by Eliza Watson
If she found out.
We left and a block later encountered an upscale shop where Kathleen dropped more on a set of Waterford Crystal wineglasses than I’d spent on all my souvenirs.
Next we passed by a corner restaurant with a red exterior and red and purple potted petunias hanging along the front.
“Oh, how cute is this? Let’s do lunch.” Kathleen zipped inside before I could respond.
A gentleman in a black suit, with a French accent rather than an Irish one, led us through the restaurant done in red furnishings, white linens, and red walls filled with autographed celebrity photos—some of whom I recognized. He seated us at a window table with a pre-theater menu. We were apparently in the theater district, the reason for the celebrity photos.
I excused myself and made a beeline for the bathroom to call Rachel.
“She wants to do lunch. Is that okay?”
“That’s fine.”
“It looks like a crazy-expensive place.”
“Put it on your credit card and expense it.”
My credit card? My heart raced.
“If that’s not okay, I can pop over and give them my card.”
“No, that’s fine.”
This lunch would likely deplete the available credit on my card. No way could I tell Rachel that. I could call Declan and ask him to come to my rescue. However, I was sending him some serious mixed signals.
What the hell was I going to do?
This was lunch, not dinner. Maybe it wouldn’t be too expensive.
I returned to the table to find Kathleen sipping a white wine, with a glass of wine sitting at my place. It wasn’t even noon. I couldn’t drink on the job, could I? And I preferred red.
“I hope you like the wine,” Kathleen said. “If not, get something else, and I’ll drink it.”
I took a sip of the sweet wine, freaking out over how expensive it tasted. I’d have to blame my credit card company for denying my charge, despite having advised them of my travels abroad. I scanned the menu for the cheapest item, a bowl of Irish seafood chowder.
“Thanks so much for shopping with me. I miss girls’ days out with Alyssa.” Kathleen took a drink of wine, then stared longingly at the glass. “I hardly see her since she went off to college last year. And Tom doesn’t get it. He says I need to give her space. Can you believe that?”
“That’s a man for you.”
That was the CEO. What if she told her husband, I had lunch with Caity, and she agrees that you’re an insensitive jerk? I had to watch what I said. I also didn’t want Tom to think I’d been out boozing it up with her.
“Exactly.” She polished off her wine and gestured to the waiter for another. “Sometimes he’s so unsympathetic, I could leave him.” She glanced down at the three-carat rock on her finger. “You know what I mean?”
Whoa. The conversation had officially veered outside my comfort zone. I was a scorned woman and would like nothing more than a lively bout of men bashing, except when the CEO and my job were involved.
“Where’s Alyssa going to school?” I asked, attempting to get the conversation back on track.
“Madison. Too far. I feel like we’re growing apart.” She reminisced about attending the Nutcracker every Christmas since Alyssa was little. The two of them vacationing in Italy. And their weekend shopping trips to Chicago. The waiter brought her more wine, and she took a gulp. A tear slipped down her cheek.
I shifted in my chair, taking a sip of wine. I never knew how to react when people cried. Did Kathleen want me to console her with a hug or ignore her tears? Was it appropriate to hug a client? Ugh. I never doubted Mom’s love for us, but she wasn’t a hugger, and growing up we’d received few words of sympathy. If we scraped a knee or had a fight with a friend, she was more the suck it up type mom. Oddly enough, she was overbearing, yet we weren’t brought up to openly discuss our feelings. I’d told her the bare minimum about Andy because her friend had landed me the job and I also had to warn her in case he showed up on their doorstep.
Kathleen bent over and rifled through her purse on the floor, searching for a tissue. I swooped in and poured some of her wine in my water glass, which was now full. I glanced around to see if anyone was watching, unable to believe I’d just done that. I eyed the centerpiece, daffodils in a crystal vase, with room for wine. I slipped off my suit jacket, starting to sweat.
She finally found a tissue and blew her nose.
“I rarely came home when I first went to college, wanting to be independent. And now I’m living back home.”
This news perked Kathleen up, while making me want to slam my glass of wine. “So your mom and you are close again?”
I nodded. Closer than we’d been since I’d started dating Andy anyway.
“I only want what’s best for Alyssa.”
Same as Mom, but that was difficult to remember when she was calling and e-mailing me a dozen times a day and playing career counselor. Mom had likely been this upset over me moving in with Andy and rarely seeing her. Had she had a similar meltdown at Aunt Teri’s kitchen table, wondering where she’d gone wrong that both her daughters had abandoned her? My chest tightened at the thought of causing Mom so much pain. If she’d explained how she’d felt, maybe I’d have snapped out of my brainwashed state of mind.
“Tell Alyssa how you feel,” I said. “That you want to give her freedom—you just don’t want to grow apart. That your relationship is important to you.”
Not real profound advice. However, a faint smile curled Kathleen’s lips, and she was no longer crying. “You’re right. We should talk about it.”
Maybe Mom and I needed a girls’ day out to do lunch and have fun without discussing psycho Andy or my lack of employment and future prospects.
Lunch arrived along with Kathleen’s third glass of wine. She had grilled salmon on a bed of rice. My Irish seafood chowder contained several types of fish, scallops, shrimp, bacon, and potatoes. It was delish, though a small serving. I used the brown bread to wipe every creamy drop from the bowl.
Our conversation focused on Alyssa’s degree and her high aspirations for a career after college. Sounded like me when I’d first entered college, before reality had set in. Kathleen insisted we share an order of macaroons, her favorite dessert, and she had a Baileys coffee.
I couldn’t win. Except she insisted on paying the bill. I didn’t argue, since it would max out my credit card. Hopefully, Rachel would approve.
On the way back to the hotel, Kathleen failed to realize we’d passed by the same fiddle player in a green kilt three times, even though she’d tossed a euro in his fiddle case each encounter and had a picture taken with him once. I wanted her to walk off as much alcohol as possible. Rather than being stumbling drunk and slurring her words, she was giddy, chatting incessantly about nothing. Better than talking smack about her husband.
By the time we reached the hotel, she seemed fairly sober, until she couldn’t decide which elevator bank went to her room, so I escorted her. When we arrived at her room, she slipped the key in the door, but it wouldn’t open.
“These keys are such a pain in the ass. They never work.” She started pounding on the door. “Tom.”
Omigod, Tom was there? My heart raced. Why wasn’t he over at Flanagan’s brewery? Although she likely had no clue as to the time and that Tom wasn’t back yet.
“I’ll go get a new key,” I said.
The door next to us opened, and Tom poked out his head, looking annoyed, his cell phone to his ear. Nothing said I’m drunk like trying to break into the wrong room. Kathleen gave me a hug, thanked me for a great girls’ day out, then raised her nose in the air, snubbing her husband as she brushed past him with her hands full of bags. I could just hear her repeating our conversation about him being an insensitive jerk. I wanted to offer to take a breathalyzer test so at least he knew I wasn’t drunk! Tom eyed her with disapproval, then flashed me a look I couldn’t decipher, before shutting the door. Embarrassment? Disappointment? Anger? Wh
at did that look mean?
I ran to my room, brushed my teeth, and popped a mint, hoping Rachel wouldn’t smell wine on my breath.
I entered the office, and Rachel sprang from her chair, an apprehensive look on her face. “How’d it go?”
“Great.” I could feel sweat beading above my upper lip.
Her gaze narrowed. “Really? You need to tell me if it didn’t. She doesn’t seem as difficult as the last CEO’s wife, Natalie, who we called Batalie.”
I had to tell Rachel the truth. It wasn’t like I’d had any control over Kathleen drinking. I’d handled the situation as well as possible. But would Rachel agree?
“She’s really nice. She had a few glasses of wine and insisted on paying the bill. Wouldn’t take no for an answer. She—”
“I’m so glad everything went well. Great job.”
Rachel didn’t seem concerned about Kathleen having paid the bill or her drinking, too focused on the fact we’d made it back alive. Luckily, she didn’t ask if I’d drank. She let out a relieved sigh, as if she’d been holding her breath since I’d left.
She seemed so pleased I decided not to tell her about Tom. Besides, if Tom was pissed, I’d be fired. And if I told Rachel, she’d wig out and fire me, afraid that Tom was upset. I was fairly sure that Tom wouldn’t mention the situation to anyone and wouldn’t want me mentioning it. And he wouldn’t bring up my garbage meltdown either. So much for me promising Rachel I wouldn’t keep anything from her.
The secrets just kept piling up.
Declan and Gretchen walked in.
“Didn’t end up in a dodgy end of town then, did ya?” Declan asked.
Rachel smiled. “She did a fabulous job.”
Maybe I’d be promoted from sausage and bathroom attendant to VIP duty. God, I hoped not.
But if I was, it would no longer send me into a complete and utter panic.
Chapter Sixteen
The only hint Rachel offered about our dinner restaurant was that it was located within walking distance of the hotel. My grumbling stomach hoped it was merely across the street. The Irish seafood chowder and two macaroons earlier had been more like an appetizer than a meal. We walked along the Liffey, lit by streetlamps and several boats cruising slowly up the river. Thanks to a faint drizzle, I was able to use my new umbrella with one black sheep among dozens of white ones. I hadn’t realized how symbolic a black sheep umbrella was for me when I’d bought it.
We were out of uniform, in jeans. Rachel had on black boots and a red sweater. Gretchen wore a slutty low-cut, tight-fitting purple sweater. I had on a jean jacket, a cream lace blouse, my new blue scarf, and brown boots. Declan had on a blue Leinster-logoed sweatshirt, and his jeans once again showed off his butt.
“Is that your favorite soccer team?” I asked him.
He smiled. “It’s rugby.”
“Is there a big difference?”
His smiled widened. “Yeah. It’s more like American football without all the padding.”
“Do you play?”
He shook his head. “I was in hurling growing up. That’s with a stick.”
“Like hockey?”
“It’s played on grass, not ice. I’ll give you a lesson in Irish sports sometime.”
“And I’ll give you a lesson in American football. My dad has season Packers tickets. I freeze my ass off at games twice a year.” Although I hadn’t the past two seasons because Andy despised football and its beer-belching fans, as he called them. I’d let that keep me from hanging out with Dad.
Not this season.
Declan looked impressed that I followed sports.
“Are we going to The Brazen Head?” Gretchen was undoubtedly trying to get off the subject of sports. If she had anything to contribute to the topic, she’d be dominating the conversation.
Rachel shrugged, wearing a teasing smile. “Maybe.”
“The Brazen Head is Ireland’s oldest pub,” Declan told me.
“Remember the night you almost closed the place and we were dancing by the stage?” Gretchen asked Rachel.
My shock was obviously transparent. Rachel quickly added, “Attendees were gone, and we were staying an extra day.”
I still couldn’t picture it.
“The lead singer was totally into you,” Gretchen said.
“No, he wasn’t.” Rachel shook her head.
“You could have had an Irish boyfriend if you’d wanted one.”
“I don’t have time for an American boyfriend, let alone hauling my ass across the ocean for one.”
Rachel hadn’t had a steady boyfriend in four years. After dating for ten months, Simon had dumped her when she’d called him bitching about her job while he’d been sitting in a restaurant, waiting for her to celebrate his birthday, which she’d forgotten.
“He wouldn’t have to be a boyfriend,” Gretchen teased.
I did a mental eye roll. Of all people to have the love ’em and leave ’em attitude, when she wouldn’t leave Declan alone after a one-night stand. I glanced discreetly over at Declan, wondering if he was thinking the same thing. He was focused on a boat cruising slowly up the Liffey, likely tuning out Gretchen.
We walked across a bridge, then headed down a side street away from the river. A few blocks later we came across a green pub with gold lettering reading Coffey’s.
“This is it,” Rachel said.
Gretchen’s forehead wrinkled. “I’ve never heard of this place.”
“Neither had I. Found it through the hotel’s concierge.” Rachel peered over at me. “Thought we might be related to the owner.”
I smiled. “How cool would that be?”
I couldn’t believe Rachel had taken the initiative to find a pub with our Coffey surname. A lump of emotion lodged in my throat over Rachel treating me like a close sister rather than an incompetent employee.
“Do you have any Irish in your family?” I asked Gretchen.
“I’m not sure,” she said.
She knew damn well she didn’t have any Irish ancestry. If she did, she’d be bragging about it, giving her something in common with Declan.
It gave me something in common with Declan.
Declan held the door open, and lively chatter poured out of the pub rather than traditional Irish music. Not a touristy area, locals filled the wooden bar and booths, meeting friends for a pint after work. The walls displayed soccer, rugby, and hurling team photos, pennants, and jerseys. We snagged three stools at the end of the long bar. Declan stood, and Rachel sat on the middle stool, strategically separating Gretchen and me, undoubtedly realizing the friction between us.
I was unable to recall the last time Rachel and I’d gone drinking together. Probably Aunt Irene’s Thanksgiving dinner. Aunt Irene was a horrible cook. One year she hadn’t thawed the turkey enough, and it took an extra three hours to cook. An extra three hours we’d had to tolerate our obnoxious uncle Benny’s crude pilgrim jokes and him cussing out the football refs on TV. Rachel and I’d offered to make a beer run to the grocery store up the street, and on our way home we stopped at a bar for hot toddies and a reprieve from Uncle Benny. My aunt hadn’t hosted Thanksgiving dinner in three years.
Rachel’s phone dinged, signaling a text. She read it, a smile spreading across her face. She glanced over at me. “Grandma’s teacup is at the back of my kitchen cupboard. I asked my neighbor with a key to go look for it.”
A warm feeling washed over me. Rachel’s search for the teacup gave me even more hope of us reconnecting.
The bartender was fortyish, dark hair, blue eyes, and a firm jaw with a five o’clock shadow. He was fit, like he worked out lifting kegs of Guinness, rather than pints.
“Do you sell anything with Coffey on it, mate?” Declan asked. “Like your shirt.” He gestured to the guy’s green Coffey’s Dublin T-shirt
“My grandma was a Coffey.” I proudly pointed out the Coffey pin on my purse.
“Ah, grand,” the guy said, despite the fact I was probably the dozenth person in
there that day claiming Coffey ancestry. “We had T-shirts but been out for a spell now.”
“How much for your shirt?” Rachel asked.
“Not for sale, luv. Only one more at home.”
“I’ll give you thirty euros.”
He let out a hearty laugh. “Now what will you be having, besides my shirt?”
“Forty euros?” Rachel flashed him a smile.
He laughed, shaking his head.
Rachel flirted like I’d never seen her flirt. He walked to the back and returned a few minutes later wearing an Ireland sports jersey and tossed his Coffey T-shirt on the bar. “There, don’t ever say an Irishman wouldn’t be giving you the shirt off his back.”
She slid forty euros across the bar, and he pushed it back with a wink. “I won’t be taking advantage of a lovely lass.”
“Thanks.” Rachel smiled, blushing. Omigod, Rachel was blushing? She handed me the shirt, which held the scent of musk cologne rather than beer. “Welcome to Ireland.”
I stared in awe at the shirt, as if she’d given me a priceless Irish family heirloom passed down through generations of Grandma’s family. “Thanks.”
The bartender shook Rachel’s hand. “Gerry Coffey from County Cork. So whereabouts did your Coffeys hail from?”
Rachel looked to me for an answer.
“Mom never got back to me. County Westmeath, but I don’t know the town.” I texted Mom to see if she had any further info.
“What will you be having?” Gerry asked me.
“Food. And a Brecker Dark.” I wasn’t sure if we were required to drink Brecker when we were off duty. Were we ever really off duty?
Gerry’s gaze narrowed. “Never heard of it.”
“Really? It’s the best. Way better than Guinness.”
A young guy next to me said, “Better than Guinness, you say?”
“It’s brilliant,” I said.
“You best be looking into that, Gerry,” the guy said.
“We should go pub-hopping and order Brecker Dark,” I told Rachel. “If they don’t have it, we can rave about it and convince the bartender to carry it.”
Rachel’s face lit up. “Great marketing idea.” She slipped a business card from her purse and slid it across the bar to Gerry. “Brecker now owns Flanagan’s. Check it out.”