Straight Up

by Deirdre Martin

  “How far out of town is the farm?”

  David narrowed his eyes. “Seems to be you’re asking a helluva lot of questions about The McCafferty.”

  “Just curious.”

  “A bit too much,” said Jack, beginning to look alarmed. “You fancy her, don’t you?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Like she’d have you,” David sneered. “She won’t even give the time of day to an Irishman. What makes you think she’d soften her heart for a Yank?”

  Liam just rolled his eyes. From the minute he’d arrived in town, he’d had to deal with animosity from these three clowns who seemed to think they were Ballycraig’s cocks of the walk.

  “Yeah,” Fergus chimed in. “You heard her: you’re a plastic Paddy. We all know it. On the lam from the Irish mob, my arse. You’re one of them rich Yanks over here looking for your roots.”

  “A rich Yank depriving an Irishman of a job,” added Teague, gesturing at the bar.

  “I hate to tell you gobaloons, but Liam has years of bartending experience,” said Jack, coming to Liam’s defense. “His parents own a pub in New York City.”

  “So that’s a reason to install him here at the Oak before giving me a shot?” Teague shot back heatedly.

  “Teague Daly, it’s no secret to anyone in this town that you’ve got about as much drive as a Brit,” Jack said bluntly. “I’ve no doubt that if I’d hired you in this job, within a fortnight you’d be moaning on day and night about how hard it is.”

  His friends laughed.

  “Feck you, Jack,” Teague hissed.

  “The truth hurts, ay?” Jack teased.

  Teague gave him the old two fingered salute.

  Jack put a hand on Liam’s shoulder. “Listen to me. I know that under the mud The McCafferty is a gorgeous piece of womanhood, but if you’re thinkin’ of trying to tame her, don’t waste your time.”

  “You make her sound like a horse!”

  “A horse would have more luck with her,” Teague muttered.

  “Truly, I wouldn’t waste your time,” Old Jack repeated solemnly. “She’ll chew you up and spit you out—assuming she’d even let you close to her.”

  “I bet you’re wrong.”

  Old Jack thrust his head forward as if he hadn’t heard Liam correctly. “What did you just say?”

  “I said, I bet you’re wrong. I bet I can break down her defenses and get her to go out with me.”

  David, Fergus, and Teague howled with laughter.

  “Christ, will you listen to the ego on it!” said David. “You Yanks! You all think you’re Superheroes!”

  “It’ll never happen,” said Fergus, shaking his head. “Never in a million years.”

  Liam flashed a confident grin. “Wanna bet?”

  Old Jack’s eyes lit up. “What are we betting?”

  “If I win, you double my wages. If I lose, you don’t have to pay me for a year.”

  “You’re on.” They shook on it.

  “See what did I tell you?” said Fergus disgustedly. “No wages for a year? He’s a rich Yank! He’s hiding from the taxman, not the Mob.”

  “You’re going to lose this wager,” Teague said to Liam. “You wait and see. And then you’re gonna come crawlin’ back here with your tail between your legs—and believe me, that’s all you’ll have between your legs after The McCafferty finishes with you.”

  “We’ll see. Now: anyone need a refill?”

  Straight Up

  Chapter Two

  ************************************************************************************************

  Early the next afternoon, Liam set out to walk the two miles to Aislinn's farm. It was a beautiful day, sunny and clear, with white clouds trailing lazily across the pale blue sky that seemed to stretch on forever. A light breeze was blowing, carrying on it the smell of fresh green grass. He could smell a peat fire burning far off.

  Liam took his time walking the narrow roads lined with low gray stone walls and hawthorn bushes. Rolling emerald fields stretched out before him, the color so vivid they almost looked like they'd been touched up for a postcard. He heard birdsong, and in the distance, the bleating of sheep. There was no denying it: the Irish countryside was beautiful. And yet, he missed home.

  He missed the hustle of Manhattan, its quick rhythm and frenetic energy. But most of all, he missed his family. He and his brother Quinn e-mailed each other daily, and Quinn's vivid writing sometimes made Liam feel as if he were actually there witnessing life unfold at the Wild Hart. But it wasn't the same. He wasn't there in person to hug his sister Maggie and congratulate her about expecting her first child. He wasn't there to see his sister Sinead relaxed and happy now that her horrible, prolonged divorce was through. Not there to see Quinn and his wife Natalie tease each other or to witness the affection between his parents that he and his sibs all aspired to in their own relationships. He even missed the patrons of the bar. But he couldn't go back lest he risk his life.

  Thanks to his childhood friend Tommy, who was a runner for the Irish Mafia in Manhattan, he'd been set up, tricked into aiding and abetting Tommy in the torching of a video store. Whitey Connors, the head of the Irish Mob, could now drop a dime on Liam if he wanted to. Of course, Liam was just a pawn, a way for Whitey to try to stop his brother, Quinn, from working on his newspaper exposé about the Mob. At first Whitey played nice: but one day, he arranged a meeting with Quinn and made it clear that if Quinn didn't drop the story, he just might kill Liam. Whitey dare not go after Quinn directly: as Quinn had once told Liam, the Mafia were stupid, but they weren't stupid enough to kill a journalist.

  Fortunately for Liam, one of the longtime patrons at his parents' bar, an elderly man known as the Major, had been an officer in the Irish Republican Army in its fight for independence. The Major was respected and still feared, even by the likes of Whitey. It was the Major who arranged for Liam to go to Ireland, believing Whitey wouldn't dare touch him if he knew it was the Major, and perhaps his shadowy old friends, behind sending him away. So Liam went, even though Quinn's article resulted in Whitey and a bunch of other goons being jailed. But Quinn's sources at the FBI told him it wasn't safe for Liam to come home yet. And now here he was, not knowing when he'd be able to go back to New York, if ever.

  He yawned, walking on. He hadn't gotten much sleep. The official closing time for the Royal Oak was twelve thirty, but once the musicians started playing, there was no getting them out of there until at least two o'clock, not that anyone minded. It never failed to amaze Liam that when Old Jack finally did close, everyone stood and sang the Irish national anthem in Gaelic. He tried to picture the patrons of the Hart rising to sing “The Star-Spangled Banner” and laughed out loud.

  Once in bed, he'd found himself unable to stop thinking about Aislinn. The McCafferty. How hysterical was it that a pack of men actually seemed scared of her? It might be understandable if she was an ax-wielding maniac, but she wasn't. Okay, she did come across as a spitfire, but it was obviously some kind of defense mechanism. He had no doubt he'd win his bet. All he had to do was break through, and given his track record, he had every confidence it could be achieved.

  He'd never met any woman who'd been able to resist his charms for long. Part of it was his looks, but another part of it was his undeniable moodiness. Women found him deep and mysterious, and he saw no reason to disabuse them of the notion.

  But it wasn't just ego that told him he'd be able to “tame” Aislinn. He was a bartender, for chrissakes. He knew how to read people, get them to talk and open up. All he had to do was gain her trust. It was going to be a cakewalk.

  Liam's walk came to an end when he spotted a large stone farmhouse atop a hill. There were two barns and two small outbuildings nearby. The surrounding pastures on both sides of the road were bisected by stone walls and wire fences. The big tip-off he'd arrived were the sheep spilling across the road, being herded along by a border collie.

  He dutifully waited for the herd to pass, then c
ontinued walking until he came to the long, winding, deeply rutted road leading up to the house. Hard as it was for him to believe, his heartbeat was actually picking up pace. He was nervous.

  Liam picked his way around the potholes, pissed that he hadn't had the foresight to wear his hiking boots rather than his running shoes, which were rapidly becoming covered in oozing mud

  Now atop the hill, he turned and looked below. The view was spectacular. Open land as far as the eye could see: ancient, twisted trees; hedgerows. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, fully experiencing the momentary sense of peace and wonder overtaking him. He opened his eyes. He could hear someone rustling around in the nearest outbuilding. He stuck his head in. “Hello?”

  An ancient, hunched old man looked up from hosing out a green plastic trough. Old Jack was right: Padraig was older than God, but there was still a spark in his crinkled blue eyes. He turned off the hose, put it down, and approached Liam.

  “Can I help you? Here to buy some wool?”

  “Actually, I'm here to see Aislinn.”

  “Aislinn?” The old man looked mildly alarmed. “Who are you?”

  “Liam O'Brien. I tend bar down at the Royal Oak.”

  Padraig relaxed as his eyes lit up with recognition. “Bridget and Paul's nephew? The Yank?”

  Liam chuckled. “Yes, the Yank. Couldn't you tell from my accent?”

  “Didn't really notice it, to tell the truth. I'm Padraig.”

  “Nice to meet you,” said Liam, shaking his hand.

  “They're good people, Bridget and Paul.”

  “They are. Maybe you remember my parents, Charlie and Kathleen O'Brien?”

  “Of course I do! Moved to New York!”

  “That's them.”

  “Lovely, lovely. Send them my regards, will you?”

  “Of course.”

  Padraig started back toward the troughs.

  “I'm here to see Aislinn, remember?” Liam called after him.

  Padraig stopped and turned. “Oh sure, sure, right enough. If you go up to the top of the hill behind the house and turn left, you'll see her far off in the high north meadow, tending to the fences. Ask her if she wants a cuppa soon. She's been up at it for hours.”

  “Will do. And thanks.”

  “My pleasure, son.”

  Liam resisted the urge to peer into the windows of the house, and started up the hill. Son of a bitch, he thought as his sneakers sank farther and farther into muddy grass. You're an idiot Something I'm sure Aislinn will confirm.

  He made it to the top of the hill and turned left, as Padraig instructed. There, off in the distance, no bigger than a speck on the horizon, was Aislinn. Corning closer, he saw that she was on her knees with her back to him. mending a wire fence. She was wearing a baseball cap, her dark auburn hair pulled back in a ponytail. It didn't seem to bother her to be kneeling in mud. He decided that he'd call to her from a short distance away; that way, it wouldn't look like he was creeping up on her.

  “Hey!”

  She turned around, and he waved to her with a big smile. When he finally was close to enough to see her expression, there was no mistaking the displeasure on her face.

  She rose to her feet. “What on earth are you doing here?”

  Liam shrugged affably. “I thought I'd just stop by to say hi.”

  She frowned. “Oh you did, did you?”

  “All right, I'll be honest. I felt bad about that comment I made to you last night about your flirting with me. I'm sorry it drove you out of the pub early.”

  “You didn't drive me out early,” Aislinn replied gruffly. “My intent was to go in, have a few quick drams to warm myself up, and then head back here - which is exactly what I did. Some of us have to get up early, you know.”

  “And some of us work till the early hours of the morning.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “I still wish we'd gotten off on a better foot.” He held out a hand. “Friends?”

  Aislinn eyed him warily. “Try acquaintances, and barely that.” She took his hand, shaking it brusquely before turning back to the fence. “I'm busy, as you can see.”

  “Can I help?”

  She whirled to face him. “Is that your idea of a joke?”

  “No.”

  “Well, it's funny all the same, believe me. Of course you can't help,” she scoffed. “What in God's name would the likes of you know about mending fences, city boy?”

  “Well, nothing,” Liam admitted, “but I understand the concept behind it, and -”

  Aislinn snorted. “I understand the concept behind making an atomic bomb, but that doesn't mean I can do it.”

  “Eejit,” he heard her say under his breath. She was right. He was an idiot.

  But he wasn't giving up. "Maybe if you show me. .

  “What?” She pointed her pliers at him with narrowed eyes. “What's your game? Coming up here uninvited and offering to help me mend fences?”

  “I told you: I came here to apologize.”

  “Right: apology accepted. Off with you, then. And don't ever just show up here again uninvited. It's rude.”

  Liam smiled roguishly. “Does that mean I might get invited up here sometime and you can show me then?”

  Aislinn wiped a bead of sweat off her forehead and just stared at him. “You know, I'm starting to think you truly are a little soft in the head. Why in the name of Jesus would I ever invite you up here?”

  “To get to know me better.”

  "You're mad. You truly are. Go away.

  “For now.“ Liam returned lightly. ”Oh, I almost forgot: Padraig wants to know if you want a cup of tea soon."

  Tell him I'll be down in an hour or so.

  “Will do.”

  Liam winked, starting back down the hill with a jaunty whistle. He could feel Aislinn's eyes burning smoking holes into his back. He was going to win this bet. All it would take was time.

  *****

  What in the name of hell was that all about? Aislinn wondered as she watched Liam disappear out of sight. First he had the gall to show up unannounced, then he asked to help her out with a chore he knew nothing about, and to top it all off, he flashed an “I can charm the pants off you” smile while hinting about her inviting him over sometime. The cheek of him!

  She had to admit, he did seem sincere in his apology. Even so, he could have just waited until the next time she stopped into the pub. Making a special trip up to see her didn't make sense.

  She'd had a very productive day so far, and that pleased her. She turned her face up to the bright, glorious sun. Why would anyone ever want to live in a city? All that noise and people hurrying about. The country was the place that fed her soul. The land, the songs of the black-birds and the robins, the clean, clean air, and of course, her beloved flock. She couldn't imagine living anywhere else. Ever.

  She made her way down the hill. Padraig was sitting on the small bench outside the tool shed with Aislinn's border collie, Deenie, at his feet. Deenie jumped up at the sight of her.

  “There's my girl,” said Aislinn. crouching down to give the dog's belly a good rub and let Deenie cover her face in kisses. She rose, patting heron the head as she looked across the road. Her flock was grazing right where they were supposed to be. "Good job, Deenie. As always.

  She approached Padraig. “Did you finish rinsing out the troughs, old man?”

  “Of course I did. Ages ago. Shall we have some tea?”

  “In a minute. That guy who was just here? If he ever comes round again, tell him to go away, all right?”

  Padraig looked relieved. “I'm dead happy to hear you say that, I must confess. I thought maybe you were wantin' to hire someone else to help us out.”

  Aislinn patted his shoulder. “Why should I need help when I've got you, eh?”

  “Too true. Now tell me: why is it you don't want the likes of him here? He seemed a nice enough lad.”

  "He's a pain in the arse, that's what he is. I mean it, Padraig: if he comes snif
fing round again. I want you to send him on his Yankee way.

  “Is he sweet on you?” Padraig asked slyly.

  “Don't be daft! And even if he were, he's barking up the wrong tree. Are we clear?”

  “As a pane of glass, girl.” He took a deep breath, rising slowly with the grimace of someone who'd acquired a lifetime of aches and pains. “Now let's put the kettle on.”

  *****

  Even though it was a bit of a walk, they took their morning tea break in Padraig's cottage. It hadn't always been this way: before Aislinn's parents were killed, breaks were usually taken in the farmhouse kitchen or else out in the fields when her mother would bring her, her father, and Padraig a vacuum flask of tea. But ever since their deaths, Padraig had insisted she come to his place. Perhaps it was his way of comforting her or trying to give something back to her for keeping him on (as if that were even an issue). At any rate, Aislinn was glad of it. Change was good. At least that's what she told herself whenever she felt the old black dog of depression nipping at her heels.

  She sat down at the kitchen table, watching as Padraig filled his battered old kettle before putting it on the stove.

  “Padraig,” Aislinn said gently. “You've lit the wrong burner.”

  “Ah, right, right.” He turned off the flame and lit the right one. God, he could burn down the cottage one night, Aislinn thought worriedly. She toyed with the idea of asking him to move into the house with her, then quickly came to her senses: he'd drive her mad with his untidiness and tales of the old days.

  He opened a tin of biscuits, arranging them on a small, floral patterned plate before her. “Are you excited about your sister coming tomorrow night?”

  Aislinn sighed. “I guess.”

  A professor of economics at the University of London, Nora was on sabbatical and coming home to “spend some time with Aislinn,” as well as work on an article for an esteemed economic journal that she hoped would result in tenure. Aislinn was mystified: for years, all Nora had ever talked about was how glad she was to have “escaped” Ireland, as if the whole country was Maze prison. Aislinn had gone once to visit her and her husband, Donald, a stockbroker. She didn't like Donald much - he had a stick up his arse that reached clear up to his throat - but he doted on Nora, and that's all that mattered. As for London, it wasn't her cup of tea, but unlike her sister, she didn't feel compelled to put it down the way Nora did Ballycraig.