I kick her under the table. “Tell me.”

“Ow!” She tries to act mad, but she’s laughing as she bends over to rub her shin. “You just did a little jig.”

“I thought you said it was a reel.” I’m scowling at her.

“It is when I do it. But when you do on a table, it’s definitely a jig.”

“With your fingers hooked in yer belt,”adds Mrs. O’Grady. “Looking like a right leprechaun.” She nods once, smiling like she’s proud.

I lower my head to my hand as I rest my elbow on the table. “Thank God we’re leaving tomorrow.”

“We still have to go into town to sign the papers,” Erin says, happily munching away on her toast. “And give over the check.”

I sigh and look up, ready to jam my toast again. What’s done is done. I can’t erase what I did last night, I can only hope most of the people in the bar were half as drunk as I was. “We’re wiring the money to his account, but you’re right, we do need to go to the office and have you sign the papers. We can go anytime, he said.”

“How about now?” Erin says, standing up.

“You go ahead,” I say, standing after taking one bite of my toast. My stomach is telling me that’s all it can handle right now anyway. “I’ll join you after I fix my face.”

“Ye may want to see to yer hair as well, dear,” says Mrs. O’Grady in her really helpful voice. “Ye don’t want to unwittingly put the heart across anyone.”

“Across who? What?”

Erin pulls my sleeve. “It’s an Irish expression. It basically means you need to fix your ‘do. Hurry up. I’ll wait for ya.”

I run up the stairs, trying to ignore my sloshing stomach. When I get in front of the mirror I understand exactly what that quaint Irish expression means. My hair is ugly enough to give someone a heart attack. A quick shower and copious amounts of conditioner take care of that problem in a jiffy. Twenty minutes later my hair is blown out and I have eyeliner and mascara on, along with a fresh outfit. A blazer tops off the look with a short scarf that will hopefully hide the blotchy marks on my neck. God knows where those came from.

Erin looks at her watch as I come down the stairs. “That has to be some kind of record. Twenty minutes?” She leans in close and inhales. “You even used soap.”

“And perfume,” I say sarcastically. “Come on.” I go right past her and out the door. “Time’s a wastin’.” I’m not all that excited about getting weird looks from any villagers who might have witnessed my dance routine last night. I just want to get this over with and go home.

I drive because the Bambino seems to prefer me to Erin. It starts right up and soon we’re buzzing down the street.

“Watch out!” Erin shouts, reminding me that I need to be on the other side of the road.

“I know,” I say, trying to talk myself out of the heart attack I almost had. “I was going over there eventually.”

“Tell that to the guy in the lorry who just shit his knickers,” she says, a little out of breath. She’s sunk down into her seat, and I catch her checking the efficacy of her seatbelt several times.

The car goes silent for a while, but I’m not going to be the first one to talk. Erin’s touchy about this business deal since Michaél is on the other side of the table, and I don’t want to upset the balance we’ve found.

“What if he’s there when we go?” Erin says in a small voice.

“Who? Michaél?”

“Yeah.”

“He won’t be. I talked to O’Mooney. He said he didn’t expect him in there until after four in the afternoon.”

“Oh.” She pauses a few seconds. “But what if he’s wrong?”

I sigh loudly. “Then you either choose not to go in until later, or I can get the papers and you can sign them in the car, or you can confront him and confess that it’s your bar. He’s going to find out anyway, you know. Your name is on the papers.”

“But if he doesn’t come until four, he won’t know until then.”

“Probably. Unless O’Mooney gave him copies of the papers ahead of time. He might have done that.”

Erin looks at her phone. “I don’t think he did. Michaél hasn’t said a word about it.”

“Has he texted you at all?” I glance over to see her screen, but she has it angled away from me.

“Actually, no.” She looks at me, clearly stressed. “Do you think it’s because he knows? Is he mad? Maybe I should call him and explain.”

I grab her phone and drop it into the pocket of my door. “No. No calls. No texts. No confessions. We do this deal and we leave.”

“Hey! Give that back to me!” She sounds a little too desperate for my comfort.

“No. I’m doing this for your own good. You’ll thank me later.”

She stares out the front window, and I can tell by the rigid set of her jaw that she’s holding back. Whether it’s tears she’s keeping in check or a string of expletives, I don’t know. I’m going to let her work it out, though, without any assistance from me. I’m certain I’m doing the right thing by my friend. She’s worked too hard for too long to let this whole thing blow up over a guy she’ll never see again. If she hadn’t told me a thousand times how much she dislikes Ireland and how she’d never live here again, I wouldn’t be such a hardass. But she has, and except for her little happy fling with Michaél, I haven’t seen her opinion changing since we’ve been here. As her friend and her lawyer, I’m going to make sure she signs these papers, wires her money, and then gets her butt back to Boston as soon as possible.

We pull up in front of the lawyer’s office and stare at the front door together. I cut the engine off and nudge her leg. “Go on. Sign the papers and let’s go.”

“Are you coming with me?” She looks way too nervous.

“Of course. Come on.” I get out with her and lead the way up the path to the door.

“Are you sure this is the right thing to do?” she asks.

I stop and turn around, facing her and forcing her to stop just in front of me. “The only one who can decide that is you, Erin. Do you still want to own the Pot O’ Gold?”

“Of course I do, don’t be ridiculous.”

“Do you want to be the only one making decisions about how to run it, how to expand it, how to spend the profits of it?”

“Yes.” She nods her head, her voice sounding firmer.

“Do you want to live in Ireland?”

“Hell to the no.”

“Fine.” I shrug. “What’s left to discuss?”

“Nothing.” She moves past me and pushes the door open. “Let’s sign those papers and get the hell out of dodge.”

I’m expecting a long-drawn out process, but apparently the solicitors in Lisdoonvarna have found a way to cut the bull to a minimum. I verify that the terms are all there in the contract as we discussed, Erin signs on the dotted line, and we shake Mr. O’Mooney’s hand.

“I’ll send an original copy over to Mrs. O’Grady’s as soon as Mr. Flanagan’s signed. And you’ll receive a call from my office confirming the wire has been received. If you could furnish you paper proof from the bank when you send it, that should speed the process.”

“No problem, I’ll have it to you as soon as my office opens. The wire will be done first thing. We’ll be in the air tomorrow early, so feel free to fax the documents to my office. You can send the original by mail there too, if you don’t mind.” I hand him one of my business cards. “Thanks for all your help.”

“It was my pleasure.” He smiles, shaking my hand. “I hope you’ve enjoyed your stay in our fair country.”

“I really have.” I give him a genuine smile. “I’m going to miss it, actually.” I’m not just bullshitting him, either. There’s a lot of Irish flavor in Boston, but nothing beats the real thing. Images of Donal dance in the back of my mind.

Erin nudges me, breaking up the fantasy reel I’m playing in my head. “Okay, time to go. We have a lot of packing to do.” She nods at Mr. O’Mooney.

As we walk out the door, his words float out behind us.

“May brooks and trees and singing hills, join the chorus too, and every gentle wind that blows, send happiness to you.”