She sighs long and loud for the hundredth time of the morning and I keep on reading the newspaper, using it as a shield between us. I foolishly think that if she can’t make eye contact, she won’t bring up the subject of whatever is making her act like a tortured, lovesick schoolgirl. I think my sadness over Donal is turning me into a cold-hearted bitch. I suppose the silver lining is it’ll make me a tougher lawyer when I get back home, but that doesn’t make me feel any better for some reason.
“Are ye feeling well, lass?” Mrs. O’Grady asks, putting her hand on Erin’s forehead.
Erin turns up the pity party tone in her voice. “Oh, I’m fine.”
“Doesn’t sound it. You’re having a hard time with yer lungs from the sound of all the wheezin’ you’re doin’ this mornin’.” Her tone turns disapproving. “Imagine bringin’ ye surfing in the sea of all things.” She snorts. “In my day, a man would no sooner take you for a frolic in the freezing cold water than he’d ask ye to roll around in the barn hay.” She pauses and lowers her voice. “Unless of course ye’re Maude O’Leary, but ye know, she was always game for just about anything and didn’t all the lads know it. Let’s just say she earned her name and leave it at that.”
I lean over and whisper in Erin’s ear as Mrs. O’Grady runs the sink water. “I think she’s calling you a slut.” I resist the urge to giggle as I hide behind my paper.
“Well, you know, the world has changed a bit since you were dating,” Erin says, sounding prickly.
“Don’t I know it,” Mrs. O’Grady says, coming back to the table with a fresh pot of tea. She pours for both of us. “Taking liberties. Slap and tickle. I know all the things men do. Ye should watch out, girlies. They’re only after one thing, ye know.”
Erin knocks me in the hand. “Can I talk to you upstairs for a minute?”
I look over my paper at Mrs. O’Grady. She has the teapot on the table and her hands on her hips.
“Ye haven’t eaten a thing! Ye’ll waste away to nothin’ if you miss yer breakfast.”
Erin stands. “Don’t worry, Mrs. O. I’ve got plenty of extra breakfasts stored in my bum fat.”
I quickly stand, knowing if I let this go on much longer, we’re going to have a real cat fight on our hands.
Mrs. O’Grady’s voice follows us out the door.
“Well, I never…”
We walk out into the hall and I push Erin towards the front door, wanting to avoid any eavesdropping. As we walk outside, I wrap my arms around myself, very sorry that I neglected to grab one of the granny sweaters hanging by the door.
Erin does the same. “Thanks for rescuing me from that old hag.”
“She’s not an old hag. You’re just in a cranky mood.”
“You’re right. I am. But I have good reason to be.”
I sigh. “Okay, fine. Out with it.” The wicked cold wind whips through my hair, making me wish I’d put on a hat too. The snarls are going to be awful.
“Out with what?” She sneaks a glance at me before going back to staring at the sidewalk. We’re both leaning into the wind, trying to keep all of our body heat from being stolen away.
“Whatever’s bugging you. Ever since Michaél left the B&B yesterday, you’ve been moaning and groaning and sighing and whining.”
“I haven’t whined once.”
“Bull. Come on, I’m only staying out here for five minutes, max. My tits are freezing. My nipples are going to break right off.”
“So much for an Indian Irish summer, eh?” Erin tries to smile, but it doesn’t last long; there’s just a flash of it and it’s gone again.
“Four minutes,” I warn. “You have four minutes left.”
Erin huffs out a loud breath. “Okay, fine. You want to know what’s bugging me? I’ll tell you. Yesterday, Michaél and I had a fab time. He taught me how to surf, shared a homemade picnic lunch with me, including a delicious soup made by his own fair hands, and then he proceeded to tell me about this dive bar that he’s inherited half of and how he’s going to use his part of the proceeds from its sale to get out of debt!” She stops and looks at me, yelling the last part. “His last name is … wait for it… fucking Flanagan! Why did I not think to ask his last name?”
I stop and face her, nodding as I carefully think my way through her conundrum. “Huh. Fucking Flanagan. How unfortunate for him.” This does add a wrinkle to our little plan, but as far as I’m concerned, it makes no difference. We continue forward as if we don’t know him. It’s just business.
Erin nudges me and forces me to continue walking with her. “I feel like a fraud. A scammer of the highest order. I have to tell him the truth. Tell him the bar’s changed.”
I grab her shirt sleeve and stop her with a yank. “No, ma’am, you do not.”
“Why?” She’s looking at me, near tears.
“Because. It’s his duty to do the due diligence, not yours. You told him the facts: there’s a bar in Boston that he owns half of. You made a fair offer to buy him out and it’s his job to figure out if our offer is acceptable to him or not. This is how it works. This is the law.”
“Buuut…” Aaaaand cue the whining.
“No. Huh-uh. But nothing. I don’t want to hear it, Erin.” I’m getting peeved now. “Seriously. I’m your lawyer and I’m telling you to listen to me. You think because you surfed with this guy and sampled his super soup that you’re sitting on the same side of the table, but you’re not. You’re not, do you hear me? You are on opposite sides of the bargaining table.”
She’s still whining. “But I don’t want to be on opposite sides of the table. Why can’t we do this as a team?”
My jaw drops open. “Holy shit, woman, did you just ask me why you can’t make this complete stranger a partner in your business? Or is that the blood pudding fucking up my hearing?”
“He’s not a complete stranger.” She can’t meet my eyes.
“Yes, in fact, he is. After we do this deal you will never see him again. Do you hear me? Never.” I yank on her hand for emphasis, trying to get through to her. Apparently she has way too much dick on the brain. “Babe, I hear what you’re feeling, okay? You had a great time with him. He seems like a super guy.”
She interrupts. “He is super.”
“Sure. For now. But he’s Irish and he wants to stay in Ireland. Do you want some guy you had sex with one time to be calling the shots over your bar when you’re in Boston?”
“No.” She admits that unwillingly, but admit it she does. It gives me hope she’ll listen to good sense.
“Can he, or can he not, go online and see what the bar looks like for himself, without even going to Boston?” I stare her down, forcing her to look at me.
“Yes. I suppose he could.”
“And can he, or can he not, read all the reviews online about the place?”
“Yes, sure. I suppose.”
“And can he, or can he not, click on Google images and see the crowds of people dancing around and swinging beer mugs in the bar?”
She shrugs. “How do I know?”
“Stop. Okay? Just stop. You’re being ridiculous. If this guy is such an idiot that he doesn’t even bother to do that much, then you certainly do not want him as a business partner.”
“I suppose that makes sense. But…”
I wave my hand in her face. “No. I’m not hearing your buts. Your buts are coming from your vagina.”
Her eyes bug out and she slaps my arm. “Ridlee! What are you saying? Are you crazy?”
I shrug. “No. I know a woman suffering under a dick’s thrall, that’s all. You’ve got it bad for him. He must be magic in the sack, that’s all I’ve got to say.”
She turns towards the B&B and walks with slow steps. “It’s not just that. Sure, he was fantastic and all, but he’s also just fun to be with. I want to hear everything he has to say.” She clenches her fists and folds her arms up in front of her as her passion for this guy fills her. “I want to breathe him in. I want to learn about his favorite thing
s and his most hated things. His fears, his desires, his dreams.” She sighs as her hands fall limply at her sides. “I suppose I have fallen under his thrall, but I’m not sure it’s his dick doing the hypnotizing.”
I put my arm around her shoulders and hug her to me as I pick up our pace. It’s really frigging cold out here. I don’t know what happened to our Irish Indian summer, but it appears to have taken a vacation from this place. “Come on, sweetie. Let me get you a cuppa cha.”
“I’d rather have a beer.”
“Not until lunchtime. We’re supposed to get a response back about our offer today, so we’ll drink then. We’ll celebrate Irish-style.”
“Or be miserable Irish-style.”
“Try not to forget what your plans were before we came here,” I say as we round the corner to the B&B’s front door. I push open the small garden gate.
“What?” she says bitterly. “Trick this Irish idiot into selling out his half of his inheritance?”
“No.” I use my Auntie Ridlee voice, as if I’m taking to a young child. “Your plans were to take your inheritance and build it into your empire, using your ingenuity and cash to parlay what used to be a hole in the wall into your legacy.” I pause at Mrs. O’Grady’s front door and take her by the shoulders, staring into her eyes. “Without his buy-out, you won’t even have the power to do anything with that place, right? Not without his say-so. And what if he doesn’t agree with what you want to do? You’ll be stuck with the bar the way it is. And then you won’t be able to expand.”
She shrugs.
“And no bank is going to give you a loan with the economy the way it is and with you having a business partner in Ireland with a failing business of his own to prop up. So you have no choice. You have to do this. You need to own the bar free and clear so you can run it the way you want to.”
She looks down at the ground. “I know. I’m just … sad about it. It doesn’t feel right.”
I push open the door and pat her on the back. “Nothing involving lawyers ever feels right. Trust me, I know. Everyone’s a loser in some way or another when the lawyers get involved. That’s life. Come on. Let’s go eat some toast.”
“I don’t want any toast,” she whines, stomping her feet into the kitchen.
I shove her down into a seat and throw some cold, dry bread on her plate. “Eat or I’m going to force it down your gullet. Mrs. O’Grady’s right. You need breakfast.” I grab my paper and hide behind it once more, praying my sentimental friend won’t get it in her sappy brain to call Michaél and confess everything he might want to know about the Pot O’ Gold. I meant what I said to her. If he has half a brain, he’ll do the research; he’ll ask me for financials and I’ll happily give them to him. He’ll do a little Googling so he can see what he’s selling. And if he doesn’t? Oh well. She doesn’t need an anchor like that idiot holding her back from realizing her hard-won dreams.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
ERIN
“WELCOME TO BUNRATTY CASTLE, THE most complete and authentic medieval fortress in Ireland. Built in 1425 it was restored in 1954 to its former medieval splendor and now contains mainly 15th and 16th century furnishings, tapestries, and works of art which capture the mood of those times…Sounds perfect,” says Ridlee snapping the guide book shut as I throw the Bambino in and out of pot holes that pepper the country road we’re on.
“How’s that?” I glance over at her to see if she’s needling me again. The Bambino slams into another pothole.
Ridlee clutches the dashboard and grits her teeth. “Well, I imagine they were all a little moody back in the 15th and 16th centuries, what with it being so cold in the castle, so you’ll fit right in.” She smiles at me but it’s more of a grimace, really.
“I’m sorry.” I look at her with puppy-dog eyes. It’s time to mend some bridges. The statute of limitations on moodiness in our friendship is about half a day and my mood’s been pretty rotten since last night.
“Eyes on the road, eyes on the road!” she screams.
I swing my gaze back just in time to swerve as a big, wooly, black-faced sheep jumps out in front of the car and scampers across the road and into a nearby field. The Bambino wobbles and then rights itself before skidding to a halt on the other side of the road.
“Are you ok?” I realise that my left hand is on Ridlee’s chest, presumably to prevent her from going through the windscreen.
“Fuck me, Erin, that was close.” She’s gripping the dashboard, legs ramrod straight as though pushing an invisible brake.
“I know…,” I say in a low voice. “Is the sheep ok?” I look out the back window.
“Fuck the fucking sheep, Erin. We could have been killed!” Her face is ashen.
I have to stifle a giggle that I feel rising. Nerves. This often happens to me when I hear of a tragedy, or sometimes even when I’m on the brink of one, or have just dodged one. Ridlee, on the other hand, is not amused.
I put my hand back on the steering wheel and look ahead. “Shit,” I mutter, as all threat of laughter evaporates. “We’re on the wrong side of the road.” I turn the key in the ignition but the Bambino just lets out that grating sound it makes when it doesn’t want to drive.
“Out! Out! Out! Everybody out!” I shout, unclipping my seatbelt and bounding out of the car. I quickly lean back in and put the gear stick in neutral and start pushing from the driver’s door. Ridlee totters round the rear and starts pushing with everything she has. We manage to roll the car over to the left hand side of the road and up onto the verge just as a huge tractor pulling a trailer full of manure comes round the corner, taking up both sides of the road. The driver barely clocks us.
I lean against the door, spent. Ridlee drops onto the grass verge. I look at her and she looks at me, and we burst into peals of laughter.
“That’s twice in two days, my friend. You are a freakin’ liability!” she says, but at least she’s laughing now.
I laugh too, but cautiously; in Ireland we firmly believe that bad luck comes in threes. I look around me uneasily. “Hey, Rid, do you wanna drive?”
“Sure!”
We get back in the Bambino and it starts for Ridlee without so much as a groan of complaint. She beams at me, “Guess I’ve got the touch.”
Once we’re on the road again, I open the guidebook for directions and to plan the rest of our afternoon. All we can do is wait to see what the solicitor says when he calls with an answer to my offer on the bar. It was my idea to get out of Dodge, otherwise known as Doolin, today so that I wouldn’t run the risk of bumping into Micheál, or be tempted to rush out to find him and confess everything. Ridlee’s right. He is a holiday fling. I barely know him, and if he hasn’t done his homework properly on the sale, then he isn’t much of a businessman. Sure, he saved my life yesterday, but surely he would have done the same for anyone. And I would have done the same for him, wouldn’t I?
I shake my head to get rid of that particular thought. I don’t want to go down that path — my mother’s favourite — put yourself in their shoes, how would you like to be treated in the same situation, etc., etc. My mother has no head for business; she’s too nice. I can afford to be nice when I’ve made my money.
“Right. Guidebook,” I say aloud, forcing myself to focus on something else.
Ridlee pipes up with, “There’s a cave around here somewhere with a great big stalactite. We could go and see that.”
“Are they the giant phallic things that grow out of the rock? I told you, Rid, I don’t want any reminders of Michaél today!” I say vehemently.
“Nooo, that’s stalagmite. Theses are the ones that flow from the ceiling of the cave like stone icicles.”
I look at her suspiciously. “What did you do, swallow the guidebook or something?”
“No, Jeremy was into caving,” she says primly, two hands gripping the steering wheel in a perfect ten-to-two hold.
“I’ll bet he was,” I mutter under my breath. I close the guidebook purposefully. “No, I don
’t think I’ll be entering any caves today. I only have one life left. Besides, that cave is back in Doolin, which is only 6km from you-know-who. We’ll just go to Bunratty Castle and then find a pub and go and get drunk.” I don’t add that we will be either celebrating or commiserating because I don’t know which result — to get word that Micheál is going to sell or not — will make me happy or depressed.
I look down at the guidebook again for inspiration. “Mmm… apparently at Bunratty Folk Village people mill about dressed in traditional clothing, and the village has been restored so that all the little shops are selling their wares, much as they would have hundreds of years ago. That sounds like fun, doesn’t it, Rid?” I close the book on my lap.
“Going back in time?” she crinkles her nose. “Nah, I like the 21st century. The technology’s better.”
“Mmm," I say absentmindedly. I wish I could go back in time. I’d have conducted this business deal over the phone from Boston … But then you would never have met Michaél, says the angel or devil on my shoulder; I can never tell who’s who…
“Shut up!” I say aloud. My hand flies to my lips and I smile sheepishly at Ridlee who is now glaring at me.
“Are you alright, Erin?” she asks in a matronly tone.
“I wasn’t talking to you,” I mumble and look out the window, concentrating deeply on the passing landscape.
“That’s the famous Burren,” I say a little too brightly, to distract Ridlee from my momentary lapse into madness. She smiles politely so I’m encouraged to go on. “The rolling hills of Burren are composed of limestone pavements with criss-crossing cracks known as ‘grikes’, leaving isolated rocks called ‘clints’.”
Ridlee’s brow furrows which I interpret as, ‘Really, how interesting. Do go on…’ So I do.
“In 1651-52, Edmund Ludlow stated, ‘Burren is a country where there is not enough water to drown a man, wood enough to hang one, nor earth enough to bury him...... and yet their cattle are very fat; for the grass growing in turfs of earth, of two or three foot square, that lie between the rocks, which are of limestone, is very sweet and nourishing.’ That’s interesting, isn’t it, Rid?”