by Dani Wyatt
“What?” He shakes his head. “If they are, it’s their fault. The place is a dump compared to what I’ve built here. They’re small time, they’ve got no vision. No idea about the current market. The old folks that run that place, they’re dinosaurs. It’s their own fucking mismanagement that’s to blame—”
In that moment, I see red. In a single stride, I’ve got my best friend around the throat. His eyes snap wide as I throw him back against the wall and lean in. “Watch your mouth.”
He nods hands raised, his feet scrambling against the floor, and I relax my grip enough to let him breathe and get his footing.
“What the fuck is going on with you ass…” He cinches his brow together. “What the absolute fuck, man?” Henry slams the heels of his hands into my chest and I step back, raising my own in retreat knowing my reaction was not cool. “I don’t know shit about their financial situation you dick. Hell, for all I know, they’re flush. Figured they had that place paid off and were just coasting on their regulars waiting to retire.” His words are staccato and quick, gasped between angered breaths.
“Well Harry’s seems to be doing well enough,” I counter, waving my hand around the office at the plush furnishings, the executive toys, the modern art and photographs that line the walls.
“Well, yes and no,” he says and I see a cloud of humiliation inch over him. “That’s what I needed to talk to you about. The place isn’t what I expected. I’m pouring money in, but every fucking promotion I try I need to babysit and be here like 24/7. They want theme nights and live music. It costs a fucking fortune and I guess the payout for me just isn’t worth the time I have to spend. Julia hates the fucking place. We want out. This life isn’t for me.”
I can’t quite believe what I’m hearing. When I invested in Henry’s idea, Harry’s Bar, a traditional Irish pub in the heart of Pittsburgh, I thought we couldn’t lose. I looked over the business plan and fuck, it was Henry, my best friend with a Stanford degree in Business and Economics, it looked like win-win. Guess he didn’t think it through as much as I did.
Restaurant and bar business isn’t for everyone. It’s a damn lifestyle not just a job.
“So, this Gina, she’s here to what? Give us ideas about how to turn it around?”
“No man.” He drops his gaze, shaking his head before meeting my eyes again. “I love you, man, you know I do, but it’s over. Gina’s a business broker. She’s suggested a few things. Made the books look as best possible before she took it to some potential buyers. Then, negotiated the offer I and I bottom lined the sale agreement. I had the right to do it, Brann, you know.” He raises a hand defensively as if I might punch him for saying it, and that makes me feel guilty. “I own sixty percent, and our contract specifically states that I have all rights to decisions…anyway I just wanted to tell you face to face.”
“Of course, the place is yours, that was our deal.” My mind is racing, going over what he just said word by word, trying to find angles and—“New owners?” The whole thing is beginning to sink in. “You’ve already done the deed? Sold the place?”
Henry gulps, rubbing his throat, and perches on the edge of the desk. “Higham, Jones and Bingle. They own a string of themed pubs, nightclubs and restaurants that all I know. They have some specialty in pubs too. Authentic yet American style. They’ve got the kind of capital it would take to make this place what it should be. Brann. I need to get out. This bar life isn’t for me and Julia. We want to start our family and I need my portion of the sale to start something new for us. I’m sorry man. And you’ll get your investment back, not much more, but if we keep going on, you’ll lose it because I just don’t care enough. I just can’t do it. These new owners know how to run this kind of place. They’ll do it right.”
“And wipe out The Parting Glass in the process.”
Higham, Jones and Bingle. The names sound familiar.
He sighs and nods. “Probably. Not a lot I can do about that. What is it with you and that place, anyway? If they can’t run the business to keep up, that’s not on us. You secretly invested in them too?” I can see he’s kidding but I’m not in a kidding mood.
“Something like that.” I raise a hand, indicating his throat. “Sorry.”
“I’ve had worse.” He shakes his head. “Never seen you on such a short fuse man.”
“What if I made a higher offer for your sixty percent than Higham, Jones and fucking Bingle?”
He’s shaking his head. “It’s a done deal, Brann. The offer is a binding contract. Sorry. Anyway, what do you mean? First, why? Second, have you even got that sort of stack without getting your money out of here first? Third, you want to run this place?”
I play my financial life close to the vest. From outward appearances, my bank account and portfolio would not be assumed to be impressive. Right now, I’m leveraged in more businesses than usual, leaving me a bit cash poor compared to my usual position.
My teeth grind as I think through my options and come up short. “Don’t you worry about the why,” I say absently, my mind calculating figures and sums. Maybe if I sold this, maybe if I sold that. But whatever I think of, it’s long term. And if this is already a done deal I need the cash fast. “I can get the money,” I lie. “A lot of my capital isn’t exactly liquid right now, but I have a few assets back home that I could figure it out.”
“Assets? I mean, you’ll get your cash out of this place but not until it sells. That’s a weird Catch 22.”
I say the first thing that comes to mind. “My house should be worth as much as this pub.”
Henry narrows his eyes. “Your house? You fucking live there. You’d sell your house?”
“Let me worry about that. In principle would we have a deal?”
He shrugs. “I mean, it makes no difference from my end, Brann, you know that. But it’s not up to me. I signed the purchase agreement, like I said it’s binding. So, I guess unless you can make an offer to them they can’t refuse, I can’t stop what’s already in process.” He sighs. “If I’d known you liked this place so much I’d have asked, but you’ve never even been out here until now. Sure, if you can get HJB to pull out I’ll take your money. But I need it soon. Julia and I want to move down to Florida. Her uncle has a construction company that will give us both good management jobs. Time to start looking to the future, you know?”
“Okay, so I need to deal with Gina…what’s her last name?”
“Plumber. Yep. She’s the broker. If you can get her to support, then she gets the buyer to release the contract. Though how you’ll do that I have no idea.”
I don’t like any of this, but none of that matters. “Just don’t run The Parting Glass out of business in the next few days. Deal?”
He shakes his head. “Sorry, man, I feel like I’ve let you down.”
“You haven’t. Life throws us curves sometimes. I understand.” The wheels are turning in my head. I have to figure this out. I have to.
Henry pulls Gina back into the office and the next hour, it’s me talking. Working figures together. Her making calls and shaking her head while Henry twists his hands. Nothing about this is easy, but in my mind, as soon as I buy the place, I’ll turn it into rubble if I have to—whatever it takes to make sure there’s only one Irish pub in this city.
As I push open the back door, I’m holding my cell phone to my ear, waiting for my accountant to pick up. I need cash, and I need it fast.
5
Riona
“Hurry yourself up.” Mum is holding the door open as Dad grumbles and marches outside carrying a huge stainless-steel chafing dish full of the sausages they’ve been making from scratch all week.
She’s wearing her lavender linen dress. At her temples, two rollers are still dangling wrapped in her graying warm brown hair. She’s had that dress as long as I can remember and although there’s a bit of wear along the collar and a few spots where she’s done some mending, it looks as good on her as ever. Unfortunately, she matches every outfit with the mo
st God-awful black lace-up leather shoes, but I gave up giving her grief about her fashion sense a long time ago.
Pot, kettle and black and all that.
The sausages they make are for our Sunday afternoon brunch at the pub. We don’t usually serve food, but we make Sundays special and we have a good group of regulars that enjoy it, so the place is generally full.
And right now we could use all the customers we can get.
“I’m coming, I’m coming.” I huff as I grab my coat and quick-step toward my mum, who’s waiting by the door. “Why can’t Ainsley take my shift today? I’m beat. I worked open to close yesterday.”
Truth is, I’m not that tired. I’m scared. Or getting scared.
Brann Maguire has been in everyday for the last four days, and each time we end up in another round of darts and questions.
There’s this genuine affinity we have for one another and he honestly seems to want to get to know anything and everything about me. And I hate to admit it but I feel the same. And all those feelings are beginning to frighten me.
That tug that started in my belly the first day he came in has turned into an iron cord twisted and wrapped around the deep parts of me, binding me to Brann a bit more each time we’re together. There’s that crazy flip inside of me whenever I think about him. He hasn’t asked me out. Hasn’t made any attempt to kiss me or show affection other than an occasional playful twist of my hair.
That voice inside reminds me I’m not his type. I’m not really anyone’s type. Besides the voice, my eyes confirm that feeling every morning when I avoid looking in the mirror.
My thought is that it’s all a recipe for a lot of Harlequin heartache.
Because that is something this girl can live without.
“I can’t take your shift because I have a life.” Ainsley smacks back from her place on the sofa where she’s sitting with her feet up on the coffee table painting her toenails. “I’m going out with my friends. Something you wouldn’t know anything about.”
I stick my tongue out at her and she replies in kind with a mocking twist of her head.
“Girls!” Mum’s patience snaps and I feel bad.
But Ainsley’s princess act has been ramping up all week, and the truth is I should be tired. And she should be pulling her weight, not that there’s much of that. I didn’t get home until after three this morning. Mum and Dad worked with me last night as well, and it just doesn’t seem quite fair we are the three that were up early while she just rolled out of the sack two minutes ago.
“Ugh, fine.” I snap, grabbing my bag and looking inside to be sure my latest Horse & Rider magazine is there. When I do, I catch a glimpse of myself in the hallway mirror.
The best I can say about my hair is I wash it and hope for the best. Today I’ve left it down but by late this afternoon it will be driving me batty and will surely end up back on the top of my head in a ponytail or a messy knot. Brann seems to like giving the ponytail a quick tug when he wins a round of our questions and darts game, so I’ll admit I’ve been favoring the ponytail lately.
When Devan does the same thing I’m ready to beat him over the head with the nearest bottle. But, when Brann does it gives me heart palpations.
“Ainsley.” My mother’s voice is sharp. “I want you in the pub this evening to help your sister. Don’t give me any arguments or you’ll regret it. And you help her lock up, you hear?”
Ainsley rolls her eyes as is usual whenever anyone refers to us as sisters.
“Be in and ready to work by six o’clock. No excuses. Dad and I need a night off. Your father has barely slept in days. I need to get him home and get some Jameson in him and hope he sleeps.”
As far as I know, nobody’s told Ainsley about the financial stuff. From the little tid-bits I hear between Mum and Dad, the meeting they had went as well as could be expected but no hail Mary’s came through at least they haven’t shared.
“I hate taking the stupid bus,” Ainsley rolls her eyes. “Uber is lame around here, I am NOT walking, that will take me an hour.”
I twist a look her way. “What’s the matter? Your horse drawn carriage in the shop?” I sneer shifting to see my mother give me that look that tells me enough is enough.
Mum shuffles her practical black shoes another step out the door turning over her shoulder to Ainsley. “You drive Riona’s car in.”
“What? No! I don’t want her driving my car.”
My little red Volvo station wagon may not be much. It’s fifteen years old and nearly two-hundred thousand miles, but it’s mine. I saved my money since I was fourteen so I could buy myself a car.
I did the research, found it on my own. I learned about cars and engines from Dad using duct tape and prayers to keep ours running, and I do not like anyone else driving it, let alone Ainsley.
“It’s just from here to work.” Ainsley picks at her nails, shooting me a sidelong glance. “I mean, I’m taking a chance someone will see me driving in that rusty tomato.”
“Girls! I’m not arguing. There are more important hills to die on in our life.” Mum looks tired. I release my indignation on a sigh, giving up the fight for her sake. “And you Riona, watch yourself. You stop listening when you get riled and I’m in no mood to repeat meh self today.”
“So, now I have to work?” Ainsley shoots back.
“Just be at the pub by six.” Mum caps the conversations with a finger jab in the air toward Ainsley then squints one eye my way.
With that, she turns and ducks out the door, and I aim two fingers at my eyes then jab them back toward Ainsley.
I hate how tired mum looks. She and dad are the hardest working people I’ve ever seen. They had me late in life, I was sort of their miracle baby after years of trying.
So, they are both of retirement age already, not that I’ve heard either of them ever speak of it. They came to the U.S. just after they got married with a single duffel bag and their dreams. The only work Dad could get when they got here was down at the docks doing pretty much whatever he was told and mum did washing and ironing until they’d saved enough for a down payment on what is now The Parting Glass.
Formerly it was a textile shop, by the time they took the building it was barely suitable for any sort of business, but they had a vision and tenacity.
The photo of the two of them with arms around each other standing in front of the tattered awning that adorned the front of the vacant space that day hangs behind the bar as a reminder of how far they’ve come.
They worked day and night for years to build the business and it breaks my heart that it’s in jeopardy. And just at the point in their lives when they should be ready to relax and enjoy the fruits of their labor.
Of all the kinds of bars to open, it cracks my walnuts that whoever owns Harry’s had to open another Irish pub. Not to mention with its loft apartments and trendy coffee houses that end of town is attracting not just the younger crowd but the crowd with deeper pockets.
Seems the east end is old news. The shuttered store and restaurant fronts that dot the area are a cloud that hovers over The Parting Glass. I’ll do anything in my power to make sure what my parents have built will go on and be successful long after they hand it over, and I know Danny will too.
Ainsley on the other hand…I honestly don’t know what goes on with her most of the time.
Mum gives me a half-hearted swat on the side of my head as we step onto the porch.
“Why can’t Danny work tonight?” I grumble as I descend the front steps, tossing my hair back as a cool blast of late winter air takes my breath away.
Mum knows I hate closing with Ainsley. Her work ethic is shit, she’ll sneak out early given the opportunity and she sometimes lets her friends stay after close, which I hate. When you work until close, if you are driving home by three AM you’ve done well. Staying until four or five in the morning is not my idea of fun, but Ainsley and I are cut from different bolts of cloth.
I sigh, at least it’s Sunday and we close at m
idnight tonight.
“Danny rarely asks for a night off, Riona. He’s got tickets to the semi-final March Madness game, won them on some radio call in thing and he’s taking that nice boy he’s seeing with him. Joshua I think is his name. Courtside tickets, not in his budget otherwise. He works hard, too, he deserves a night off, and you know if you had something special going on, I’d make sure you had the night off too.”
I tug back my pout. Danny works harder than most of us put together, so I don’t fault him some time off. Besides, it’s Sunday, so maybe Brann will take the day off as well. That thought both makes me breathe a sigh of relief and fight off the twinge of disappointment that gathers in my gut.
The car is running with Dad in the driver’s seat wearing his Sunday fedora when we get there.
The only distinguishing difference between the Sunday fedora and the every-other-day-of-the-week fedora, is the green feather that decorates the ribbon around the brim. He barely scrapes at five feet five inches while Mum hovers at five-nine, but there’s never been a doubt Dad is the man of the house.
His height has never stopped him from taking care of the biggest drunks at the pub and he has a way about him that demands respect. But, he’s not as young as he used to me and I worry about his safety too. Luckily, he can level the most arrogant customers with a cold stare. Not to mention, when it comes to his family, his protective instincts make us all feel safer around him.
Inside the car, Mum leans over to kiss Dad on the cheek.
“Buckle up.” He says to both of us, then reaches over to squeeze my mother’s chin, turning her face toward him. “That won’t do.” His words are gruff but his eyes sparkle. “You put those lips on my lips or this car isn’t moving.”
“Ugg.” I mutter, looking out the window at our neighbor Mrs. Mertaugh walking her painfully obese Beagle down the sidewalk. For March in Pittsburgh, there’s only a few small grayish white piles of snow left here and there. Even with the clear blue sky it’s hovering only around twenty-eight degrees today but something about the smell of the air makes me think the long winter is coming to a close.