Parting Glass

by Dani Wyatt

  Growing up with parents like mine was both wonderful and horrible at the same time. Watching them kiss and touch constantly is not something a child likes to see, even if it does show you an example of what sort of relationship you may want for yourself someday.

  Out of the corner of my eye I see Mum lean over and set a kiss on Dad’s lips. It’s not a peck either, and when he tangles his hand in the back of her hair, I avert my eyes staring out the window until I feel the car ease out of the driveway.

  I’m half surprised when Dad turns left instead of right, taking us towards the west side of town. Not our usual route to the pub.

  In a few minutes, we are heading down West Main toward Harry’s Bar. Dad’s a business man and checking out your competition isn’t without merit. To tell the truth, by now I’ve half expected him to make a visit there with a snooker cue and start smashing things. If that ever comes to pass, I’ll be right behind him.

  When we stop at a red light, he turns over his shoulder and gives me a rare full smile showing the glint of a single gold incisor.

  “Yer friend coming in everyday most now, eh?”

  My stomach does that stupid flip thing even though Dad doesn’t mention a name.

  “I dunno. Just a customer, that’s all, in from Cork to visit his brother or his best friend or do some business with someone.” I shake my head and fiddle with the ring on my finger under Dad’s questioning stare. “He’s just wasting time. Says he’s going back home next week.” Those last words leave me feeling chillier than when I got in the car.

  Dad’s playful look turns stern as his thick eyebrows draw together. Dad is as loyal as a Doberman and cares for his family with a fierce pride, but he’s a take-no-shit sort and you want to pick your battles carefully.

  “Going home next week, eh? Me thinks not.” He turns back to the road as the light turns green. Mum sits humming next to him, her knitting needles clicking together. If she’s not sleeping, working or cooking she’s knitting.

  And listening.

  I learned a long time ago not to mistake her humming and knitting for a lack of attention to every detail of what’s going on around her. Dad adds, “I know a customer when I see one. That man isn’t coming around for the pints.”

  I want to believe him but I also look at myself and then I look at Brann and see two people that in no fairy tale would be a happily-ever-after. My looks would be more described as unruly than refined and, well, my hips and ass are about the same only on steroids.

  And Brann? Well, there’s a football team somewhere missing a linebacker, that’s for sure, but it’s more. He’s an Irish mountain man with the sex appeal of Sean Connery and there’s no way that I get to be that girl.

  As we turn the corner and Harry’s comes into view, we see the queue stretching out the door. The tension inside the brown Buick thickens.

  “What in Lord’s name…” There’s a catch in Mum’s voice.

  The banner flapping in the breeze outside of Harry’s reads “Join Us for Our New SUNDAY Brunch! Five dollars ALL YOU CAN EAT!”

  The color drains from my father’s face and his knuckles turn white as he grips the steering wheel. He stares straight ahead and his jaw muscle flexing. Sunday brunch has been my father’s favorite event at the pub as far back as I can remember. It usually fills us to capacity and he and Mum always serve at the buffet. It gives them a rare chance to visit with the customers in a more leisurely way.

  As well, there’s not as much alcohol involved on a Sunday morning so it feels more like having people over to your house for a holiday. A good number of the customers who come in, my parents have known for decades. Dad’s always thought of the brunch as something that set us apart and offered a sense of community.

  I force an inhale, trying to say something reassuring. “It will be okay. It’s just a fad.” My upbeat act falls flat and inside the car the energy has turned thick and dark as a cloud blocks out the sunshine.

  These days, our brunch was one of the few things left that gave our pub a good financial shot in the arm every week.

  Everything we do, Harry’s copies and they try to do it ten times bigger for half the price. I have half a mind to march down there and put a stick in the eye of whoever owns the place, but both Mum and Dad have always taught us to leave those details to God. It’s our job to live our lives the way we see fit and be able to sleep at night.

  There’s a pressure growing in my ears.

  “Riona’s right.” Mum reaches over and squeezes the back of Dad’s neck. “St. Patrick’s Day is just around the corner. We will come up with something wonderful and that will bring us back. We’ve survived worse, we will survive this.”

  The rest of the five-minute drive none of us speak. I’m half ashamed when my thoughts are more on Brann than the family struggles but I can’t seem to shake thoughts of him nearly twenty-four hours a day.

  When we get to The Parting Glass, Danny is busy inside setting up the chafing dishes and the long banquet tables for the food. Dad silently fixes himself in the small kitchen area behind the bar, getting the sausages in the oven and the other food prepped while mum starts wiping down tables.

  I get to work behind the bar when I look up to see Danny standing there with a stupid grin on his face.

  “What?” I wipe down another pint glass and place it on the shelf above the taps.

  “What? What, she says. What is named Brann Maguire.” He tips his head toward the front of the pub.

  Outside the front window, leaning against a vintage Jeep Wagoneer, is Brann. This time, it isn’t just my belly that reacts, either. There is that pull again, but it connects directly between my legs.

  “What is he doing here? We don’t open for an hour.” I glance up at the Jameson clock on the wall. “Doesn’t he have anywhere else to go?” I force annoyance into my voice but inside me fireworks are exploding.

  “Why so many questions? Oh, that’s right, questions are your thing, aren’t they?” A stupid grin covers his face, and it makes the heat rise to my own. “Why don’t you just go ask him instead of me? Or shoo him away with a broom like our mom used to do with the drunks in the doorway back in the day.” Danny twists a towel in the air and snaps it at me.

  I swat it away with a bark. “Stop it, ass. And maybe I will. Fippin’ arrogant, or stupid, showing up so early. Can’t he read.” The sign with our hours hangs clear as day on the front door.

  I smack my lips and take a long look through the painted sign on the front glass window at Brann leaning there. He looks even bigger than usual today, wearing brown sort of canvas work pants and a deep red and black flannel shirt. He’s staring straight in the window while he talks on his phone.

  I toss him a dismissive wave then go right back to my work. He can wait.

  But I’m not so sure about me.

  6

  Brann

  “How much are we talking?” My heart pounds as I try to take in what John, my accountant and business guru, is saying. “Enough for me to buy out Henry’s share in the pub?”

  I’ve been on a bit of a buying binge of businesses the last few years. It’s been my only focus, to tell the truth. I mean, apart from the house back home I haven’t really spent any of it, just kept investing in everything that looks promising. John has been a godsend, keeping track of where my money is and bringing me new opportunities when he sees them. We’re cut from the same cloth, and it’s amazing how in sync we usually are. He gets some hefty return for his services as well so it’s a win-win the way things should be.

  He provides the businesses with his knowledge and I get to be as involved as I’d like. Gives me freedom and still some focus.

  He laughs. “If that’s all you want, can I have the rest? I mean, I’ll be retiring to the Bahamas and an all you can eat pussy buffet—”

  “Give me the bottom line.” I cut him off before he starts getting descriptive. When he gives me a cold, hard number, even I almost choke. “Really? That much?”

  “I
t’s one of our best returns to date my friend. I’ve got my eye on a little villa—"

  “Yeah, okay, you’ll get your end. And this is cashable, right? No waiting?”

  “Sure, there are no end of investors lining up to take shares off our hands. I mean, wait a year or two and it might be worth twice that, but you know as well as I do how volatile the tech market is. I’m with you on this one, Brann, I say we cash out. We do it today, I can have at least half of it in your account by the time the banks close.”

  “Good. Do it. What about Higham, Jones and Bingle? Did you find anything out?”

  “Oh yeah, you’ll like this, man.” He chuckles. “Your memory is like fucking Rain Man or something. Seriously, nobody else would have put that together.”

  “So tell me.”

  “Maybe if I say the names Patrick Higgum and Gene Bindel it’ll make more sense?”

  “Fucking hell…” My voice trails off.

  Obviously, somewhere in the back of my mind, those names had set off a flag and I just couldn’t quite put my finger on it. Jones is someone new then, but I know Higham and Bingle from my former life in the Garda, when they were going by other names. I wouldn’t exactly say they were drug smugglers, I mean nothing was ever proven, but there were conspiracy theories and whispered rumors. Obviously, it would be enough to make their lives very uncomfortable if it were to become common knowledge, otherwise they wouldn’t be hiding their names behind a corporate facade.

  “Yeah, fucking hell exactly. Tread carefully there, Brann. My advice? Forget that pub and get yourself back here. Buy a nice little bar in Cork if you’re that desperate for free drinks.”

  “And Jones?” I ignore his advice as if he hadn’t said anything. I have no intention of letting that drop. So far the HJB suits have been ignoring my calls and plowing ahead with the buyout. I don’t like how much influence they’ve already got over at Harry’s Bar, either. But that might all change if I put in a call to whoever Jones is and have a word about his business partners.

  “Can’t find much about him, to tell the truth. Some business graduate or whatever. Graham Jones. I think he’s pretty much a nobody.”

  “Good. Get me his contact info.”

  John takes a breath as if he’s going to say something, but he knows better. “Sure,” he says after a pause. “Oh, one more thing before you go. I said you didn’t have the cash, but that was a couple of days ago. You know Terry Mumford, right? Salt of the earth type, knows everyone who knows everyone. Well, he’s looking for someone that can place a loan. No collateral, but I know you like to help out good Irish families and all—”

  There’s a pop as the deadlocks on the pub door are thrown back, and suddenly my mind wants this conversation to be over. “Sure, whatever, we have the cash now. Lend it. I’ve got to go.”

  “Great, I’ll see to it.”

  “Get me that number for Graham Jones,” I say as I hang up.

  I turn, and I can’t help the enthusiastic grin that spreads over my face when Riona finally swings open the door. Cheeky girl. She’s the best sort of pain in the ass. She’s shown me both her sweet and saucy side in the last four days and each day I fall in love with her a little more.

  Sure, I could have asked her out on a proper date by now. But there’s something comfortable here. Playing darts for questions while she feels safe and at home in the pub I think has allowed her to show me more of her true self.

  Dates seem so contrived. The small talk, while engaging in some completely staged activity that deep down you both probably wish was over.

  I don’t want to share small talk with her. I want every word to be meaningful. I want to know what makes her tick. I want every day be part of our life together. I want to know if she wakes up cheerful or grouchy. If she likes her toast charcoal black or barely brown. I need to know all the things that make her smile or make her scared so I’ll be ready to take care of each one when the time comes.

  Because that time is coming.

  Quickly.

  “You’re early, Brann Maguire.” Her green eyes shimmer as she straps her words with a touch of sarcasm.

  “I’m not early, I’m right on time. Watching you through the window is like my pre-game show.” I give her ponytail a quick tug as I go by, stepping inside and eyeing my usual table.

  I’m immediately rock hard and I’ve quit worrying that she’ll notice. There’s no way in God’s green meadow that she’s not taken note of the constant erection I sport whenever I’m near her. “Besides,” I say as she steps back inside with me, shaking her head, “I’ve got to leave in about hour and half. Watching you through the window I at least got more time with you.”

  “Aren’t you a smooth talker. I’ve got Teflon armor when it comes to that just so ya know.” Her cheeks ripen to rose red. She’s finding it harder and harder to maintain her tough-girl act around me.

  A few customers begin to shuffle in behind us. Calling out greetings as they do. I watch as she and her family genuinely greet each one by name with warm smiles and inside jokes.

  Truth is, this is probably what Henry has been missing. The Parting Glass know their customers like friends of the family; same as the pubs back home. Harry’s might be newer, might be slicker and trendier, but your traditional Irish pub is friendlier. The customers and Riona banter back and forth for a few minutes, even as I see her eyes flit my way between the exchanges.

  She’s wearing her usual: jeans that fill out in all the right places, along with her Parting Glass T-shirt that pulls tight over tits that were born to be in my mouth. Soon enough, I keep telling myself, soon enough, Brann Maguire.

  “Will you still be here?” She catches me off guard with the question, but I see her eyes dart to the wall behind me, and turn to find an ad for St. Patrick’s Day here at The Parting Glass.

  “I might be.” I grin.

  Deep down, I know I will be. I have a flight scheduled the day before, but hell if I’m ever leaving here.

  My reply hangs between us. I watch her mouth open and close as if she wants to say more. I want her to tell me she wants me to be here but then she shakes her head. “The usual is it then?” She asks, and I love that twinkle I see in her eye as she sets her weight on one hip and leans on the table with one hand. “And the food is ten dollars. All you can eat. Don’t put us out of business.” She adds, and it’s like a punch in the gut.

  “Yep, the usual and it smells amazing. I promise I’ll behave and at least leave some scraps for everyone else.” I suck in a long breath taking in her scent. “And today we’re changing up our game.”

  “Oh? You make the rules now, do ya?”

  “I do. Today it’s winning dart gets to choose what we do tomorrow.” I lean over the table toward her. My eyes dance over each exposed inch of her, memorizing it all for future reference. My skin prickles, just as it always does when she’s so close. My fingertips twitch, wishing they were tangled in her hair.

  “Tomorrow? What do you mean tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow.” I nod, as sure about this as I’ve been about anything in my life. “Tomorrow, you and I are going out. So, it’s just the one dart today. I win, I decide what we do and where we go. You win, you choose.”

  “Is that so? How about you ask me if I even want to go anywhere with you tomorrow? Maybe I have to work. Or how do you know I don’t have a boyfriend?”

  Her nipples give her away, poking out on her tank, and I wonder what they will look like when they are full of milk after she has our first baby. How they could be more perfect, I’m not sure, but my crazy mind travels in all sorts of directions these days.

  She’s cute when she’s trying to cover up her smile. The way she always twists and fiddles with her Claddagh ring when she’s nervous.

  “I know you don’t have to work, because your schedule is posted back by the john. As far as the boyfriend? I did my research. Besides, if you did have a boyfriend, it was over four days ago. And, Danny gave you up. Only cost me fifty bucks. He’s e
asier than you.” I nod my head toward the bar where Danny is talking to his adopted mother, and Riona narrows her eyes, but doesn’t say a word. “So, let’s get on with it. I need to know what our plans are tomorrow.”

  She shifts on her hip and I see the way she tenses her thighs together. The movement is small, but tells me what I need to know as well as it makes my balls draw tight. Desperation clutches in my gut needing to fill her sweet cunt with my cum. I’m sure, if I even brushed against her right now I’d cream my jeans like a twelve-year-old.

  The way she glances back at Danny, I can see her irritation that he gave up info on her. What she doesn’t know, is he has her back. And he can read people, even me.

  The second visit here when I took my table, he made a beeline for me.

  Turned a chair backwards and took a seat, letting me know in no uncertain terms if I had anything other than the best of intentions, he would be sure I limped on my other leg.

  I should be ashamed but I’m not that I’ve been following her around nearly every spare moment when she’s not here at the pub. Legally I am sure I would fit the qualifications for a stalker at this point. But when I’m not at the pub playing darts with her or dealing with my other life business, I’m watching her. Thinking about her. Planning the life I see with her.

  This evening I’ll be hiding in the shadows after close to make sure she gets home safely. I know her routine and I’ve become quite good at not being noticed. She usually closes with Danny, if not with her mum and dad, but for me that’s not enough. I need to make sure.

  She draws in a deep breath, then lets it out through her nose. “Well then. Here’s what we’re going to do. Write down what we want to do tomorrow. That way, when I win, I’ll still get to see what your choice would have been.” She reaches into her back pocket and pulls out the little notebook and pen she carries there and hands them to me. “You write down yours first. Fold it up and put it there.” She points at the chalk board on the wall where dart players who actually play for points keep score. A line of multi-colored magnets are haphazardly placed along the top edge.