“Jesus, it’s like the Kennedy curse or something,” I murmur. Poor Michaél, orphaned at only two years of age.

“Yeah, it’s a sad story. But remember, Erin, that’s his story. We all have stories, but business is business.”

Finally at Mrs. O’Grady’s, we shower and change our clothes, ready to hit the town. While Ridlee is in the shower, I wrap my wet hair in a towel and go to the dresser to apply some make-up. I can’t help but sneak a peek at my phone, which my lawyer and best friend confiscated from me earlier this morning, lest I be tempted to contact Micheál and risk ruining the deal.

There are six missed calls from him and a single text.

I’ve had a windfall. Wanna celebrate?

I put my phone back in the drawer and sigh. Micheál’s half of the bar is probably worth more than I’m paying him, and I have no idea if it will be enough to get him and Siobhán out of debt. But I know Ridlee’s right. I built up the bar. I worked long hours and made it into a viable business when it was hemorrhaging money. It would be crazy to let my grandmother give my hard-won inheritance to some total stranger because she suddenly felt guilty on her deathbed. And besides … he could have negotiated the price. He could have seen the pictures online and said he wanted more. Heck, he could have asked for the accounting, couldn’t he have? But he didn’t. That’s not my fault. I’m not going to feel guilty because he’s a terrible businessman.

 I apply my make-up and make an effort to smile at my reflection in the mirror. The girl smiles back but the smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

Ridlee reappears and grins. “We should go somewhere really fancy for dinner and order all the best dishes.”

“In Doolin?”

“Yes. The very best Doolin has to offer!”

I don’t have the will to argue, so out we go, arm in arm to enjoy a slap-up meal and the best that Doolin has to offer.

When we go back to our favourite pub, McMahons, there’s a session on and the musicians are awesome. The atmosphere is great and the craic is ninety. Ridlee and I get a table and order fresh oysters and whatever’s right from the ocean. I can’t help but scan the crowd for Michaél but it’s a different Bodhrán player this evening. He’s probably out celebrating with Siobhán, or some other girl. Forget him.

As though reading my mind, Ridlee looks at me across the table and smiles. The din in the place means that we can’t talk, which suits me. Grabbing my hand she pulls me up to dance our favourite reel, The Walls of Limerick. It doesn’t take long to put that boy from my mind and concentrate on what’s real, what’s possible. Tomorrow we sign the papers. Friday we leave. End of story.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

RIDLEE

ERIN SAYS THE CRAIC WAS ninety last night. I’m pretty sure she’s wrong about that. I think it was at least ninety-eight. Maybe even ninety-nine. I can’t remember anything I did after we danced some kind of Irish jig, except for the one part where I barfed in some bushes outside the pub. My mouth tastes horrible.

“You ready to go down for breakfast?” Erin asks, brushing her hair at the mirror.

“No.” I sound like a frog croaking out my answer.

“Still feeling the Guinness?”

“I think I’m feeling something else. Did we drink whiskey last night or does my memory deceive me?”

“Yes, we had a bit of Jameson, actually. I’ve missed the stuff. I need to make sure the Pot O’ Gold has a nice stock of it when we get back. I’m sick of pushing all those American brands. Nothing beats a dram of Jameson.”

“I’ll take your word on that, since I can’t remember anything that happened after we did that stupid jig.”

“It’s a reel, not a jig.” She’s using a toothbrush to carefully brush out and shape her eyebrows.

“Whatever. Did you make the plane reservations yet?” I sit up in bed and take a look around the room. Clothes are piled up all over the place, and I’m still mostly dressed. Erin looks like she’s already showered, and she’s even wearing make-up. What the hell. Does she not feel the effects of alcohol the next day or what? Is that an Irish thing or a bar-owner thing?

I get a look at her expression in the mirror and decide maybe it’s a heartache thing. She was too sad over Michaél to really get into our celebration last night. Maybe that’s why I drank enough for the both of us, because I’m such a good friend.

“I did make the arrangements, actually. We leave tomorrow, eight in the morning out of Dublin, which means we need to leave here…” She rolls her eyes to the ceiling as she does her calculations.

I finish her sentence for her. “…At the crack of my butt dawn tomorrow morning.”

“Precisely.” She stands and puts her brush down. “Come on then. Time for brekky. You can fluff your hair after.”

I reach down and grab the pants that are on the floor. The rest of my clothing is already on, so once I’m zipped, I’m ready to go. I don’t even bother looking in the mirror, knowing it’s a train wreck that will take at least an hour to fix. I don’t trust my empty stomach to last that long; I need to put some toast in there or something to soak up whatever nastiness is rolling around before I get sick again.

I think I’ll be glad to leave the booze of Ireland behind. It was great and all, but I seem to have a problem controlling my intake. Something about this place makes me lose my good sense. It’s the reason why I keep debating whether I should contact Donal or not. Of course I shouldn’t, but I think about doing it several times a day anyway. It’s a good thing I temporarily lost track of my phone last night, or I for sure would have drunk-texted him. Surely someone in the bar would have had his number, and given the state I was in, I wouldn’t have been shy about hunting that person down and hounding them for the information.

I shuffle out of the room behind Erin, holding onto the handrail as I descend the stairs. The house is moving a little.

“Ah, there ye are, girlies. And how was your evenin’? Good, was it?” She puts a pot of tea on the table and I haven’t even sat down completely before I’m reaching for it. Tea, get in my belly.

“It was all right,” Erin says unenthusiastically.

“Just all right? I heard from Aednat who heard from Muirgheal that ye were having more than just an all right kind of evenin’.” She’s barely holding in her smile. “Word is ye’re quite the talented dancers.”

Erin sighs. “Ridlee doesn’t remember everything she did last night, so I wasn’t going to tell her.”

I drop the knife I was about to use to spread some jam on my toast and look first at Erin and then at Mrs. O’Grady. “What are you talking about? What did Agnag and Mergool say?”

“Oh my. It’s not Agnag. It’s Aednat. And Muirgheal, not …what did ye say? Morgor? What’s that? The Lord of the Rings?”

“Whatever.” I’m sure I should be embarrassed right now, but I want to know how embarrassed I should be. “What did I do?”

Mrs. O’Grady trades looks with Erin.

Erin puts up her hands. “You have to tell her now, Mrs. O. Cat’s out of the bag.”

The old woman comes over and pats me on the shoulder. “Never ye mind, deary. No one will remember a thing a few days from now.”

Erin has toast in her face as she mumbles her commentary. “I’m not so sure about that.”