“It’s ‘Oh-Moon-Eee,” he explains congenially, “not money.”

“Right. Okay, so, in any case, we, that is, my client, Ms. O’Neill, is looking for a certain Padraig Flanagan on a matter of some urgency. We were hoping that you might be able to help us track him down.”

Mr. O’Mooney rubs his chin, apparently thinking. “That’s a mighty common name round these parts, Miss. Do you have any other information about this fella?”

Ridlee turns to me, eyebrows arched.

It’s my turn. We’ve rehearsed what we’re willing to divulge and what we’re not. “Eh, he was a friend of my grandmother’s, Margaret Daly. They both lived here in Lisdoonvarna before the war.”

“The Civil War?” he asks, leaning forward in his seat.

“No, the Second World War,” I say somewhat perplexed.

“Ah, sure, that was the English an’ all. That wasn’t our war a t’all a t’all.” He stares at the floor as though lost in some old memory. He can’t be more than fifty or sixty at most himself. There was no way he was even around back then. I am starting to get the idea that this guy knows more then he’s letting on.

“To return to the matter at hand, Mr. Oh-Moon-Eee,” interjects Ridlee, “do you happen to know of any Padraig Flanagan or maybe some of his descendants living in the Lisdoonvarna area who might have known my client’s grandmother?”

“I do.”

Ridlee looks at me, her eyes narrowed as if to say, what’s this guy’s game? She turns back to him and says, somewhat sarcastically, “Do you think maybe you could share that information with us?”

“Well now,” he says, shifting in his seat, his large belly straining against his suit pants, “I think I’d like to know a little bit more about the nature of your enquiry before I go givin’ out confidential information willy, nilly.”

“Are you representing Padraig Flanagan, Mr. Moon-Eee?” asks Ridlee, getting pissed.

“O,” he says, lacing his fingers together and settling them on the desk.

“Oh, you are representing him, or Oh you’re not?” asks Ridlee, on fire now.

“O-Moon-Eee,” he says, the corners of his mouth twitching almost imperceptibly.

“Are you playing with me, Mr. Oh- Moon - Eee?” she asks, clearly annoyed. “Because if you are, I’ll find another lawyer to help in this matter and you can say goodbye to any fee that might have been coming your way.” She pops her iPad in her handbag and goes to stand up.

I look up uncertainly. As far as I know this is the only solicitor in Lisdoonvarna.

“Ah now, Miss? Sorry, what was your last name?”

“Taylor. And it’s Ms., not Miss.”

“Ms. Taylor, I apologise, please have a seat. Would you ladies like a cup of tea? Or maybe a coffee?”

“No, thank you,” says Ridlee, sitting down slowly, “we’d rather just get this matter settled.”

“Of course," he says, then turns to me. ”You spoke of your grandmother in the past tense, Ms. O’Neill. Has she passed recently?”

“Yes, a little over a month ago. In Boston, where she lived most of her life.”

“My condolences. I didn’t know her personally, but I have heard good things about her. Lisdoonvarna is a small town; everybody knows everybody else and their business too, if you know what I mean.” He raises an eyebrow, all business now. “Unfortunately, Padraig Flanagan has also passed away.”

“Oh,” I say, perhaps a bit too brightly.

He puts on a pair of glasses and flips open a laptop I hadn’t noticed on the desk. The bumbling solicitor act is all over and he taps on the keypad, quick as lightning. “He does, however, have one grandson living.” He looks at Ridlee over the top of his reading glasses. “Does the matter now concern him?”

“Yes,” says Ridlee. “My client was left a bar — a pub — in her grandmother’s will, but it was also left to Padraig Flanagan, or his descendants should he no longer be living.” She opens the leather folder and takes out a document with photos of the bar as it was before the renovations. “This is the bar here.” She hands him the paper. “It’s called the Pot O’Gold and while it’s not much, my client has worked and lived there for a significant part of her life and would like to remain, running the pub. To that end, she would like to offer Padraig Flanagan what we consider a fair price for his half of the pub.” She passes the solicitor another piece of paper with the offer on it.

I watch him carefully, but he has a poker face; his expression gives nothing away.

“Okay, well, leave it with me. I’ll contact Padraig Flanagan’s grandson and explain the offer and get back to you as soon as he gives me his answer.” He’s gazing at the photos of the bar, his nose scrunched ever so slightly.

I know I shouldn’t but I can’t help but add, sadly. “I know it doesn’t look like much, but it’s my home.”

He looks up and smiles reassuringly.

Ridlee continues. “So, here are all the documents pertaining to the business and the apartment attached to it. Obviously, as the boy’s attorney, the responsibility of due diligence lies with you, Mr. O’Mooney. I look forward to hearing from you.” Ridlee uses the clipped tone she reserves for when she’s being all legal an’ shit. I have to bite my lip so I don’t break out in a huge smile.

After receiving Mr. O’Mooney’s assurances that he’ll get right on the matter, we walk out of the solicitor’s office, all nonchalant. “Pub, pub, pub, pub, pub, pub, pub,” I sing-song, hooking my arm through Ridlee’s and guiding her toward the nearest public house.

“What? A bar? It’s not even lunchtime,” she protests.

“We need to celebrate!” I exclaim, no longer able to contain my excitement. “You were awesome, Rid! Did you see his face? He totally bought it! The pub will be mine, all mine! Woh-ha-ha-ha-ha!” I do my Count from Sesame Street laugh for effect.

“Whoa there, girl!” cautions my friend. “Don’t go counting your chickens before they hatch.”

I don’t care what she says; I have a good feeling about this.

We walk into the pub and up to the bar. “A bottle of your finest champagne, my good man,” I say to the barman, who looks at us quizzically but gets us the bottle anyway.

“Celebrating, ladies?” he asks, smiling. We’re the only ones in the pub apart from some old codger at the end of the bar who looks like he might be a permanent fixture.

“Might be,” I say seriously, looking at Ridlee as the barman pours us a glass each. The champagne bubbles and fizzes and we put our pinkies on the rims to stop the glasses from overflowing.

She meets my eye and winks. We both burst out laughing and clink glasses.

“The Pot O Gold!”

“The Pots O Gold!” she corrects me. “And to five-year plans.”

“I’ll drink to that, Rid.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

RIDLEE

I’M DEAD ASLEEP WHEN THERE’S a knock at our door at five thirty in the evening. I moan with the daytime hangover I’m suffering after overdoing it in the pub with our little celebration. I now know that champagne and Guinness do not mix well at all, especially when there aren’t twelve hours after the imbibing to sleep it off.

Mrs. O’Grady has helped herself and opened the door, stepping inside the room. “Sorry to bother you, girlies, but there’s a young man at the door who says he’d like a word with young Ridlee.”

Erin’s voice comes out sounding slurred. It could be because of all the drinks she had or the fact that her face is buried in her pillow. “You got this, Rid. I’ll wait right here. Keep an eye on things.”