by Elle Casey
“Fascinating, Erin. Where’d you learn all that?” she asks, somewhat impressed.
“I just read it in the guidebook.”
Half an hour later we arrive at Bunratty Castle and Folk Park where we spend the afternoon wandering around. The medieval castle is magnificent, and as we walk from room to room I try to imagine what it would have been like living in this place centuries ago. I am lost in my own little reverie when Ridlee’s phone rings. She moves out of the room to take the call. I hold my breath, watching. Standing in the door frame to the massive dining hall she holds one finger to her ear so that she can hear better. She nods, once, then twice quickly. She looks up at me, smiling and giving me a thumbs up. I smile back.
So, Micheál has accepted the offer. Great. Ridlee and I can book tickets this evening and head back to Boston as soon as there are seats available. My five-year plan is back on track. I’ll be able to finish the rest of the renovations and within a year buy another property to expand the franchise. I’m happy. I really am. It’s just…
“We did it!” Ridlee high-fives me before continuing in her grand announcement voice. “You are the proud, and more importantly sole owner of Boston’s finest Irish theme bar, The Pot O’Gold!”
“Yay!!” I say, mustering enthusiasm I don’t quite feel.
“Erin!” snaps my lawyer.
“Whaaat?” I ask, all whiney again.
“Don’t! Drop it! It’s over with that guy, you hear me? I swear to God, Erin… Don’t you dare mess with this. This is your future we’re talking about here. Repeat after me: This is my future.”
Obediently, I repeat, “This is my future.”
“Now, let’s go celebrate!” she screams, so that other visitors to the castle turn to stare at us.
I can’t help but laugh. “She’s American,” I say as we leave to an older couple frowning at us as though we’ve just taken a dump on the floor.
Cathal O’Mooney had put the pieces of the jigsaw that was my grandmother’s early life together. Back in the Bambino, racing to Doolin, Ridlee fills me in on Margaret’s and Padraig Flanagan’s backstory.
“It’s kinda sweet, really,” she begins. “Margaret and Padraig Flanagan were a couple when they were both quite young, back in the day, and they planned to emigrate to America together. But then he fell ill with consumption. I don’t even know what that is.” She glances from the road to me, her eyebrows raised in a question.
I stare out at the bleak landscape and wonder about life here all those years ago.
It must have been hard. “So, anyway, he was sent away,” Ridlee adds.
I’m pulled back to the present. “It’s tuberculosis. People called it the consumption because the victim was ‘consumed’ by weight loss and breathlessness. It consumed the lives of thousands in Ireland. My dad still talks about it. It was the AIDS of their time.” Poor Margaret. This is the first time I’ve ever been moved to sympathy for my grandmother. “Go on with the story, Rid.”
“Well, Margaret didn’t know whether he was dead or alive, and his family told her nothing because they had never approved of the relationship. Believing Padraig gone from her life forever, she started seeing another guy from a nearby town. Six months later she left for Boston with him and together they made their fortune. His name was Paddy, naturally.” She gives me a cheeky wink.
“That was my grandfather, Paddy Daly.”
“Right. Well, as far as anyone in Lisdoonvarna knew, Margaret never had anything to do with Padraig Flanagan again. He ended up marrying a local girl who died in childbirth. He brought up his daughter, Maggie, alone and then looked after her son, Michaél too when Maggie and her husband were killed in a car accident when the boy was only two years old.”
“Jesus, it’s like the Kennedy curse or something,” I murmur. Poor Michaél, orphaned at only two years of age.
“Yeah, it’s a sad story. But remember, Erin, that’s his story. We all have stories, but business is business.”
Finally at Mrs. O’Grady’s, we shower and change our clothes, ready to hit the town. While Ridlee is in the shower, I wrap my wet hair in a towel and go to the dresser to apply some make-up. I can’t help but sneak a peek at my phone, which my lawyer and best friend confiscated from me earlier this morning, lest I be tempted to contact Micheál and risk ruining the deal.
There are six missed calls from him and a single text.
I’ve had a windfall. Wanna celebrate?
I put my phone back in the drawer and sigh. Micheál’s half of the bar is probably worth more than I’m paying him, and I have no idea if it will be enough to get him and Siobhán out of debt. But I know Ridlee’s right. I built up the bar. I worked long hours and made it into a viable business when it was hemorrhaging money. It would be crazy to let my grandmother give my hard-won inheritance to some total stranger because she suddenly felt guilty on her deathbed. And besides … he could have negotiated the price. He could have seen the pictures online and said he wanted more. Heck, he could have asked for the accounting, couldn’t he have? But he didn’t. That’s not my fault. I’m not going to feel guilty because he’s a terrible businessman.
I apply my make-up and make an effort to smile at my reflection in the mirror. The girl smiles back but the smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
Ridlee reappears and grins. “We should go somewhere really fancy for dinner and order all the best dishes.”
“In Doolin?”
“Yes. The very best Doolin has to offer!”
I don’t have the will to argue, so out we go, arm in arm to enjoy a slap-up meal and the best that Doolin has to offer.
When we go back to our favourite pub, McMahons, there’s a session on and the musicians are awesome. The atmosphere is great and the craic is ninety. Ridlee and I get a table and order fresh oysters and whatever’s right from the ocean. I can’t help but scan the crowd for Michaél but it’s a different Bodhrán player this evening. He’s probably out celebrating with Siobhán, or some other girl. Forget him.
As though reading my mind, Ridlee looks at me across the table and smiles. The din in the place means that we can’t talk, which suits me. Grabbing my hand she pulls me up to dance our favourite reel, The Walls of Limerick. It doesn’t take long to put that boy from my mind and concentrate on what’s real, what’s possible. Tomorrow we sign the papers. Friday we leave. End of story.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
RIDLEE
ERIN SAYS THE CRAIC WAS ninety last night. I’m pretty sure she’s wrong about that. I think it was at least ninety-eight. Maybe even ninety-nine. I can’t remember anything I did after we danced some kind of Irish jig, except for the one part where I barfed in some bushes outside the pub. My mouth tastes horrible.
“You ready to go down for breakfast?” Erin asks, brushing her hair at the mirror.
“No.” I sound like a frog croaking out my answer.
“Still feeling the Guinness?”
“I think I’m feeling something else. Did we drink whiskey last night or does my memory deceive me?”
“Yes, we had a bit of Jameson, actually. I’ve missed the stuff. I need to make sure the Pot O’ Gold has a nice stock of it when we get back. I’m sick of pushing all those American brands. Nothing beats a dram of Jameson.”
“I’ll take your word on that, since I can’t remember anything that happened after we did that stupid jig.”
“It’s a reel, not a jig.” She’s using a toothbrush to carefully brush out and shape her eyebrows.
“Whatever. Did you make the plane reservations yet?” I sit up in bed and take a look around the room. Clothes are piled up all over the place, and I’m still mostly dressed. Erin looks like she’s already showered, and she’s even wearing make-up. What the hell. Does she not feel the effects of alcohol the next day or what? Is that an Irish thing or a bar-owner thing?
I get a look at her expression in the mirror and decide maybe it’s a heartache thing. She was too sad over Michaél to really get into our
celebration last night. Maybe that’s why I drank enough for the both of us, because I’m such a good friend.
“I did make the arrangements, actually. We leave tomorrow, eight in the morning out of Dublin, which means we need to leave here…” She rolls her eyes to the ceiling as she does her calculations.
I finish her sentence for her. “…At the crack of my butt dawn tomorrow morning.”
“Precisely.” She stands and puts her brush down. “Come on then. Time for brekky. You can fluff your hair after.”
I reach down and grab the pants that are on the floor. The rest of my clothing is already on, so once I’m zipped, I’m ready to go. I don’t even bother looking in the mirror, knowing it’s a train wreck that will take at least an hour to fix. I don’t trust my empty stomach to last that long; I need to put some toast in there or something to soak up whatever nastiness is rolling around before I get sick again.
I think I’ll be glad to leave the booze of Ireland behind. It was great and all, but I seem to have a problem controlling my intake. Something about this place makes me lose my good sense. It’s the reason why I keep debating whether I should contact Donal or not. Of course I shouldn’t, but I think about doing it several times a day anyway. It’s a good thing I temporarily lost track of my phone last night, or I for sure would have drunk-texted him. Surely someone in the bar would have had his number, and given the state I was in, I wouldn’t have been shy about hunting that person down and hounding them for the information.
I shuffle out of the room behind Erin, holding onto the handrail as I descend the stairs. The house is moving a little.
“Ah, there ye are, girlies. And how was your evenin’? Good, was it?” She puts a pot of tea on the table and I haven’t even sat down completely before I’m reaching for it. Tea, get in my belly.
“It was all right,” Erin says unenthusiastically.
“Just all right? I heard from Aednat who heard from Muirgheal that ye were having more than just an all right kind of evenin’.” She’s barely holding in her smile. “Word is ye’re quite the talented dancers.”
Erin sighs. “Ridlee doesn’t remember everything she did last night, so I wasn’t going to tell her.”
I drop the knife I was about to use to spread some jam on my toast and look first at Erin and then at Mrs. O’Grady. “What are you talking about? What did Agnag and Mergool say?”
“Oh my. It’s not Agnag. It’s Aednat. And Muirgheal, not …what did ye say? Morgor? What’s that? The Lord of the Rings?”
“Whatever.” I’m sure I should be embarrassed right now, but I want to know how embarrassed I should be. “What did I do?”
Mrs. O’Grady trades looks with Erin.
Erin puts up her hands. “You have to tell her now, Mrs. O. Cat’s out of the bag.”
The old woman comes over and pats me on the shoulder. “Never ye mind, deary. No one will remember a thing a few days from now.”
Erin has toast in her face as she mumbles her commentary. “I’m not so sure about that.”
I kick her under the table. “Tell me.”
“Ow!” She tries to act mad, but she’s laughing as she bends over to rub her shin. “You just did a little jig.”
“I thought you said it was a reel.” I’m scowling at her.
“It is when I do it. But when you do on a table, it’s definitely a jig.”
“With your fingers hooked in yer belt,”adds Mrs. O’Grady. “Looking like a right leprechaun.” She nods once, smiling like she’s proud.
I lower my head to my hand as I rest my elbow on the table. “Thank God we’re leaving tomorrow.”
“We still have to go into town to sign the papers,” Erin says, happily munching away on her toast. “And give over the check.”
I sigh and look up, ready to jam my toast again. What’s done is done. I can’t erase what I did last night, I can only hope most of the people in the bar were half as drunk as I was. “We’re wiring the money to his account, but you’re right, we do need to go to the office and have you sign the papers. We can go anytime, he said.”
“How about now?” Erin says, standing up.
“You go ahead,” I say, standing after taking one bite of my toast. My stomach is telling me that’s all it can handle right now anyway. “I’ll join you after I fix my face.”
“Ye may want to see to yer hair as well, dear,” says Mrs. O’Grady in her really helpful voice. “Ye don’t want to unwittingly put the heart across anyone.”
“Across who? What?”
Erin pulls my sleeve. “It’s an Irish expression. It basically means you need to fix your ‘do. Hurry up. I’ll wait for ya.”
I run up the stairs, trying to ignore my sloshing stomach. When I get in front of the mirror I understand exactly what that quaint Irish expression means. My hair is ugly enough to give someone a heart attack. A quick shower and copious amounts of conditioner take care of that problem in a jiffy. Twenty minutes later my hair is blown out and I have eyeliner and mascara on, along with a fresh outfit. A blazer tops off the look with a short scarf that will hopefully hide the blotchy marks on my neck. God knows where those came from.
Erin looks at her watch as I come down the stairs. “That has to be some kind of record. Twenty minutes?” She leans in close and inhales. “You even used soap.”
“And perfume,” I say sarcastically. “Come on.” I go right past her and out the door. “Time’s a wastin’.” I’m not all that excited about getting weird looks from any villagers who might have witnessed my dance routine last night. I just want to get this over with and go home.
I drive because the Bambino seems to prefer me to Erin. It starts right up and soon we’re buzzing down the street.
“Watch out!” Erin shouts, reminding me that I need to be on the other side of the road.
“I know,” I say, trying to talk myself out of the heart attack I almost had. “I was going over there eventually.”
“Tell that to the guy in the lorry who just shit his knickers,” she says, a little out of breath. She’s sunk down into her seat, and I catch her checking the efficacy of her seatbelt several times.
The car goes silent for a while, but I’m not going to be the first one to talk. Erin’s touchy about this business deal since Michaél is on the other side of the table, and I don’t want to upset the balance we’ve found.
“What if he’s there when we go?” Erin says in a small voice.
“Who? Michaél?”
“Yeah.”
“He won’t be. I talked to O’Mooney. He said he didn’t expect him in there until after four in the afternoon.”
“Oh.” She pauses a few seconds. “But what if he’s wrong?”
I sigh loudly. “Then you either choose not to go in until later, or I can get the papers and you can sign them in the car, or you can confront him and confess that it’s your bar. He’s going to find out anyway, you know. Your name is on the papers.”
“But if he doesn’t come until four, he won’t know until then.”
“Probably. Unless O’Mooney gave him copies of the papers ahead of time. He might have done that.”
Erin looks at her phone. “I don’t think he did. Michaél hasn’t said a word about it.”
“Has he texted you at all?” I glance over to see her screen, but she has it angled away from me.
“Actually, no.” She looks at me, clearly stressed. “Do you think it’s because he knows? Is he mad? Maybe I should call him and explain.”
I grab her phone and drop it into the pocket of my door. “No. No calls. No texts. No confessions. We do this deal and we leave.”
“Hey! Give that back to me!” She sounds a little too desperate for my comfort.
“No. I’m doing this for your own good. You’ll thank me later.”
She stares out the front window, and I can tell by the rigid set of her jaw that she’s holding back. Whether it’s tears she’s keeping in check or a string of expletives, I don’t know. I’m going to let h
er work it out, though, without any assistance from me. I’m certain I’m doing the right thing by my friend. She’s worked too hard for too long to let this whole thing blow up over a guy she’ll never see again. If she hadn’t told me a thousand times how much she dislikes Ireland and how she’d never live here again, I wouldn’t be such a hardass. But she has, and except for her little happy fling with Michaél, I haven’t seen her opinion changing since we’ve been here. As her friend and her lawyer, I’m going to make sure she signs these papers, wires her money, and then gets her butt back to Boston as soon as possible.
We pull up in front of the lawyer’s office and stare at the front door together. I cut the engine off and nudge her leg. “Go on. Sign the papers and let’s go.”
“Are you coming with me?” She looks way too nervous.
“Of course. Come on.” I get out with her and lead the way up the path to the door.
“Are you sure this is the right thing to do?” she asks.
I stop and turn around, facing her and forcing her to stop just in front of me. “The only one who can decide that is you, Erin. Do you still want to own the Pot O’ Gold?”
“Of course I do, don’t be ridiculous.”
“Do you want to be the only one making decisions about how to run it, how to expand it, how to spend the profits of it?”
“Yes.” She nods her head, her voice sounding firmer.
“Do you want to live in Ireland?”
“Hell to the no.”
“Fine.” I shrug. “What’s left to discuss?”
“Nothing.” She moves past me and pushes the door open. “Let’s sign those papers and get the hell out of dodge.”
I’m expecting a long-drawn out process, but apparently the solicitors in Lisdoonvarna have found a way to cut the bull to a minimum. I verify that the terms are all there in the contract as we discussed, Erin signs on the dotted line, and we shake Mr. O’Mooney’s hand.
“I’ll send an original copy over to Mrs. O’Grady’s as soon as Mr. Flanagan’s signed. And you’ll receive a call from my office confirming the wire has been received. If you could furnish you paper proof from the bank when you send it, that should speed the process.”