“No, she wouldn’t.”
“Don’t tell her I said that about my being sure she’d turn me down.”
“I would never.”
“So, should I float the idea of working in my folks’ pub by her? Or do you think she’d snort and walk away?”
“Tell her about it, and if she dismisses it, I’ll threaten her. I’m sure she won’t. It’ll be a way for her to see you all the time, too.”
“Yeah, I’m sure that’ll really sell her on the idea,” he joked. “When’s her next shift?”
“Dinner tomorrow.”
“I’ll be here if nothing comes up at the paper.”
Vivi patted his shoulder. “Good. Now, what can I get you?”
Natalie shot her sister a withering look as Vivi invited Quinn O’Brien to stay and have a drink with them after Vivi’s closed. She was up to something. Or Quinn was. Trapped, she sat down at the table opposite Mr. Ego, furious when Vivi immediately excused herself, claiming there was something she forgot to do in the kitchen.
“What can I do for you?” Natalie asked politely, noticing how tired he looked. She almost felt sorry for him. Almost.
“Actually, it’s what I can do for you,” Quinn replied, throwing back a shot of whiskey. She hadn’t figured him for a whiskey drinker. Then again, he was of Irish descent. They were known to be heavy drinkers. Not nice to stereotype, she chided herself, though God knew he threw comments about the French at her all the time.
“I doubt there’s anything you can do for me.”
“Just hear me out, Princess Nat.”
Natalie curled a hand into a fist under the table. He was so—so—smug. Yes, that was the word: smug.
“I’m listening.”
“Vivi told me you’re moving back into the city.”
“Yes. Bensonhurst is a little too quiet for me.”
“I can understand that. Lots of families. Not too much culture.”
“Exactly.”
“She said you want to manage a restaurant.”
“Yes.”
“I’ll pay good money to see that.”
Natalie scowled. “You’re very rude, do you know that?”
“Do you know that phrase about the pot and the kettle?”
Natalie gave him a dirty look, despite the warmth slowly wending its way through her body. Such an egomaniac.
“You were saying?”
“I know you’re going to be living in Rousseau’s apartment. And I also know you need to bring in some money while you look for a management job.”
“And so?” Natalie felt a pinch of annoyance. How much had Vivi told him?
“My parents own a pub in Manhattan called the Wild Hart. They need a waitress. I thought you might want the job.”
“What kind of pub?” Natalie asked suspiciously.
Quinn blew out an exasperated breath. “What kind do you think? An Irish pub. There’s a bar, and there’s a small dining area that serves Irish food—great Irish food, I might add.”
Great Irish food—now there’s an oxymoron. She’d been to Dublin once, when she was at university. The food was revolting. Everything was drowned in salt. All meat and potatoes, meat and potatoes, fish and chips. Greasy. Horrible. Still, if she took the job, she wouldn’t be eating the food, she’d only be serving it.
An Irish pub. It was probably loud. The Irish were loud. Boisterous. And they drank a lot. Grudge holders, too. Emotional. But admittedly witty sometimes, if Quinn was any indication. Probably good tippers, too.
“What kind of people come in there?”
“What’s with the grilling?”
“I’m just curious!”
“Let me think: axe murderers and female impersonators, mostly.”
Natalie frowned. “You’re not funny.”
“What kind of people do you think? It’s a working-class neighborhood. We get cops, firefighters . . . old Irish couples that miss ‘the ould sod’ and want a traditional meal. Locals. Do you want me to describe the decor to you?”
“Don’t be an ass.”
“Well, don’t be so snooty. Beggars can’t be choosers, if you ask me.”
Natalie drew herself up, offended. “I am not a beggar!”
“No, but you need a job, and this will save you having to look for one.”
She narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “Why are you helping me?”
“Could it be because I’m a nice guy?”
Natalie just harrumphed.
“Let’s see, what else can I tell you. My younger brother, Liam, is the bartender. He’s got that broody, moody Heathcliff thing goin’ on; the women love it. Both my folks cook, though Dad sometimes helps out behind the bar, along with a band of merry leprechauns.”
“Very funny.”
“There’s a bunch of regulars who hang at the bar. Real characters.”
“What do you mean, ‘real characters’?” Natalie asked apprehensively.
“You’ll see. Anything else you need to know? My parents’ annual income?”
Natalie ignored the barb. “How often will I have to endure seeing you there?”
“Oh, here’s the best part,” said Quinn with a wicked grin. “I’m there a lot, ma petite peignoir. A lot. I tend to come in late at night with my newspaper buddies. It’s our established watering hole. You’ll like them, too. All nice guys—like moi.”
“All asses like you, too, I’ll bet.”
“Whaddaya say? It’ll save you having to job hunt. It’ll get you out of Bensonhurst that much faster.”
“I can’t leave Vivi without any wait help. And by the way, do not ever call me ‘your little nightgown’ again.”
“I’ll be fine,” Vivi trilled, joining them as if on cue. “You know that lovely teenage girl, Michelle, who sometimes comes in here with her friends?”
Natalie held back a scowl. “Yes.” The girls were terrible tippers.
“She has waitressing experience. I told her as soon as you leave, the job is hers.”
“Oh.” Natalie was hurt, unable to escape the feeling that Vivi couldn’t wait to be free of her. But then she took in her sister’s face and realized how ridiculous she was being. Vivi just wanted her to be happy as soon as possible.
“My parents could use someone ASAP,” Quinn prodded.
“All right,” said Natalie with a resigned shrug.
“Great.” Quinn handed her a slip of paper. “Meet me at this address tomorrow at noon sharp.” He winked at her. “See you tomorrow, Nat.”
3
Natalie had never been in this part of Manhattan before: Eleventh Avenue and Forty-third Street. From what she could see, it was primarily a working-class area, though there did seem to be a lot of gentrification going on.
The pub, with its weathered, oval wooden sign hanging over the door featuring a painting of a robust white stag, was unassuming. Standing on the street waiting for Quinn, she was tempted to peek in the pub’s front window and then thought better of it. What if his parents or “broody” brother saw her?
Quinn was breathless as he hurried toward her at a quarter past twelve. He looked especially weary today, and there was something angry in his demeanor. “Sorry I’m late.”
“No, no, it’s all right.” Natalie paused. “Are you ill? You don’t look very well.”
Quinn looked disgusted. “I had to file a story this morning about some kid who was hit on his bike by a drunk driver in a Range Rover. The asshole driver is rich as hell, with a history of DUIs, but every time he’s been arrested, he’s gotten off because he can afford the best lawyers money can buy.”
A lump formed in Natalie’s throat. “Is the little boy going to be okay?”
“He’s got a pretty bad concussion and most of his bones are broken, but yeah, he’s gonna be okay. Eventually,” said Quinn, loosening his tie. “The whole thing turns my gut.”
That explained the anger.
“I hate doing stories where kids get hurt,” Quinn continued vehemently. He pushed the h
eels of his hands into his eye sockets. “I’ll go visit him in the hospital later. See how he’s doing.”
Natalie gently put her hand on his shoulder. “Maybe you should ask your editor to stop sending you out on stories like that?”
Quinn lowered his hands from his eyes. “Just because I hate it doesn’t mean I can’t handle it,” he snarled. He closed his eyes for a long moment. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you.”
“No, I understand,” Natalie assured him, removing her hand. “Perhaps you’re not up to doing this today? If so, I can come back another time.”
“No, that’s crazy. Besides, I’m not really doing anything, just introducing you to my folks and letting them know they should hire you on the spot.”
“This is very nice of you,” Natalie admitted, blushing.
“I told you: I’m a nice guy.”
Quinn held open the door of the pub for her. “Entre vous, mademoiselle.”
Natalie smiled nervously as she entered. There was a long black oak bar, behind which hung a mirror that spanned the length of the bar. A large color TV hung high to the left, tuned to a baseball game.
Past the bar was a small dining area with both tables and large, dark maple booths. There were pictures on the walls, though from this distance, she couldn’t make out what they were.
“Hey,” Quinn said to a well-built man behind the bar. Quinn’s brother. Had to be. Quinn was right: he did look the dark, moody type, with his tousled black hair and stormy gray eyes. The type of man that, perhaps, you didn’t want to cross.
“Hey.”
“This is Natalie,” said Quinn, gesturing for her to come closer. “She’s gonna take Maggie’s place.”
The man extended his hand to her. “I’m Liam. Quinn’s brother.”
Natalie smiled politely. “Nice to meet you.”
“C’mon,” Quinn urged. “I’ll introduce you to my parents first, and then we’ll double back here so you can chat with my charming brother and meet the regulars.”
Natalie’s eyes did a quick scan of the people seated at the bar. It looked like a motley crew, to say the least.
She followed Quinn through to the small dining room. Now she could see what the pictures on the walls were of: pastoral scenes of the Irish countryside, some old tintypes of people she assumed might be Quinn’s ancestors in Ireland. It was certainly better than the pictures that hung on the walls of Anthony’s restaurant, all those watery paintings of gondolas and autographed photos of priests.
She was nervous as Quinn pushed open the swinging doors of the kitchen. A short, squat woman with a pillowy bosom stood at a large, stainless steel table chopping onions. The familiarity of the sight relaxed Natalie slightly. She couldn’t count how many times she’d watched Vivi chop onions.
The woman looked up, smiling at Quinn as she put down her knife and wiped her hands on her apron. Her dark red hair was shot through with gray, and there were lines around her vibrant blue eyes, but they suited her somehow.
“Mom, this is my friend Natalie, the one I told you about.”
Natalie held out her hand—“Bon—nice to meet you, Mrs. O’Brien.”
“You, too, Natalie.” The soft, gentle lilt of her Irish brogue relaxed Natalie even more. “Quinn didn’t mention you were French.”
Quinn shrugged. “I didn’t think it mattered.”
“True.” Mrs. O’Brien turned her attention back to Natalie. “Quinn said you were a very good waitress.”
Natalie blushed again, hating it. She knew Quinn: he’d torture her about it later. “I think I’m competent, yes.”
“She’s more than competent,” Quinn boasted. “I’ve never seen her screw up an order once. And she’s personable.”
“That’s very important in a place like this. We have lots of regulars who come here because it feels like home away from home to them.”
“It’s the same at my sister’s bistro in Bensonhurst,” Natalie enthused. “A lot of people from the neighborhood come regularly. It has a very homely atmosphere.”
“Homey,” Quinn corrected with amusement.
“Oh, yes.” Natalie could feel her face get redder. “That’s what I meant.” Mon Dieu, was she that nervous that now she was misusing words? Usually that was Vivi’s job.
“I’d need you at least five nights a week, if you’re up for it. Maybe fill in for lunch now and then if our other girl, Megan, can’t come in for some reason.”
Quinn snorted. “I can’t believe she’s still working here. She’s terrible. The only reason you haven’t fired her yet is because she’s Irish.”
Mrs. O’Brien didn’t look amused. “We pay a decent salary. Obviously you keep all your tips. I’d need you to come in at around four, if possible.”
“That sounds fine.”
“Grand.” Her whole face lit up: a trait Quinn shared with his mother.
“What else can I tell you?” Quinn’s mother continued. “I don’t require a uniform, per se. Just look neat.”
“That means no chic scarves around your neck,” Quinn teased.
His mother looked momentarily worried. “We serve homemade Irish food here: Irish stew, fish and chips, corned beef and cabbage, bangers and mash, champ . . .”
Natalie looked to Quinn for help. “What’s bangers and mash? And champ?”
“Bangers and mash is Irish sausages and mashed potatoes, usually served with gravy. Champ is an Irish dish, a type of mashed potatoes with scallions and milk and butter.”
“Ah.” Potatoes, potatoes, Natalie thought. Not that Vivi never used potatoes, but still.
“Mom makes a killer Irish soda bread,” Quinn continued proudly. “And her own famous Irish brown bread.”
“Brown bread . . . yes . . . I think I had that when I was in Dublin.”
“You were in Dublin!” Mrs. O’Brien’s face lit up. “When was that?”
Natalie had to think. “Oh, about ten years ago. It was lovely.”
“ ’Tis. Now, did you get out to the countryside at all? Because our people are from Cork, a small town called Ballycraig.” Quinn rolled his eyes. “Don’t you roll your eyes, you. You’ve been there. You know how beautiful it is.”
“It is,” Quinn admitted. He leaned over to whisper in Natalie’s ear, “But there’s nothing to do there but tip cows. Trust me.”
Natalie pressed her lips together, trying not to laugh; she got the distinct sense Mrs. O’Brien would not be amused by what Quinn said or by Natalie’s reaction to it.
“I didn’t get a chance to see the Irish countryside,” Natalie admitted.
Quinn’s mother sighed. “It’s gorgeous. Gorgeous.”
“Here she goes. In two seconds she’ll be breaking into ‘Danny Boy.’ ”
His mother scowled at him, but it wasn’t without affection. “Rude boy.” She winked at him as she turned back to Natalie. “We do traditional Irish desserts as well: bread and butter pudding with custard sauce, mince pie, a lovely lemon sponge—”
“It’s killer,” said Quinn.
Natalie just nodded, smiling. She didn’t know what mince pie was, or lemon sponge. She would have to ask Vivi.
“You and Mr. O’Brien make all this food yourselves?” Natalie asked, amazed at the thought.
Mrs. O’Brien chuckled. “God, no. We’ve got help. We’d never be able to keep up if we did.”
“It’s always busy here,” Quinn said.
“Can you handle that?” Mrs. O’Brien asked Natalie worriedly. “We don’t have too many lulls.”
“No prob at all,” Quinn answered for Natalie. “This girl is used to busy.” He put his arm around her shoulder. “Isn’t that right, Nat?”
She wanted to kill him.
“I’m used to busy,” she assured Quinn’s mother, removing Quinn’s arm from her shoulder as delicately as she could.
“Where’s Dad?” Quinn asked.
“In the back, going over the books.”
“I told him I’d help with that, if he wan
ted.”
“As if you’re ever here during the day,” Mrs. O’Brien replied dryly. “The man’s not an eejit, you know.”
“I know that, Mom. I was just trying to be helpful.”
“You want to be helpful? Tell your brother out there to lighten up a bit. He’s been a dark one lately.”
“He’s always been a dark one. He came out of the womb a dark one.”
“We’ll have no talk of wombs here, thank you very much.”
Natalie looked down with a small smile. This exchange reminded her a bit of France. At home, people weren’t afraid to argue in public. It was considered somewhat of a sport.
“So.” Mrs. O’Brien looked at Natalie hopefully. “Do you think you might be interested?”
“Oh yes.”
Mrs. O’Brien looked relieved. “Good. Can you start Friday night?”
“Jesus, Ma. Talk about throwing her into the deep end of the pool.”
Natalie felt momentarily alarmed.
Mrs. O’Brien put her hands on her hips. “Did you or did you not tell me she could handle busy?”
“I can,” Natalie assured her quickly, answering for herself this time.
“Grand. Four o’clock on Friday, then.” Mrs. O’Brien extended her hand once again to Natalie. “Welcome to the family.”
“Er . . . thanks.”
Mrs. O’Brien began shooing Quinn toward the door. “Off with you, now. I’ve got loads to do.”
Quinn kissed his mother’s cheek. “Tell Dad I’ll stick my head in tonight to say hi.”
“Believe it when I see it,” his mother grumbled.
Quinn just rolled his eyes.
“Well?” Quinn asked as soon as they left the kitchen. Every table in the pub was already packed. Natalie assessed the lunchtime crowd; not much different from Vi vi’s. A bit louder. A few policemen. Some firefighters. There was a group of women in business clothes, probably on their lunch break from a nearby office.
“You didn’t need to answer for me, you know. I’m capable of speaking for myself.”
“I was trying to help. If I say you know how to handle a busy crowd, she’ll believe it.”
With a Twist Page 3