by Elle Casey
“Rid, what is it?” I get down on my honkers and push the hair back from her face. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Ridlee cry in all the years I’ve known her. “What is it, honey? Did that fucker hurt you? ‘Cause if he so much as laid a finger…”
“No! It’s nothing like that. He didn’t. He wouldn’t.” She brushed away the tears with the back of her hand and sniffed, trying to smile. “It’s not him, it’s me. Hormones.”
I search her face for clues. I have known this girl a long time and she has been enviously impervious to the harrowing effects of hormones over the years. “Hormones?” I ask, my voice laced with skepticism.
“Yeah. Oh, and I broke the heel of my Jimmy Choos,” she hiccups.
I rub her back getting to my feet. “Can I get you a glass of water? Tea? Me?”
Ridlee smiles, brighter and wider, back on form. “Alright, Erin, panic over; no need to go all Florence Nightingale on me.”
She makes to get up, but I grab her in a bear hug and wrestle her down into the sheets and blankets of my bed. “You know I wuv u, Rid-leeeeee!” I’m hugging her with all my might. Only when I am convinced that she’s laughing with real abandon do I abandon her for the shower.
“Hurry up!” she yells after me, “we’ve got to see that lawyer guy at 9 am.”
“Solicitor!” I remind her.
“We’ll see if he’s cute first before we decide to solicit anything.”
I laugh and step into the shower in the adjoining bathroom, pouring Ridlee’s expensive shower gel all over me. Sure it does not harm to smell your best, I tell myself. Never know who you might meet in the course of a day in Lisdoonvarna. I smile allowing myself one last little indulgence about the amazing Micheál as I lather up.
After a hearty breakfast, we’re back in the Bambino and on our way to see Mr. Cathal O’ Mooney. With a bit of luck we can get the bar business sorted out with this Padraig O’Flanagan and I might even have time to catch up with Micheál for lunch, I think to myself with a smile. It’s just a fling, just a fling, I chant silently. Throwing the Bambino round s-bends like a rally racecar driver, I glance at Ridlee who is gazing forlornly at the cows and sheep we pass in the fields. I have never seen her moon over a guy like this before. Obviously, I didn’t buy the broken boot story. She has got the hots bad for Donal, no doubt about it. Poor, Rid; she’s in over her head.
My mind settles on Micheál for a moment. What the hell am I doing? Chasing a guy who lives thousands of miles away, and an Irish guy at that! I should have known that something like this would happen. I should never have brought Rid here. What has happened to us? We pride ourselves on being modern women. We don’t go cuckoo over guys and lose sight of our goals. We rely on each other and the boys are, well, toys for the most part. Neither of us has been in a serious relationship; Ridlee was seeing Jeremy for over a month, but I don’t think that constitutes a serious relationship, does it? Especially when it was clear even to the casual observer that she was just using him for sex.
I catch a glimpse of myself in the rearview mirror, brow furrowed, and immediately relax my face. No way am I getting early wrinkles for a guy. I look at Ridlee who has her hand resting in her chin and is staring longingly at the passing landscape. “Forty shades of green,” she murmurs.
“Huh?”
“That’s what they say about the greenery of Ireland. Forty shades of green. Because of the rain.” She doesn’t even look at me while she’s talking.
“Who told you that?” I enquire, looking from the road to her and back to the road again.
“Donal,” she says sadly.
My mind kicks into gear. Time for an intervention!
I swerve the car into a lay-by with a grotto cut into the wall. We skid to a stop, throwing gravel round us. I cut the engine and turn to my friend.
Ridlee looks at me, shocked. “What the hell, Erin?!”
“This has got to stop.”
“What?”
“All this mooning over men! This is not us, Rid. We’re not like those pathetic girls who give up their dreams the minute Mr. Dreamy comes along. Lookit … I like Micheál and you like Donal…”
“No I don’t… ” she tries to interrupt me.
“Yes. You do. A lot. And I can see why. He’s cute and nice an’ all. But he and Micheál are just cute guys with cute accents, living in this gorgeous place. It’s classic holiday romance stuff. We have hot, exciting lives back in Boston. We have bright futures. I have a five-year plan. Let’s just get this inheritance business sorted, see the lads one more time for kicks, and get the flock outta here. Agreed?” I put out my pinky for a pinky promise.
“Agreed!” she says smiling again and wrapping her finger round mine.
“Who’s that?” she asks nodding toward a statue of the Virgin Mary in the grotto.
“That’s Mary.” I say, starting the engine again.
“What’s her story?”
“She gave up her dreams for the ultimate Mr. Dreamy and remained a virgin forever,” I pull out onto the road and high tail it into Lisdoonvarna.
Ten minutes later, we are sitting opposite Cathal O’Mooney and Ridlee has her lawyer hat on.
“Good morning. And what can I do for you fine lassies on this fine morning?” asks Mr. O’Mooney, indicating that we should take a seat. His office is small and old fashioned and smells a bit musty.
This should be straightforward enough. I sit down, smile in his general direction, and let Ridlee do her thing.
She too sits and places in front of her on the desk a leather binder holding all the facts of the inheritance and Margaret’s will. She does not open it, but instead, takes out her ipad and starts working from that.
“Aha!” exclaims Mr. O’Mooney. “You’ve got one of those new fangled tablet things. Sure, isn’t it funny how we’re all so backward in coming forward; sure, they used to use tablets in Moses’ time.” He laughs uproariously at his own joke.
Ridlee gives me a look that says, Craaazy… before addressing him. “Now, Mr. O’Money…”
“Moon.”
“I’m sorry?” Ridlee cocks her head like a swimmer trying to get water out of her ear.
“It’s ‘Oh-Moon-Eee,” he explains congenially, “not money.”
“Right. Okay, so, in any case, we, that is, my client, Ms. O’Neill, is looking for a certain Padraig Flanagan on a matter of some urgency. We were hoping that you might be able to help us track him down.”
Mr. O’Mooney rubs his chin, apparently thinking. “That’s a mighty common name round these parts, Miss. Do you have any other information about this fella?”
Ridlee turns to me, eyebrows arched.
It’s my turn. We’ve rehearsed what we’re willing to divulge and what we’re not. “Eh, he was a friend of my grandmother’s, Margaret Daly. They both lived here in Lisdoonvarna before the war.”
“The Civil War?” he asks, leaning forward in his seat.
“No, the Second World War,” I say somewhat perplexed.
“Ah, sure, that was the English an’ all. That wasn’t our war a t’all a t’all.” He stares at the floor as though lost in some old memory. He can’t be more than fifty or sixty at most himself. There was no way he was even around back then. I am starting to get the idea that this guy knows more then he’s letting on.
“To return to the matter at hand, Mr. Oh-Moon-Eee,” interjects Ridlee, “do you happen to know of any Padraig Flanagan or maybe some of his descendants living in the Lisdoonvarna area who might have known my client’s grandmother?”
“I do.”
Ridlee looks at me, her eyes narrowed as if to say, what’s this guy’s game? She turns back to him and says, somewhat sarcastically, “Do you think maybe you could share that information with us?”
“Well now,” he says, shifting in his seat, his large belly straining against his suit pants, “I think I’d like to know a little bit more about the nature of your enquiry before I go givin’ out confidential information willy, nilly.”<
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“Are you representing Padraig Flanagan, Mr. Moon-Eee?” asks Ridlee, getting pissed.
“O,” he says, lacing his fingers together and settling them on the desk.
“Oh, you are representing him, or Oh you’re not?” asks Ridlee, on fire now.
“O-Moon-Eee,” he says, the corners of his mouth twitching almost imperceptibly.
“Are you playing with me, Mr. Oh- Moon - Eee?” she asks, clearly annoyed. “Because if you are, I’ll find another lawyer to help in this matter and you can say goodbye to any fee that might have been coming your way.” She pops her iPad in her handbag and goes to stand up.
I look up uncertainly. As far as I know this is the only solicitor in Lisdoonvarna.
“Ah now, Miss? Sorry, what was your last name?”
“Taylor. And it’s Ms., not Miss.”
“Ms. Taylor, I apologise, please have a seat. Would you ladies like a cup of tea? Or maybe a coffee?”
“No, thank you,” says Ridlee, sitting down slowly, “we’d rather just get this matter settled.”
“Of course," he says, then turns to me. ”You spoke of your grandmother in the past tense, Ms. O’Neill. Has she passed recently?”
“Yes, a little over a month ago. In Boston, where she lived most of her life.”
“My condolences. I didn’t know her personally, but I have heard good things about her. Lisdoonvarna is a small town; everybody knows everybody else and their business too, if you know what I mean.” He raises an eyebrow, all business now. “Unfortunately, Padraig Flanagan has also passed away.”
“Oh,” I say, perhaps a bit too brightly.
He puts on a pair of glasses and flips open a laptop I hadn’t noticed on the desk. The bumbling solicitor act is all over and he taps on the keypad, quick as lightning. “He does, however, have one grandson living.” He looks at Ridlee over the top of his reading glasses. “Does the matter now concern him?”
“Yes,” says Ridlee. “My client was left a bar — a pub — in her grandmother’s will, but it was also left to Padraig Flanagan, or his descendants should he no longer be living.” She opens the leather folder and takes out a document with photos of the bar as it was before the renovations. “This is the bar here.” She hands him the paper. “It’s called the Pot O’Gold and while it’s not much, my client has worked and lived there for a significant part of her life and would like to remain, running the pub. To that end, she would like to offer Padraig Flanagan what we consider a fair price for his half of the pub.” She passes the solicitor another piece of paper with the offer on it.
I watch him carefully, but he has a poker face; his expression gives nothing away.
“Okay, well, leave it with me. I’ll contact Padraig Flanagan’s grandson and explain the offer and get back to you as soon as he gives me his answer.” He’s gazing at the photos of the bar, his nose scrunched ever so slightly.
I know I shouldn’t but I can’t help but add, sadly. “I know it doesn’t look like much, but it’s my home.”
He looks up and smiles reassuringly.
Ridlee continues. “So, here are all the documents pertaining to the business and the apartment attached to it. Obviously, as the boy’s attorney, the responsibility of due diligence lies with you, Mr. O’Mooney. I look forward to hearing from you.” Ridlee uses the clipped tone she reserves for when she’s being all legal an’ shit. I have to bite my lip so I don’t break out in a huge smile.
After receiving Mr. O’Mooney’s assurances that he’ll get right on the matter, we walk out of the solicitor’s office, all nonchalant. “Pub, pub, pub, pub, pub, pub, pub,” I sing-song, hooking my arm through Ridlee’s and guiding her toward the nearest public house.
“What? A bar? It’s not even lunchtime,” she protests.
“We need to celebrate!” I exclaim, no longer able to contain my excitement. “You were awesome, Rid! Did you see his face? He totally bought it! The pub will be mine, all mine! Woh-ha-ha-ha-ha!” I do my Count from Sesame Street laugh for effect.
“Whoa there, girl!” cautions my friend. “Don’t go counting your chickens before they hatch.”
I don’t care what she says; I have a good feeling about this.
We walk into the pub and up to the bar. “A bottle of your finest champagne, my good man,” I say to the barman, who looks at us quizzically but gets us the bottle anyway.
“Celebrating, ladies?” he asks, smiling. We’re the only ones in the pub apart from some old codger at the end of the bar who looks like he might be a permanent fixture.
“Might be,” I say seriously, looking at Ridlee as the barman pours us a glass each. The champagne bubbles and fizzes and we put our pinkies on the rims to stop the glasses from overflowing.
She meets my eye and winks. We both burst out laughing and clink glasses.
“The Pot O Gold!”
“The Pots O Gold!” she corrects me. “And to five-year plans.”
“I’ll drink to that, Rid.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
RIDLEE
I’M DEAD ASLEEP WHEN THERE’S a knock at our door at five thirty in the evening. I moan with the daytime hangover I’m suffering after overdoing it in the pub with our little celebration. I now know that champagne and Guinness do not mix well at all, especially when there aren’t twelve hours after the imbibing to sleep it off.
Mrs. O’Grady has helped herself and opened the door, stepping inside the room. “Sorry to bother you, girlies, but there’s a young man at the door who says he’d like a word with young Ridlee.”
Erin’s voice comes out sounding slurred. It could be because of all the drinks she had or the fact that her face is buried in her pillow. “You got this, Rid. I’ll wait right here. Keep an eye on things.”
I sit up, trying to blink myself back into the land of the sober. “You said someone’s outside for me?”
“Outside? Now what kind of host would I be if I left my visitors out on the front door stoop in the rain?” She leaves without further explanation, muttering to herself, probably about what an asshole I am.
I look around, wondering if I’m just dreaming. The door is open and I can hear the old woman clomping down the stairs. She offers someone a cup of tea. I must not be dreaming, because who the hell would be here to see me? Did I set something up in the bar and completely forget? Is this one of those alcoholic blackouts I’ve read about?
I stand and yawn, checking my breath in the palm of my hand. Woof. Not good. But since I won’t be kissing this stranger, whoever he is, I’m not going to worry about it. I wander down the stairs, checking the corners of my eyes for evidence of my lazy day. My hair feels fine, so the lack of a mirror doesn’t overly stress me out.
I freeze when I enter the living room. I’d been expecting a messenger from the lawyer’s office or some random guy from a bar, not Donal; certainly not a freshly showered and very well-dressed Donal. I think about reversing out of the room and tearing back up the stairs to fix my face, but it’s too late. He sees me and smiles.
“Ridlee. Thank you for seeing me.”
“Here you go, young man. A nice black tea to put some more hair on your chest.” Mrs. O’Grady comes into the room, brushing against me and knocking me sideways in her eagerness to deliver the beverage.
She hands him a cup and saucer and looks at me, unblinking. “Shall I pour you a cup as well?”
“Uhhh, I think I’ll pass on the chest hair, actually.”
She shrugs. “Suit yourself. I’ll be in the kitchen should you need anything.” She gives me a look that I think means she intends to act as my chaperone when she passes by. I can’t help but roll my eyes. I look up and catch Donal smiling. He takes a sip of the tea, watching me over the rim.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, folding my arms over my chest. Yes, it’s a defensive body language thing, but since I’m feeling pretty defensive, it’s perfect.
He sits down, putting the tea on the table in front of him. I can’t help but notice how his thick
thighs strain the material of his jeans. Wowza.
“I came for two reasons, actually. I came first to apologize, and second to ask ye if I could take ye to the pub for dinner.”
I chew the inside of my cheek, searching for the answer that could override my immediate reaction which is to jump into his lap and force him to deal with my hangover breath.
His expression goes awkward. “I can see that ye’re still sore at me for what I said and did last night, and I don’t blame ye. In fact, I don’t expect to be forgiven, but I figured if I didn’t bother to ask, I’d never know for certain.”
He sounds so damn polite, I can’t just keep on giving him the icy bitch treatment. My butt finds a seat as I watch him for clues about what he really wants. Is this all about getting me in bed? He’s pretty smooth about it if it is. On the surface, he really seems to be here to make his earlier transgressions up to me, but does any man just do that without ulterior motives? Not in my experience.
I shrug. “I don’t know why you’re so worried about me forgiving you. It’s not like you’ll ever see me again after this week. But if it makes you feel better, fine. I forgive you.” I look towards the stairs, wondering if I should just make this easier for us and get up and go.
“You’re leaving so soon?” He sounds sad enough that I look back over at him and abandon my plans to disappear up to my bedroom so quickly.
“We’re just waiting to hear back from this lawyer … I mean, solicitor guy. Mr. O’Mooney and then we’ll be outta here.”
He nods. “I know him. You have business dealings with him?”
“That’s why we’re here. Some stuff for Erin. Once it’s done, we’re leaving.”
He gives me a sad smile. “And ye wouldn’t consider staying a wee bit longer for a bit o’ sightseeing?”
“Are you offering to be my guide?” My heart is beating really fast and I feel a flush coming up my neck. This is the guy who blew me off last night and abandoned me on the cliffs. I should be telling him where to get off, but instead, I kind of feel like swooning. Maybe it’s the Guinness talking. I can’t be sure.