“Sure!”

We get back in the Bambino and it starts for Ridlee without so much as a groan of complaint. She beams at me, “Guess I’ve got the touch.”

Once we’re on the road again, I open the guidebook for directions and to plan the rest of our afternoon. All we can do is wait to see what the solicitor says when he calls with an answer to my offer on the bar. It was my idea to get out of Dodge, otherwise known as Doolin, today so that I wouldn’t run the risk of bumping into Micheál, or be tempted to rush out to find him and confess everything. Ridlee’s right. He is a holiday fling. I barely know him, and if he hasn’t done his homework properly on the sale, then he isn’t much of a businessman. Sure, he saved my life yesterday, but surely he would have done the same for anyone. And I would have done the same for him, wouldn’t I?

I shake my head to get rid of that particular thought. I don’t want to go down that path — my mother’s favourite — put yourself in their shoes, how would you like to be treated in the same situation, etc., etc. My mother has no head for business; she’s too nice. I can afford to be nice when I’ve made my money.

“Right. Guidebook,” I say aloud, forcing myself to focus on something else.

Ridlee pipes up with, “There’s a cave around here somewhere with a great big stalactite. We could go and see that.”

“Are they the giant phallic things that grow out of the rock? I told you, Rid, I don’t want any reminders of Michaél today!” I say vehemently.

“Nooo, that’s stalagmite. Theses are the ones that flow from the ceiling of the cave like stone icicles.”

I look at her suspiciously. “What did you do, swallow the guidebook or something?”

“No, Jeremy was into caving,” she says primly, two hands gripping the steering wheel in a perfect ten-to-two hold.

“I’ll bet he was,” I mutter under my breath. I close the guidebook purposefully. “No, I don’t think I’ll be entering any caves today. I only have one life left. Besides, that cave is back in Doolin, which is only 6km from you-know-who. We’ll just go to Bunratty Castle and then find a pub and go and get drunk.” I don’t add that we will be either celebrating or commiserating because I don’t know which result — to get word that Micheál is going to sell or not — will make me happy or depressed.

I look down at the guidebook again for inspiration. “Mmm… apparently at Bunratty Folk Village people mill about dressed in traditional clothing, and the village has been restored so that all the little shops are selling their wares, much as they would have hundreds of years ago. That sounds like fun, doesn’t it, Rid?” I close the book on my lap.

“Going back in time?” she crinkles her nose. “Nah, I like the 21st century. The technology’s better.”

“Mmm," I say absentmindedly. I wish I could go back in time. I’d have conducted this business deal over the phone from Boston … But then you would never have met Michaél, says the angel or devil on my shoulder; I can never tell who’s who…

“Shut up!” I say aloud. My hand flies to my lips and I smile sheepishly at Ridlee who is now glaring at me.

“Are you alright, Erin?” she asks in a matronly tone.

“I wasn’t talking to you,” I mumble and look out the window, concentrating deeply on the passing landscape.

“That’s the famous Burren,” I say a little too brightly, to distract Ridlee from my momentary lapse into madness. She smiles politely so I’m encouraged to go on. “The rolling hills of Burren are composed of limestone pavements with criss-crossing cracks known as ‘grikes’, leaving isolated rocks called ‘clints’.”

Ridlee’s brow furrows which I interpret as, ‘Really, how interesting. Do go on…’ So I do.

“In 1651-52, Edmund Ludlow stated, ‘Burren is a country where there is not enough water to drown a man, wood enough to hang one, nor earth enough to bury him...... and yet their cattle are very fat; for the grass growing in turfs of earth, of two or three foot square, that lie between the rocks, which are of limestone, is very sweet and nourishing.’ That’s interesting, isn’t it, Rid?”

“Fascinating, Erin. Where’d you learn all that?” she asks, somewhat impressed.

“I just read it in the guidebook.”

Half an hour later we arrive at Bunratty Castle and Folk Park where we spend the afternoon wandering around. The medieval castle is magnificent, and as we walk from room to room I try to imagine what it would have been like living in this place centuries ago. I am lost in my own little reverie when Ridlee’s phone rings. She moves out of the room to take the call. I hold my breath, watching. Standing in the door frame to the massive dining hall she holds one finger to her ear so that she can hear better. She nods, once, then twice quickly. She looks up at me, smiling and giving me a thumbs up. I smile back.

So, Micheál has accepted the offer. Great. Ridlee and I can book tickets this evening and head back to Boston as soon as there are seats available. My five-year plan is back on track. I’ll be able to finish the rest of the renovations and within a year buy another property to expand the franchise. I’m happy. I really am. It’s just…

“We did it!” Ridlee high-fives me before continuing in her grand announcement voice. “You are the proud, and more importantly sole owner of Boston’s finest Irish theme bar, The Pot O’Gold!”

“Yay!!” I say, mustering enthusiasm I don’t quite feel.

“Erin!” snaps my lawyer.

“Whaaat?” I ask, all whiney again.

“Don’t! Drop it! It’s over with that guy, you hear me? I swear to God, Erin… Don’t you dare mess with this. This is your future we’re talking about here. Repeat after me: This is my future.”

Obediently, I repeat, “This is my future.”

“Now, let’s go celebrate!” she screams, so that other visitors to the castle turn to stare at us.

I can’t help but laugh. “She’s American,” I say as we leave to an older couple frowning at us as though we’ve just taken a dump on the floor.

Cathal O’Mooney had put the pieces of the jigsaw that was my grandmother’s early life together. Back in the Bambino, racing to Doolin, Ridlee fills me in on Margaret’s and Padraig Flanagan’s backstory.

“It’s kinda sweet, really,” she begins. “Margaret and Padraig Flanagan were a couple when they were both quite young, back in the day, and they planned to emigrate to America together. But then he fell ill with consumption. I don’t even know what that is.” She glances from the road to me, her eyebrows raised in a question.

I stare out at the bleak landscape and wonder about life here all those years ago.

It must have been hard. “So, anyway, he was sent away,” Ridlee adds.

I’m pulled back to the present. “It’s tuberculosis. People called it the consumption because the victim was ‘consumed’ by weight loss and breathlessness. It consumed the lives of thousands in Ireland. My dad still talks about it. It was the AIDS of their time.” Poor Margaret. This is the first time I’ve ever been moved to sympathy for my grandmother. “Go on with the story, Rid.”

“Well, Margaret didn’t know whether he was dead or alive, and his family told her nothing because they had never approved of the relationship. Believing Padraig gone from her life forever, she started seeing another guy from a nearby town. Six months later she left for Boston with him and together they made their fortune. His name was Paddy, naturally.” She gives me a cheeky wink.

“That was my grandfather, Paddy Daly.”

“Right. Well, as far as anyone in Lisdoonvarna knew, Margaret never had anything to do with Padraig Flanagan again. He ended up marrying a local girl who died in childbirth. He brought up his daughter, Maggie, alone and then looked after her son, Michaél too when Maggie and her husband were killed in a car accident when the boy was only two years old.”