous
smile flashed white teeth in contrast to olive skin
and Sean knew that no insult had been intended.

"Aye, and thanks to you Ewan MacGregor.  I'll do a
fair article."  Sean chuckled.  "I might even try your
Scotch myself.  And the question of the barrels?"

"Ah, the barrels.  Ye wanted three from yer wire."

"Aye, I need them for someone who wants to grow
roses."

"We can't let go of any but the new ones that just
came in, the ones not yet primed.  They'll cost a bit,
I'm afraid.  They're made of good solid oak."  The
Scot hesitated before asking, "Are ye sure that ye
won't ...?"

"I promised someone."

"Would that be the someone who gets the Glenmorangie
and the barrels for roses?"

"Aye," was Sean's reply.  " 'Tis my own sweet love."

"I wish ye luck then.  I would we could have spent
this time together another way.  'Tis alone I am,
here.  There are no others like myself on the Isle."

Sean was taken aback.  "Then have ye never ...?"

"Oh, I have," was the reply.  "I go to Glasgow or
Edinburgh now and again.  There was a lovely boy in
Edinburgh I used to visit, but he moved on.  His name
was Jamie and he was that delightful."

Sean stiffened at the mention of the name, but let it
pass, for Jamie was a common name in Scotland and he
didn't want to hear that this man might have been with
his love.  He knew that Jamie had had lovers before
they met, but didn't want to think that Ewan was one
of them.  He didn't relish the idea of knowing any of
Jamie's former lovers.

After a little haggling the two decided on a price for
the whisky and the barrels that gave the distillery a
small profit and left Sean pleased with himself.

"I'll have the case of Glenmorangie delivered to the
inn and the barrels to the ferry station day after
tomorrow."

Sean and Ewan shook hands to seal their deal.  "Will
ye be coming back?" Ewan asked.

"I might," Sean replied, "when I've made no promises."

His meal that evening at the inn was more to his
liking, a healthy plate of lamb stew and home-baked
bread.  When he told Mr. Connery that he was expecting
a case of Glenmorangie, the innkeeper relaxed and
became more inclined to talk.  The two sat in front of
the fireplace and discussed the merits of
Glenmorangie, Blairmohr, Lagavulin, Glenlivet, and
Glenfiddich.  Sean enjoyed the old man's company so
didn't bring any of the Irish brews into the
conversation.  The distillery was the main source of
revenue for the area and the innkeeper spoke of it as
if it were heaven and the master brewer was God.

When the fire had slowly burned down, Sean rose and
bid good evening to the Connery's.  In the small room,
he again removed and smoothed his clothing and settled
under the woolen blanket to sleep.

The next morning, over another breakfast of hot
porridge, Mr. Connery told Sean of an old ruined
castle not far away.  "Ye can use me dray if ye might
have interest in such," he offered.  "Sire Rob can do
with a bit of exercise as it is."

"Sire Rob?"

"Aye, laddie."

Sean was more than interested and accepted the offer.
Mrs. Connery packed him a small lunch of bread and
cheese while her husband hitched the pony and put a
bag of oats in the cart.  Sean was a bit amused to
learn that Sire Rob was the name old Connery had given
the unremarkable and very shaggy pony.  Making sure
that he had his small notepad and a couple of pencils,
Sean climbed onto the cart and headed the pony in the
direction the innkeeper pointed him.

The ride was pleasant, but very cool.  As the shaggy
pony ambled his way down the old pathway toward their
destination, Sean observed the landscape around him
once more.

This was a bleak land, craggy with rolling hills.  It
seemed the only thing that would grow was heather and
thistle.  There was an occasional stunted tree that
might have had a chance, had the climate been more
hospitable.  Sean jotted down notes, hoping to be able
to describe the place to Jamie later.

After two hours down overgrown paths Sean finally came
to the old ruin.  It was more of a fortress than a
castle and had probably been built in the 13th
century.  It might have stood once on the edge of a
cliff.  But the land had been rising through the
centuries and it was more inland now.  Sean walked to
the edge of a crag and looked down to see waves
breaking against rocks and boulders below with a great
crashing sound.

He spent the next three hours exploring the ruins and
was delighted to find what had most likely been an old
dungeon.  He would have to bring Jamie here one day
for ancient ruins had a special meaning between them.


A fine mist settled in and Sean sought refuge under a
small section of the fortress that remained intact.
He put some of the oats into the feedbag from the cart
and placed it over the pony's muzzle, anchoring it
securely behind the wee beastie's ears.

"Enjoy, Milord," he said, and gave the pony an
affectionate pat on the rump.

Opening his lunch, he leaned back against an
outcropping of rocks and took out his notepad again.
As he munched on the bread and cheese he started to
put together his article on the distillery.

Ewan MacGregor delivered the case of Glenmorangie to
Sean at the inn the next morning.  Sean was about to
protest, thinking he had made himself clear the day
before, but Ewan quite rightly remarked, "Ye'll never
get the case safely to the ferry on a bicycle.  I'd
hate to see all that good whisky in broken bottles on
the side of the road.  I've got the barrels in the
back of the truck.  It's just as easy to drive you in
as well."

Sean had to admit that Ewan was right and accepted the
offer of a ride.  It was misting again and he had
little enough desire to be drenched on the ferry, much
less getting there.  He bid goodbye to the Connerys,
thanking them for their hospitality, and gave the old
man a bottle of the Glenmorangie.

"Come back any time, lad," the old man remarked,
hugging the treasured bottle close.  "Yer not a bad
sort, for all that yer queer."

Sean was speechless.  Nothing about his appearance or
actions spoke of his preference except to other
homosexuals.

Mrs. Connery tried to rescue the moment by handing him
a small bundle of bread and cheese and whispering in
his ear, "It's the way Mr. MacGregor looks at you.
'Tis common knowledge that the lad's a bit daft."

Sean didn't want to offend the elderly couple, for
they had been gracious to him during his stay with
them.  But neither could he stand quietly and see
himself, or anyone else, insulted.  Drawing himself to
his full height, he said, "He's not daft.  He's queer;
and so am I."

The drive to the ferry was quiet.  Upon their arrival
Ewan oversaw the transfer of the three heavy oak
barrels from the back of the truck.  When he was
satisfied that they were well secured he turned to
Sean.

"It's been a pleasure to meet you, Irish.  Yer welcome
to return, when ye've made no promises."

Sean smiled.  "Perhaps I will, Scot, perhaps I will."

The two shook hands cordially and Sean filed the
invitation away.  He was seldom attracted to older
men, but Ewan was definitely interesting and worth
future consideration.

It was late by the time Sean finally arrived home.
The house was dark with the exception of one small
candle burning in a second story bedroom window.  He
removed his coat and shoes and tiptoed quietly up the
stairs.  Sean could see Jamie with the help of the
soft light from the candle.

Jamie was lying on his right side, sleeping calmly,
and hugging Sean's pillow against himself.  Sean
smiled at the sight of his lover and sat gently on the
edge of the bed.

Jamie rolled to his back and slowly opened his eyes at
the feeling of an insistent hand gently shaking his
shoulder.  Still half asleep he asked, "Sean?  Is that
you?"

"Aye, love.  Who else would it be?"  Sean leaned over
to give Jamie a kiss and marveled, as always, at the
soft feel of Jamie's lips against his own.

Jamie yawned and said, "I expected you tomorrow."

"I finished a day early."  Sean undressed and slid
into his customary spot on their bed.  It was still
cold so he pulled the wool blankets over himself
quickly.

"Jamie Love, could I have my pillow?" he asked since
Jamie was still clinging to it.

Jamie relinquished the pillow and Sean settled
comfortably on his back, happy to be home and with his
love again.  Jamie snuggled against him, his head
resting on Sean's shoulder, and the two slept.

Sean woke to find Jamie sitting on the side of the bed
looking at him.  "What time is it?"

"Ha' past ten."  He flashed Sean a brilliant smile and
asked, "Would ye care for a cup of tea?"

Sean sat up and gladly accepted the steaming cup.  "Ye
should have waked me sooner, Jamie."

Jamie smiled again.  "And miss watching ye sleep?  I
dinna think so."

Sean sipped carefully at the hot tea as he watched
Jamie move about the room unpacking his bag and
putting everything in its place.

The tea finished, Sean placed the cup in its saucer
and sat both on the side table.  "Come here, Jamie,"
he said.

Jamie looked at his lover for a brief second before
whisking off his dressing gown and standing naked near
the foot of the bed.  He knew what Sean wanted, what
he himself needed.

In a rare instance of playfulness, the usually somber
Scot teased his way toward the bed - advancing and
then retreating.  A devilish smile crossed his face as
Sean reached the end of his patience and grabbed him
by one wrist.

They wrestled momentarily and Jamie feigned to give
in.  Sean brought him crashing to the mattress and
Jamie asked, "What will ye do with me?"

"Take us to heights unknown by common men, Jamie
Love."

"Not if I don't let you!"  And Jamie scrambled away
laughing.

Sean was perplexed.  This wasn't the quiet lad he knew
and loved so well.  He scratched the back of his head
and asked, "What's got into you?"

"Ah, Sean.  It's not what's got into me, it's more
what you've not got into."

"What?  Make sense, laddie."

"Don't ye see, Sean?  For the first time ye kept a
promise."

"And how do ye ken that?"

"Because we slept the night through and never once did
I hear another man's name cross your lips."

Before Sean could say another word, Jamie was upon
him.  The quiet, shy, ultra receptive male was, at
least momentarily, the more aggressive of the two.
Sean marveled at what was happening and let Jamie have
his way.

Jamie quickly ran his hands across Sean's naked body.
His touch was gentle, provocative, and sensuous.  Sean
trembled at the feel of those slender fingers
caressing and teasing his skin and closed his eyes.

Jamie eased himself down his lover's body and took
Sean's manhood between his lips.  Sean reacted exactly
the way Jamie expected and his mouth was soon filled
with a throbbing, pulsing organ.  His tongue worked
its way around the flared head and tasted the first
bitter-sweet droplets that formed.

Sean arched his hips upward, lost in the passion his
lover was creating and felt a momentary loss as Jamie
pulled away.  Opening his eyes he found Jamie leaning
over him, a joyous smile on his face.  Before he could
say anything Jamie's mouth descended on his own and he
was assailed with deep, breath-stealing kisses.

Jamie straddled his body and Sean knew what his lad
was going to do.  He lay completely still as Jamie
positioned and then lowered himself.  Sean hissed a
deep breath as he felt himself slowly buried deep in
his lover.

Jamie let go a cry of intense pleasure as Sean's penis
grazed across his prostate.  He was momentarily unable
to move, so intense it was.  Regaining control of his
senses, Jamie began a gentle rhythm which Sean soon
met and returned.

Sean lifted his knees slightly so that Jamie's lower
back had some support as the tempo increased and the
pleasure grew.

Jamie gazed into his lover's eyes and watched the
passion play out across Sean's face.  When he judged
the time was right, he leaned over and kissed Sean
again.  The angle of their joining changed and Sean
was able to thrust deeper and harder.

They both cried out as their climaxes overtook them.
Jamie collapsed on top of Sean, his body glistening
with sweat.  For several moments neither could move
and then Jamie rolled off of Sean and onto his back.
His breathing slowly returned to normal.  When he had
the strength to move again he smacked Sean on one
thigh and said, "Bath, love.  We both stink of sweat."

As Jamie headed down the stairs to prepare Sean's
bathwater, Sean glanced out through their bedroom
window.  The truck from the train station was entering
the end of their street.  Sean turned and quickly
followed Jamie down the stairs.

Sean was easing himself into the tub of hot water when
Jamie noticed a commotion outside.  "I wonder who's
making so much noise," Jamie remarked.

Sean knew full well what caused the noise and didn't
want Jamie to spoil the surprise he had planned so
well for the past week.  Trying to think of a way
distract Jamie's attention he said, "It's most likely
the neighbors, Love.  Mr. O'Hara asked if he could
have all those lovely rocks you conveniently
discovered for a small rock wall his bride wants."

Jamie looked at his lover and smiled affectionately,
for Mr. and Mrs. O'Hara were an elderly couple and had
been married over forty years.  Sean had known them
his entire life and delighted in referring to Mrs.
O'Hara as a blushing young bride.

The lady would usually respond by saying, "Get on with
ye then, Seaneen," and kept them supplied with bread
and pies from her own kitchen.  She and her husband
were fully aware of the nature of the relationship
between the two young men who lived next door to them.
 But the boys were a quiet couple and often ran
errands for the aging pair.  They never spoke aloud
what they both knew and, if it wasn't said then it
wasn't happening.

Jamie headed toward the door saying, "I'll get dressed
and go see if himself needs help while you bathe."

Sean bolted from the tub, caught Jamie by the waist,
and unceremoniously dumped him in the water before
Jamie knew what had happened.

Jamie sputtered and spit bathwater from his mouth.
"Sean?  What ...?"

Sean quickly stripped Jamie's robe away, pinned him in
the tub, and made love to him again.

When it became quiet again, Sean pulled his exhausted
lover from the tub and quickly dried him.  He wrapped
towels around them both and led Jamie into the house
and upstairs.

"Get dressed now, laddie," he said and Jamie obeyed,
slipping into clean slacks and shirt.

When they were both dressed Sean turned to Jamie and
said, "Let's go see if the O'Hara's could use a bit of
help now."

Sean opened the front door of their home and stood
aside for Jamie to walk outside.  He was thrilled at
the look of surprise that crossed Jamie's face when he
saw the whisky barrels, sacks loaded with peat,
top-soil, and manure.

"And what's this for?"  Jamie asked.

"For yer roses, love."

So overcome was he that Jamie threw himself into
Sean's arms and cried.

Sean patted his back and whispered, "Happy birthday,
Jamie."

Jamie spent the rest of the day happily filling the
whisky barrels, preparing them for the rosebushes that
Mrs. O'Hara conveniently provided.

"So," he said to her, 'ye were in on this, were ye?"

"Of course, Jamie, from the time Sean asked if there
was a way you could have yer roses.  And it's been a
grand secret to keep."

That evening, after a quiet supper, Sean put the final
touch on his surprise while Jamie dried the dishes and
put them away.  Going to the small china cabinet in
the parlor, he removed two of his late mother's finest
glasses, took a bottle of the Glenmorangie from the
hiding place, and sat in his chair in front of the
fireplace.  Carefully opening the bottle, he poured a
shot for Jamie and one for himself.

"Come, Jamie Love," he called.  "The dishes can wait.
I've one more small gift for ye."

Jamie entered the parlor and stood looking at Sean.
"What more could there be?" he asked.  And his eyes
lit up as Sean handed him a glass of his favorite
whisky.

"Where did ye get this?" he asked.  "Ye usually bring
Irish whisky into the house."

"I picked it up on the Isle of Skye, love, as well as
the barrels that gave ye so much pleasure today."

Jamie downed his drink and held his hand out to Sean.
The mischievous look returned and he said, "I'd like
to show proper thanks for this fine birthday ye gave
me, Sean."  Turning sharply on his heel he headed for
the stairs that led to their bedroom.

Sean quickly finished his own glass, surprisingly
pleased with the quality of something other than Irish
whisky, and hastened to follow his love.

Written in 2000.

Comments welcome to
quasito_cat@hotmail.com