Today’s a big day for both of us. She’s waiting to hear whether or not she passed the bar exam and I’m waiting to hear whether or not I’ve inherited a bar, a.k.a. The Pot O’Gold. Ridlee promised that we’d be home and tucked up in bed by one thirty, but of course one thing led to another; shots were downed and meetings forgotten. I awoke in Ridlee’s bed twenty minutes before the appointed time and had to hightail it across town in the clothes I wore out last night. I had no choice but to come to the meeting dressed like a sinner.

And now, all I can do is try to brazen it out. Act natural. I mean, some people actually do dress like this in their everyday lives. Sinners, admittedly, but still; at least it’s all black, which is good seeing as I’m officially still in mourning.

I decide to adopt the tone of important, valued client and shame the secretary into showing me some respect. It’s time to put her in her place. “Shall we?” I ask arching one eyebrow in the direction of her boss’s office. She colors slightly. “We don’t want to keep your boss waiting now, do we?” I nod toward the hall that leads to Mr. Hanby’s office. I have been here once before with my grandmother, and we went straight in to see the man himself, so I know my way around a little.

She walks on stiffly, her head held a smidgen too high.

Game, set, and match, Erin. I allow myself a smug little smile as I walk behind her.

A young guy at a desk looks up as we approach — she walking now at a clip, I more slowly so he can have a leisurely look. I wink as I pass. He blushes. It’s the sinner in me breaking free; I can’t help it.

I follow her to the door of Mr. Hanby’s very roomy corner office with large windows, no doubt paid for by people like Margaret—literally daylight robbery. The building is located on the waterfront in the financial district in Boston, with views of the harbour. I once asked her why she had such fancy lawyers, and she said that if you pay peanuts, you get monkeys.

The secretary doesn’t even knock; in fact, she strides right in, walks around the desk, and sits in Mr. Hanby’s chair.

I remain in the doorway, wondering what to do. Where is Mr. Hanby and who is this person? I have to stifle a smile when she starts to shuffle papers. Maybe she’s plain old crazy.

“Please, have a seat,” she intones, nodding curtly at the two chairs on the other side of the desk.

“Oookaaay.” I walk over and sit down, glancing around me just in case there’s a camera pointed at me. I’m half expecting to be punk’d.

She clears her throat.

I may as well play along until the boss arrives, but she’s sure to get an almighty dressing down for this kind of insubordination when Mr. Hanby gets here.

Opening the desk drawer, she takes out a pair of glasses, the kind that have a chain connecting the arms, and puts them on. They slide to the bottom of her nose. She looks over some pages that I now assume to be Margaret’s will.

Enough’s enough! “Look here, Mrs. ...?”

“Hanby.” She stops reading and looks directly at me. “I’m the first Hanby in Hanby & Hanby. My brother is the second.”

“Oh.” I feel my face turning pink. Oh, bollox… and I treated her like some half crazed underling out in the waiting area. Great start, Erin. Tops!

“Now, Ms. O’Neill… first of all, I’m very sorry to hear about your grandmother’s passing. She was a great lady, and a very good friend of mine.”

“Oh.” I’m usually more articulate than this.

“As executrix of her estate, I will distribute her property and wealth per her wishes…”

Soon I hear words like: last will and testament, international will, probate, and beneficiaries, but I can’t really take all this in. As far as I know, Margaret only had the pub, I mean the bar, and that’s all that really interests me. I try to follow what Mrs. Hanby is saying.

“The sum of $100,000 will go to each of her children. Properties in the greater Boston area to be sold and…”

“I’m sorry. Stop.” I hold up my hand like a traffic cop. “Could you just stop for a minute?”

She looks up from the pages she’s holding in both hands, and now it’s her turn to arch an eyebrow. “Yes?”

“Are you sure this is my grandmother’s will? Margaret Daly, born in Lisdoonvarna, County Clare, Ireland? Proprietor of ‘The Pot O’Gold’ bar in South Boston?”

“Yes. Margaret Assumpta Daly, born April 17, 1917.”

“Well, where did she get all this money from? She didn’t have a dime when I asked her to invest in renovations for the bar. Did she win the lottery and not tell me?”

“I’m afraid you’d have to ask her that.”

“Well, I can’t very well do that now, can I?”

“No, you can’t. Shall I go on?”

My head is spinning.

I had to work like a dog to get the bar going again and Margaret never gave me a penny. Now it turns out that she was loaded! I cannot get my head around this.  There must be some mistake!

“Look, Mrs. Hanby. Sure, I’m terribly sorry, but I think we got off on the wrong foot earlier.” I turn up the Irish lilt a little— the Yanks usually love it.

She narrows her eyes.

I drop the accent.

“Right. Let me put it this way.” I inhale deeply. “I had no idea that my grandmother was worth so much; she never gave me a handout or a leg up. I’ve been living with her day in and day out for the past five years, tending to her needs and running the bar more or less single-handedly. At the end, she couldn’t even go to the toilet on her own. We couldn’t afford a nurse…”  I leave that little nugget to hang for a minute before going on gravely. “I think I’m owed some kind of an explanation, don’t you?”  I sit back in the chair folding my arms across my chest.

“I’m sorry, Ms. O’Neill, but I am not at liberty to discuss all of the particulars of your grandmother’s estate with you. Suffice to say, you are permitted to pass on the details of your mother’s inheritance, and your uncle’s, which relate only to properties in Boston, and the payment of your grandmother’s life insurance. Beyond that there is only the matter of the bar to discuss.”

“Yes, fine. Whatever.” I watch her through narrowed eyes. This is typical Margaret. And now she has a minion continuing her evil legacy. “Let’s discuss The Pot O’ Gold then, Mrs., Hanby, and I’ll be on my way.”

She peruses the document, and I watch her carefully, biting my lip. It figures this woman’s a good friend of Margaret’s. Still, there’s no point in causing trouble with the lawyers. I just need to get the bar signed over to me, and then my life, which has been in suspended animation since I took over managing the place, can begin.

“Right, here we are. To my granddaughter, Erin Ignatia Margaret O’Neill I bequeath…”

I wince at my full name. In Ireland people think, why limit yourself to one name when you can have several? More opportunities for your friends to take the mickey, in my experience. ‘Ignatia’ provides endless combinations for piss-taking fun.

I have to force myself to concentrate. I should have accepted Ridlee’s offer to come with me and decode this legal jargon. Sitting up straight in my chair I clear my throat and fix my gaze on the lawyer.

“…One half of my bar, The Pot O’Gold, and the attached apartment, including my cat, Orpheus…”

“Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait!”

Mrs. Hanby looks at me over the rim of her bifocals.

What?” I lean in, even though I know I’m not hard of hearing. “Did you say ‘half’?”

She re-reads the last couple of lines quickly. “To my granddaughter, Erin, blah, blah, blah, I bequeath one half of my bar, The Pot O’Gold, and the attached apartment, including my cat, Orpheus who requires…”

“Half?” Standing up, I lean over the desk and attempt to read the will upside-down. Hanby covers it with her elbow like one of those little swots at school who would never let you see their paper during a test.