“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 things 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?”