Mismatched (26 page)

I reach down and grab the pants that are on the floor. The rest of my clothing is already on, so once I’m zipped, I’m ready to go. I don’t even bother looking in the mirror, knowing it’s a train wreck that will take at least an hour to fix. I don’t trust my empty stomach to last that long; I need to put some toast in there or something to soak up whatever nastiness is rolling around before I get sick again.

I think I’ll be glad to leave the booze of Ireland behind. It was great and all, but I seem to have a problem controlling my intake. Something about this place makes me lose my good sense. It’s the reason why I keep debating whether I should contact Donal or not. Of course I shouldn’t, but I think about doing it several times a day anyway. It’s a good thing I temporarily lost track of my phone last night, or I for sure would have drunk-texted him. Surely someone in the bar would have had his number, and given the state I was in, I wouldn’t have been shy about hunting that person down and hounding them for the information.

I shuffle out of the room behind Erin, holding onto the handrail as I descend the stairs. The house is moving a little.

“Ah, there ye are, girlies. And how was your evenin’? Good, was it?” She puts a pot of tea on the table and I haven’t even sat down completely before I’m reaching for it.
Tea, get in my belly.

“It was all right,” Erin says unenthusiastically.

“Just all right? I heard from Aednat who heard from Muirgheal that ye were having more than just an all right kind of evenin’.” She’s barely holding in her smile. “Word is ye’re quite the talented dancers.”

Erin sighs. “Ridlee doesn’t remember everything she did last night, so I wasn’t going to tell her.”

I drop the knife I was about to use to spread some jam on my toast and look first at Erin and then at Mrs. O’Grady. “What are you talking about? What did Agnag and Mergool say?”

“Oh my. It’s not Agnag. It’s Aednat. And Muirgheal, not …what did ye say? Morgor? What’s that? The Lord of the Rings?”

“Whatever.” I’m sure I should be embarrassed right now, but I want to know how embarrassed I should be. “What did I do?”

Mrs. O’Grady trades looks with Erin.

Erin puts up her hands. “You have to tell her now, Mrs. O. Cat’s out of the bag.”

The old woman comes over and pats me on the shoulder. “Never ye mind, deary. No one will remember a thing a few days from now.”

Erin has toast in her face as she mumbles her commentary. “I’m not so sure about that.”

I kick her under the table. “Tell me.”

“Ow!” She tries to act mad, but she’s laughing as she bends over to rub her shin. “You just did a little jig.”

“I thought you said it was a reel.” I’m scowling at her.

“It is when I do it. But when you do on a table, it’s definitely a jig.”

“With your fingers hooked in yer belt,”adds Mrs. O’Grady. “Looking like a right leprechaun.” She nods once, smiling like she’s proud.

I lower my head to my hand as I rest my elbow on the table. “Thank God we’re leaving tomorrow.”

“We still have to go into town to sign the papers,” Erin says, happily munching away on her toast. “And give over the check.”

I sigh and look up, ready to jam my toast again. What’s done is done. I can’t erase what I did last night, I can only hope most of the people in the bar were half as drunk as I was. “We’re wiring the money to his account, but you’re right, we do need to go to the office and have you sign the papers. We can go anytime, he said.”

“How about now?” Erin says, standing up.

“You go ahead,” I say, standing after taking one bite of my toast. My stomach is telling me that’s all it can handle right now anyway. “I’ll join you after I fix my face.”

“Ye may want to see to yer hair as well, dear,” says Mrs. O’Grady in her really helpful voice. “Ye don’t want to unwittingly put the heart across anyone.”

“Across who? What?”

Erin pulls my sleeve. “It’s an Irish expression. It basically means you need to fix your ‘do. Hurry up. I’ll wait for ya.”

I run up the stairs, trying to ignore my sloshing stomach. When I get in front of the mirror I understand exactly what that quaint Irish expression means. My hair is ugly enough to give someone a heart attack. A quick shower and copious amounts of conditioner take care of that problem in a jiffy. Twenty minutes later my hair is blown out and I have eyeliner and mascara on, along with a fresh outfit. A blazer tops off the look with a short scarf that will hopefully hide the blotchy marks on my neck. God knows where those came from.

Erin looks at her watch as I come down the stairs. “That has to be some kind of record. Twenty minutes?” She leans in close and inhales. “You even used soap.”

“And perfume,” I say sarcastically. “Come on.” I go right past her and out the door. “Time’s a wastin’.” I’m not all that excited about getting weird looks from any villagers who might have witnessed my dance routine last night. I just want to get this over with and go home.

I drive because the Bambino seems to prefer me to Erin. It starts right up and soon we’re buzzing down the street.

“Watch out!” Erin shouts, reminding me that I need to be on the other side of the road.

“I know,” I say, trying to talk myself out of the heart attack I almost had. “I was going over there eventually.”

“Tell that to the guy in the lorry who just shit his knickers,” she says, a little out of breath. She’s sunk down into her seat, and I catch her checking the efficacy of her seatbelt several times.

The car goes silent for a while, but I’m not going to be the first one to talk. Erin’s touchy about this business deal since Michaél is on the other side of the table, and I don’t want to upset the balance we’ve found.

“What if he’s there when we go?” Erin says in a small voice.

“Who? Michaél?”

“Yeah.”

“He won’t be. I talked to O’Mooney. He said he didn’t expect him in there until after four in the afternoon.”

“Oh.” She pauses a few seconds. “But what if he’s wrong?”

I sigh loudly. “Then you either choose not to go in until later, or I can get the papers and you can sign them in the car, or you can confront him and confess that it’s your bar. He’s going to find out anyway, you know. Your name is on the papers.”

“But if he doesn’t come until four, he won’t know until then.”

“Probably. Unless O’Mooney gave him copies of the papers ahead of time. He might have done that.”

Erin looks at her phone. “I don’t think he did. Michaél hasn’t said a word about it.”

“Has he texted you at all?” I glance over to see her screen, but she has it angled away from me.

“Actually, no.” She looks at me, clearly stressed. “Do you think it’s because he knows? Is he mad? Maybe I should call him and explain.”

I grab her phone and drop it into the pocket of my door. “No. No calls. No texts. No confessions. We do this deal and we leave.”

“Hey! Give that back to me!” She sounds a little too desperate for my comfort.

“No. I’m doing this for your own good. You’ll thank me later.”

She stares out the front window, and I can tell by the rigid set of her jaw that she’s holding back. Whether it’s tears she’s keeping in check or a string of expletives, I don’t know. I’m going to let her work it out, though, without any assistance from me. I’m certain I’m doing the right thing by my friend. She’s worked too hard for too long to let this whole thing blow up over a guy she’ll never see again. If she hadn’t told me a thousand times how much she dislikes Ireland and how she’d never live here again, I wouldn’t be such a hardass. But she has, and except for her little happy fling with Michaél, I haven’t seen her opinion changing since we’ve been here. As her friend and her lawyer, I’m going to make sure she signs these papers, wires her money, and then gets her butt back to Boston as soon as possible.

We pull up in front of the lawyer’s office and stare at the front door together. I cut the engine off and nudge her leg. “Go on. Sign the papers and let’s go.”

“Are you coming with me?” She looks way too nervous.

“Of course. Come on.” I get out with her and lead the way up the path to the door.

“Are you sure this is the right thing to do?” she asks.

I stop and turn around, facing her and forcing her to stop just in front of me. “The only one who can decide that is you, Erin. Do you still want to own the Pot O’ Gold?”

“Of course I do, don’t be ridiculous.”

“Do you want to be the only one making decisions about how to run it, how to expand it, how to spend the profits of it?”

“Yes.” She nods her head, her voice sounding firmer.

“Do you want to live in Ireland?”

“Hell to the no.”

“Fine.” I shrug. “What’s left to discuss?”

“Nothing.” She moves past me and pushes the door open. “Let’s sign those papers and get the hell out of dodge.”

I’m expecting a long-drawn out process, but apparently the solicitors in Lisdoonvarna have found a way to cut the bull to a minimum. I verify that the terms are all there in the contract as we discussed, Erin signs on the dotted line, and we shake Mr. O’Mooney’s hand.

“I’ll send an original copy over to Mrs. O’Grady’s as soon as Mr. Flanagan’s signed. And you’ll receive a call from my office confirming the wire has been received. If you could furnish you paper proof from the bank when you send it, that should speed the process.”

“No problem, I’ll have it to you as soon as my office opens. The wire will be done first thing. We’ll be in the air tomorrow early, so feel free to fax the documents to my office. You can send the original by mail there too, if you don’t mind.” I hand him one of my business cards. “Thanks for all your help.”

“It was my pleasure.” He smiles, shaking my hand. “I hope you’ve enjoyed your stay in our fair country.”

“I really have.” I give him a genuine smile. “I’m going to miss it, actually.” I’m not just bullshitting him, either. There’s a lot of Irish flavor in Boston, but nothing beats the real thing. Images of Donal dance in the back of my mind.

Erin nudges me, breaking up the fantasy reel I’m playing in my head. “Okay, time to go. We have a lot of packing to do.” She nods at Mr. O’Mooney.

As we walk out the door, his words float out behind us.

“May brooks and trees and singing hills, join the chorus too, and every gentle wind that blows, send happiness to you.”

I look back and hesitate, caught up in the poetry, but Erin pushes me along on my back. “Keep moving, sister. No more dawdling. I have a business to build.”

I smile and walk around the far side of the car. “Erin’s back.”

She laughs. “Yeah, baby. I’m back and the world better look out.” She gets in the car next to me and claps her hands together once with a sharp crack. “Have I told you the plans I have for Monday nights at the bar?”

“No, you haven’t.” I’m grinning from ear to ear. This is the Erin I know and love; she’s confident, excited, and making plans for her future. No more wishy-washy whiney baby.

Erin’s hands are animating her words. “Okay, so this is what I was thinking…”

I let her words wash over me and nod in all the right spots. Her enthusiasm carries us both all the way back to Mrs. O’Grady’s place and up to our room where we slowly pack our cases and wind up our lives in Ireland. The entire time she talks, I wonder if I should try to see Donal one more time before we leave in the morning.

Erin’s words break through my reverie. “We should drive to Dublin tonight, right? Then we won’t have to worry about the car not making it and missing our flight.”

I nod. That solves my dilemma. We leave here whenever we’re done packing and spend the day and evening with Erin’s family in Dublin. That makes way more sense than hanging around here and one or both of us bumping into a guy who we’re supposed to be trying to forget.

“Yes, that’s a great idea. Let’s do that.”

Erin walks to the door. “I’ll just go tell Mrs. O that we’ll be checking out today.”

She disappears down the stairs and I continue packing. My heart is heavy with feelings I know can never amount to anything. I’m a lawyer and I live in Boston. There is no home for me in Ireland, even though I’m pretty sure I’m going to be leaving a piece of my heart here.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

ERIN

“DID YOU CALL YOUR MOM and tell her we’re coming?” Ridlee’s squinting at the snaking line of traffic ahead. “I thought the M5 was supposed to be a freeway,” she mutters leaning even closer into the windscreen.

“It is, and the word is
motorway
, hence the M in the name.” I dig around in the pocket of my jeans for my phone. “I texted her.” I pull it out along with a couple of used tissues — debris from my secret bawling session in the loo this morning over he-who-shall-not-be-named.

“Who?” asks Ridlee.

I almost recoil in horror.
Can she actually read my mind?
“What?” I ask all flustered.

“Who did you text?” Ridlee’s frowning at the traffic jam ahead of us now, oblivious to my distress.

“My mum, Ridlee. My mum!” I say it sharper than I mean to.

“All right, fine, don’t get your panties in a bunch.” She gives me a queer look. “Screw this. We need to find another route. We’ll never get there if we have to wait for this to clear. Type ‘alternate route’ into the GPS.”

I scroll through my messages — nothing from Mum, but then that’s not unusual ‘cause she’s not very good at texting. She refuses to join the 21st century and make use of the predictive text function on her admittedly ancient Nokia, which we all call her Blokia on account of the fact that she rarely has service.

After battling the worst gridlocked traffic I have ever seen we finally nudge our way into Dublin. It’s been a long drive and I’m extremely grateful to get out of the tiniest car in the world. After parking the Bambino in the driveway of my parents’ house we untie Ridlee’s luggage, which has miraculously remained fixed to the roof of the car. The house is in complete darkness, and I’m beginning to wonder if I should have put more effort into decoding Mum’s text.

“They do know we’re coming, right?” Ridlee’s half dragging, half wheeling her fancy luggage over the gravel drive.