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Authors: Mary Carter

BOOK: The Pub Across the Pond
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Carlene dropped to the floor, in the middle of the bus with people in front of her and behind her, and refused to budge. People started murmuring, then talking about her, then yelling advice. The bus driver honked the horn.
“We have to move,” he said. Her mother knelt on the floor of the bus, her pretty white linen pants now pressing on dirt and a squashed piece of gum, and she pleaded with Carlene to get up. Carlene didn't move. Her mother tried to pull her up, but Carlene screamed and grabbed onto a seat leg and clung to it for dear life. Sweat started to drip from her mother's upper lip.
“Please,” her mother said. “Do not do this to me in public.”
Carlene then demanded a peanut butter sandwich, and even though she didn't know how her mother was going to come up with a peanut butter sandwich on a city bus, she demanded it anyway, yelled for one over and over, all the while crying. She remembered as she started to perspire, her mother smelled like oranges, she remembered the palm of her mother's hand tight and slick in hers, she remembered the golden flare of her mother's hair from the sun beating in through the windows of the bus. Her mother put her hand on her heart. “Carlene,” she said, her face pale and almost frightened, her voice cracking from the strain. “You are going to be the death of me.”
C
HAPTER
32
The Eavesdroppers
When she was done recounting her tale, Ronan got up from his seat across from her, came around, and sat next to her. He pulled her into him and held her. She felt his lips graze her ear.
“Do you know,” he said, “how many times I've heard my mother say that to me? ‘Ronan Anthony McBride, you're doing to be the death of me.' Carly, if I had a euro for every time she's ever said that to me, clutching her heart like she was going to drop on the spot, I'd be the wealthiest man on the planet. It's a very Irish thing to say, so I believe your mother had some Irish in her all right. And you've only an inkling of an idea of the things I've put me poor mam and the estrogen gang through in my thirty-odd years. It's on a colossal scale, like. Now, I can't say for sure that you didn't kill that wee poor hamster with yer pink Slim Fast, but you did not—I repeat, you did not play any part in your mother's death. It was not your fault.”
“But she had a weak heart—and I put it under stress—she was sweating and she had to pull me off the floor of the bus, and—”
“Carly, Carly, Carly, stop.” Ronan took Carlene's face in his hands and forced her to look at him. “It was her time to go. End of story. Full stop.”
“But it was one of the last things she ever said to me,” Carlene said. Ronan leaned in and kissed her.
“You were right to come out here and throw it over the cliffs. It was not your fault. I'll bet she's looking down—begging you—begging you to forgive her for that being one of the last things she ever said to you. While it's been eating you up down here, I bet it's been eating her up twice as much up there. Do you want that? Do you want her up there where it's supposed to be all heavenly, only she can't even enjoy a single cloud, or harp chord, or whatever shite they do up there, because you're down here blaming yourself?”
“Really?” Carlene said. “Cloud? Harp chord? Whatever the shite? That's all you got?”
“At least you're smiling now,” Ronan said. They sat silently for a moment, looking at each other. Ronan took her hand again. “Mothers pull screaming children off buses every second of every day. You could have been peaches and cream on that bus and your mother's heart would have still been weak. But it's not me you need to talk to—it's your father.”
“I don't want to burden him.”
“Fuck that shite. It's not about him. It's about you. And you are going to tell him what you told me—and you are going to make him listen. And if he doesn't look you in the eye and tell you it's not your fault, I'm going to swim across the pond meself, dodging turtles, and sharks, and goldfish and tsunamis, and whatever the fuck, and make him look you in the eye like, and tell you as many times as it takes until the six-year-old in you gets, really and truly gets that it wasn't your fault.”
Carlene squeezed his hands, leaned into Ronan, and tried to thank him with all her heart through her lips. When she pulled away, Ronan tapped on his lip again, and once more she leaned forward and kissed him.
When she pulled away this time, Ronan's grin covered most of his face. She absolutely loved looking at his face up close. It made her world brighter. She wanted to look at that face for the rest of her life. He winked at her. It was amazing how much better she felt.
“Tell me you'll at least think about talking to him,” Ronan said.
“Okay,” Carlene said. “I'll think about it.”
Ronan glanced at his watch. “We've still got another bloody hour,” he said. “More tea?”
“Love some.”
 
When he returned with their tea, he once again sat across from her, and they switched to lighter conversation. Carlene soon found herself recounting her time in Ballybeog: learning the ropes at the pub, getting to know the regulars. She told him about the woman from the museum with a black eye, hoping to get just a little closer to telling him about the passageway, but if Ronan knew anything about the woman, he didn't offer it up. They laughed over Ciaran's wife falling in love with a fictional vampire, and how the first morning she found Riley at his stool at eight in the morning, and Billy walking the tree like it was a log on the river, and Carlene bursting in on the christening with the same tree branch, then pretending it was a gift for the new baby. They laughed over it all, and it was the best release Carlene could have ever asked for. She forgot all her problems.
Suddenly, a large woman seated at the next table yelled, “Yahoo!” She was American, fat, and loud. Shit. Carlene hated when stereotypes came true, and at the same time she felt guilty for judging the woman so harshly. A person on vacation was allowed to be obnoxious and yell “yahoo!” at the top of her lungs, wasn't she? The woman shouldered a clunky video camera and was following her husband with it, and shouting out instructions. Smile. Do something silly. Now look serious. Carlene didn't see how he'd be able to pull that one off given he was wearing a baseball cap with a shamrock, a T-shirt with a leprechaun, and enormous green sunglasses. When she grew bored of filming her husband, the woman panned the camera over to Carlene, then Ronan.
“She films everything,” the husband said. “She even filmed you two smooching out on the cliffs.” The woman, camera still up to her eye, pumped her fist. “Woo hoo!” she said. “I think I got some tongue too.” Carlene wanted to die. “Love your shirt,” the woman said. Carlene was wearing a rain jacket. She looked over at Ronan. He had unzipped his navy jacket. Underneath he was wearing a sweatshirt that read:
Cleveland Rocks.
“Would you take our picture?” the woman yelled as if calling to them from an adjacent cliff. Where did she get that twang? That wasn't an Ohio twang, was it? Carlene knew she didn't have a twang. She couldn't.
“I'd love to,” Ronan said. The woman's face lit up.
“You're Irish,” she said as if she'd just found him growing in her garden.
“You're American,” he said with equal enthusiasm. He threw a glance to Carlene in case she missed his sarcasm.
“Maybe you can help us,” the woman said. “My husband and the group we're with are looking for an authentic Irish pub.” The woman leaned in and shielded her mouth with her hand, as if this would prevent her husband from hearing her shouts. “They're all accountants, but don't count that against them!” Ronan's smile grew exponentially. Carlene shook her head. She did not want a bunch of Americans in her pub. No way, no how. It was her pub. She could refuse service to whomever she wanted. Besides, her pub was a couple of hours away. Surely Ronan would point them to something more local, something fitting, something with shamrocks or leprechauns and rainbows in the name. Carlene shook her head even harder. Ronan pretended not to see her.
“Let me t'ink,” Ronan said. Was it Carlene's imagination or had he just dialed up his Irish accent?
“We're Irish too,” the lady said. “We're from Dublin. Dublin, Ohio.” The couple screeched with laughter. Ronan wouldn't stop staring and grinning at Carlene. They introduced themselves as Lorraine and Michael.
“Ohio,” Ronan said. “Lovely state. The Buckeye State. The seventeenth state to join the union. An Indian name meaning ‘long river'. And of course, home to the great Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.”
Lorraine's eyes were wide, almost as if she were slightly stunned. “Yes,” she said. “And Ireland is. Very green.”
“We've never seen so much green,” Michael said.
“What about Seattle?” Lorraine said. “You agreed we saw the same amount of green in Seattle.”
“We love your potatoes too,” Michael said. He looked at his wife. “We didn't eat potatoes in Seattle, Lorraine.” He punctured her name like a slap across the face.
“True,” she said. “We had king crab, though. And it was very green.”
“Not the crab,” he said.
“It rains a lot there too,” Lorraine said.
“Go to Galway!” Carlene said. “There are plenty of pubs in Galway!”
“Unless of course you're looking for something more authentic,” Ronan said.
“Authentic,” the woman said. “Absolutely we want authentic.”
“We've got a group of fifteen or so,” Michael said.
“But we don't drink alcohol,” Lorraine said.
“Perfect,” Ronan said.
“Galway is very authentic,” Carlene said. She reached down and pinched Ronan's thigh as hard as she could. He didn't even flinch.
“Roll your camera,” Ronan said. “I'll give ye directions.”
C
HAPTER
33
Tips to a Good Proposal
When the bus pulled up to Nancy's, Ronan hopped off with Carlene. Without discussing it, he walked alongside her as she headed back to the pub. When they passed underneath the town gate, Ronan flattened himself against the wall and pulled Carlene into him.
“You had it wrong,” he said.
“What?” she said.
“It's not what am I doing to you. It's what are you doing to me.” Ronan leaned in slowly. Carlene turned her head and his lips grazed her cheek instead of their intended target. Ronan stepped back, shoved his hands in his pockets. He gazed at the wall above her head as he spoke, and his voice dropped to a low whisper. “Before I met you, I had everything under control.”
Carlene laughed, loudly and abruptly, and the sound of it echoed in the small passageway. Ronan's face first flashed anger, then he paused as if replaying her words in his head, and soon his laughter joined hers.
“Ah, right. Maybe ‘under control' is a bit of a stretch all right.”
“I'll say. You're life was a mess. Is a mess.”
“But it was my mess—I was going to pay for it—”
“How? By marrying someone you don't love?”
“That's my business. I don't need you haunting me—”
“Haunting you?”
“Consuming my thoughts. Would you please get the fuck out of my head?”
“You're following me around all day just to tell me to get the fuck out of your head?”
“No. I'm following you around all day because I need to explain what's going on between me and Sally.” They locked eyes. Carlene waited. “And,” Ronan continued, “because I can't think of anyone else I'd rather follow around all day.”
“Flirting isn't going to get you anywhere this time, bucko,” Carlene said. “And you can save your breath. I know why you're marrying Sally.”
“Bucko? Did ye just call me bucko?”
“You're avoiding again.”
“All right, Miss America. You think you know so much. Enlighten me.”
“Those men I told you about—the tweed brothers.”
“Go on,” Ronan said.
“I think they're loan sharks. I think you owe them money. I think you're marrying Sally so they don't break your legs or tie a cement block to your ankle and throw you in a river!” This time it was Ronan's laughter that echoed through the little space first. He laughed so hard he had to wipe tears from his eyes.
“Loan sharks,” he said. “Deadly. T'row me in a river!” It was just impossible to remain indignant and angry when he was howling with laughter. Carlene hated that about him. She loved that about him. She hated that she loved that about him.
“It's a working theory,” she said when he finally recovered.
“Fucking brilliant,” he said.
“It wasn't even my theory—it was your sisters'.”
“Jaysus,” Ronan said. “That's gas.”
Carlene started to walk away. Ronan grabbed her by the waist and swung her into him. “Hear me out.”
“I'm listening.” But she wasn't. How could she listen when he was so close that she couldn't even think? When she knew he could feel her trembling? When he'd asked another woman to marry him, yet here they were, chest to chest, hearts beating against each other?
“What happened with Sally was a huge misunderstanding,” he said.
“She misunderstood a marriage proposal?”
“Do you see a ring on her finger?” Carlene hadn't thought about it, but now that he mentioned it, she knew if Sally had a ring, she would have been shoving it in Carlene's face.
“So you haven't bought the ring yet,” Carlene said.
“I didn't propose,” Ronan said.
“She just imagined the words, ‘Will you marry me?' coming out of your mouth?”
“She followed me to the abbey the other day. And so did George and Martin.”
“Who are George and Martin?”
“You like to call them the men in tweed,” Ronan said. “Which I'm dying to tell them.” He stopped for a minute and laughed again. He looked so beautiful in the shadows, his dimple, his scar, his green-gold eyes. Why couldn't this be simple? Why couldn't he just be hers?
“So they're not loan sharks?” Carlene said. “They don't want to break your legs?”
“Well, they might want to break my legs all right, but they're more like babysitters than loan sharks.”
“I don't follow.”
“I bet someone that if I ever placed a bet again I'd owe them a hundred thousand euros.”
“You made a bet that you would never bet again?”
“I did, yeah.”
“And George and Martin?”
“Are allowed to follow me around twenty-four/seven until the person I made the bet with is satisfied.”
“Who did you make the bet with?”
“Racehorse Robbie. He's a fella I know who gambles on the ponies.”
“And what do you get out of the deal?”
“If I go one year without betting, I get the hundred thousand.”
“And this person is good for it?”
“Are you kidding me? He's loaded. He's owned several racehorses who've made him millions.”
“Why would he make a bet like that with you?”
“Because he lives to bet. Because he doesn't think I can do it. And I don't know—maybe part of him doesn't want to see me end up like him.”
“A millionaire?” Carlene said. Ronan stopped and gave her a look. She smiled. He smiled back, but it was softer, more serious.
“A mad gambler. Even with all his money, he can't stop betting. He has to bet or he goes mental. He recognized a kindred spirit in me.”
“So what does this have to do with asking Sally to marry you?”
“He set me up—that's what. The other day some fella gives me a bell and says he's got a tip on a horse.”
“Gives you a bell?” Carlene said.
“Calls me on the cellular phone,” Ronan said slowly in a mock American accent.
“What guy?”
“I have no idea—but I'm sure Racehorse Robbie was behind it.”
“I thought you weren't betting anymore.”
“I haven't placed one bet—not one. Even though it's been killing me. But then the fella on the mobile said he was going to leave the tip in the tower of the abbey.”
“Isn't that where you used to get tips—when you were a kid?”
“Exactly. I knew it was a setup, sure. I was just going to confront Robbie—or whatever wanker he had lurking there to catch me. But when I got to the abbey, Sally was there. The same fella who called me called her and said I'd left her a note in the abbey. By the time I arrived, she already had the note in her hand. It wasn't my handwriting, but she didn't notice—or she didn't care. The horse's name? Ready for this? Marry Me.”
“No,” Carlene said. “You're making this up.” Ronan pulled a folded-up newspaper out of his pocket and handed it to Carlene.
“Number eight,” he said. Carlene glanced at the list, and sure enough, there he was, number eight—Marry Me.
“Next thing I knew, she was yelling, ‘Yes, yes, yes,' and throwing her arms around me—then there come George and Martin out of the corner, like they hadn't been hiding there all along, asking her what the commotion was—so of course she tells them we're engaged, then they look at me and wait for me to tell her it's not true, ready to nab me if they thought I was picking up a tip on a horse—”
“But would you have lost the bet just picking up a tip? Don't you actually have to place the best to lose?” Carlene said.
“The bet was that I wouldn't so much as look at a racing card, go near the tracks, the whole nine yards.”
“That sounds extreme.”
“Racehorse Robbie likes extreme bets. I guess I do too or I wouldn't have accepted the bet in the first place. I was planning to go out with a bang—my last bet, never to bet again.”
“I don't know what to say to you, Ronan.” Carlene pulled away and started to walk. Ronan kept pace slightly behind her. The wind began to pick up, blowing Carlene's hair all around her face, long strands whipping across her cheeks and lips. She kept walking, not even bothering to clear her hair from her eyes. Let the wind do what it would.
“I panicked, Carly. She was so fucking happy, and I was so fucking miserable with myself like for even falling for it, like. I swear on me da's grave I was about to tell her the truth. But before I knew what happened she was telling her mam, her father—my mam, the half dozen, and the whole world that we were getting married.”
Carlene smelled fireplace smoke, damp earth, and cow dung. She picked up the pace.
“If I tell her the truth—”
“You lose a bet,” Carlene said.
“It's not just that. Yes, I'd lose the bet.” Once again Carlene felt Ronan's hands on her waist as he stopped her. She remained with her back to him until he physically turned her around. She tried not to stare into his gold-green eyes as they searched hers, but it was futile. Ronan had to raise his voice to compete with the strengthening wind. “Do you think I'd take a hundred thousand euros off my mother just to pay off another bet? One I never really made in the first place?”
“The raffle money,” Carlene said.
“There's no way,” Ronan said. “I can't do it. I won't.”
“Why didn't you just tell Racehorse Robbie you weren't going to look at the tip, you were just going to confront whatever wanker gave you a bell.”
“It's not the way things are done.”
“Well, obviously, I don't know the way things are done. But I do know this. You're not doing Sally any favors. She deserves to be with somebody who will love her the way she loves you.”
“She doesn't love me—she's just infatuated.”
“My point stands.” This time, Carlene started to walk again, and didn't stop, even though he was still following her.
“I'm not allowed to make mistakes? What about you, Miss I'm married, oh wait, I'm
not
married. To another Irishman no less. Which number am I?” Carlene stopped suddenly, and Ronan had to veer off path to keep from slamming into her. For once she didn't mind the dark, damp Irish weather. It matched her mood.
“What do you want from me?” Carlene said.
“I want you . . . I want you . . .” Ronan folded his arms across his chest, dug at the ground with his toe. “I just want you. But I'm a fuckup. I've always been, and I still am. Sally knows that and she still wants to marry me.”
“So marry her.”
“Carlene.”
A surge of anger rose up in Carlene. She couldn't handle this. Why wasn't anything ever simple? Why couldn't she, for once, just be the girl who got lucky? She didn't mean to yell, but next thing she knew, her voice was up to the heavens, and bitterness spilled from her throat.
“I didn't come here to get my heart broken. I didn't come here to pour out all my secrets and tell you about my phobias, and my mother. I didn't ask for this. I didn't ask for you. One minute you're all over me, and the next minute you're gone, and the next minute you're back, and the next minute you're kissing me until I can't see straight, and the next minute you're engaged. I don't know why you keep fucking things up—but you're right. You do. You don't think about anybody but yourself.”
“So I'm a selfish bastard now, am I?”
“If the shamrock fits.”
“Carlena.”
“Don't call me that. Don't call me anything. Pretend I don't exist.”
“You think I asked for this? You think I wanted to be absolutely mad about the woman who took over me pub?”
“And just whose fault is that?”
“I'm not blaming you. I'm just—”
“I shouldn't be running your father's pub and you shouldn't be marrying a woman you don't love. So don't talk to me about my mistakes—because they're all in the past. And you're right. This isn't my first rodeo. I've had my heart broken by an Irish man before, so you'd think I'd smarten up. And at first I thought there was no way in hell you were anything like Brandon—but I was wrong. You're worse. You're worse because with Brandon, what you saw was what you got. I had red flags slapping me in the face but I waved them around in my little love parade for one anyway. But you—underneath all that crap there's this amazing and beautiful man in there somewhere. And you let people see glimpses of him, but you just won't let him out, will you? You're your own worst enemy. So marry Sally, don't marry Sally—I don't care, Ronan Anthony McBride. And here's a news flash for you. There's no way in hell you're going to stop betting because you can't. Not as long as you remain such a coward.”

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