“Okay, I’ll just tell you what I’d do if it were me.”

“I’m not sure that’ll help,” she deadpans.

“Whatever, it’s all you’re getting from me.”

“You’re such a lawyer sometimes.”

“Shut up. Okay, so we know he made a big effort to come over here to Boston to see you, and we know that pretty much from the get-go he wasn’t interested in hurting you or maybe even taking your bar away. So why did he come, then? And if he came to just get in your pants, why didn’t he just come and do that? Why the charade of a lawsuit? You need answers, and if he’s asked you to show him the town, you’re in the perfect position to get those answers. Take him to the waterfront and feed him some chowder, take him to Fenway Park, take him to a museum. And talk to him. Find out the truth. That’s your mission.”

“Find out the truth, eh?”

“Yep. That’s it.”

“You say it like it’s easy, but the truth never is, is it?”

“Maybe not, but he owes you that much and you owe him the same.”

“I’m afraid.”

My voice softens at the vulnerability I hear. “What are you afraid of?”

She mumbles her answer. “I guess I might be afraid that I’ll love him and he won’t love me back.”

“Wouldn’t it suck worse to have him love you back and you never find out about it?”

“Yes, I suppose.”

“Good, then we agree. Go get ‘im, girl.”

“I’m still afraid.”

“Good!” I say with extra cheer. “It means you’re not too jaded to fall in love. Have fun!”

“You’re my best friend in the entire world, you know that, right?” she says.

“Ditto. Now stop stalling and go.”

“Okay, wish me luck.”

“You don’t need luck, Erin, you’re Irish. Just be yourself.” I hang up the phone before she can come up with any more excuses to avoid talking to Michaél face to face. Then I start with my happy dance again, changing it to a nice Irish reel, hearing the sounds of Lisdoonvarna echoing in my head.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

ERIN

I STARE OUT AT THE city below as Michaél looks through the telescope of The Skywalk Observatory. I love Boston and I’m excited to show him around, so I’ve brought him to the Prudential Tower where we can get a panoramic view of the city and plan our route.

“I suggest we begin by following the Freedom Trail and try to cover the Top Ten Sights, or at least as many as we can.” I’m standing behind him, taking in his nice ass as he leans down to look through the eyepiece. I’m tempted to call it the Top Eleven Sights now that his rear end is in the picture, but I feel shy and awkward round him and can’t seem to shake the feeling.

“The Top Ten sights?” he asks, standing up straight and turning to look at me, clearly amused by something. Most probably me, or at least one of my idiosyncrasies, as he has taken to calling my character tics.

“Well, my top ten, really. Not the official top ten,” I say, somewhat sheepishly. I am beginning to realize that not everybody is committed to lists and planning to the same degree as I am.

He looks around at the cityscape beyond the windows and slides his hands into the back pockets of his jeans.

Shit, did he see me checking out his ass?

“Sure. But why don’t we amble along and just see where the city takes us. Ye know, stay loose, stay open.” He smiles.

I melt. What the hell is happening to me? Ridlee has given me the all clear on the once imminent implosion that was the bar deal and I’ve gone gooey. My brain has checked out and gone on hiatus, and I still need to find out what Michaél’s intentions are. If he never really wanted a stake in the bar, then what does he want?

Back down at street level, we hit the red-brick line of the Freedom Trail, and I throw myself into tour guide mode, ignoring the ginormous elephant in the room. For two and a half miles I prattle on about the history of the city, and I tell him about the Big Dig project to drive the city traffic underground. I cannot help but think of Lisdoonvarna and Donal's horse Big Dick, which for some reason makes me sad and nostalgic for a moment in my life when everything seemed clear. And all the time I’m doing this, I’m avoiding asking the one question that I’m burning to ask. Does he still like me?

We eat lunch near Quincy Market in Boston’s oldest restaurant, famous for its oysters. This is no accident; Oysters are an aphrodisiac, after all. We share a bottle of crisp white wine and chat about everything under the sun, except us. I tell him about my family back home and about Margaret. He’s a good listener and I find myself talking too much.

“So, what about you?” I say. “Tell me about your family.” I take half a shell and scoop another oyster out sending it south.

He smiles at my technique. “Well, I don’t have much of a family, really. Donal and Siobhán are it. My parents died when I was very young and my grandfather died two years ago. He brought me up.”

I look down at my plate. Oh shit, I guess I’m not supposed to know that already. I nod and smile sympathetically. “That must have been hard — growing up without any parents?”

“Nah, ye don’t miss what ye never had, and my grandfather was an amazing man.”

I admire the way he can say that without a hint of sentimentality, like it’s a simple fact.

“Do you remember your parents at all?” I ask.

“Bits, I suppose.” He pauses for a moment, the wine glass midway to his lips. “Ye know, sometimes when I’m out on the waves, early in the morning or around dusk, I get pictures of them floatin’ through my head, like home movies. My mum’s auburn hair, her laugh… or I see my dad getting out of the car and scooping me into his arms and I’m laughing uncontrollably.” He shakes his head as though to clear it. “False memories, probably.”

I reach out and place my hand over his. “Still, whatever they are, they’re what you have left of your parents.”

“I suppose it’s made me more cautious about people. I’m not prepared to let important people into my life if they’re not serious about the relationship. And I mean both men and women. I have known Donal and Siobhán my whole life. They are my family.” He looks off into the middle distance.

I’m about to say something, but I don’t know what yet, something to let him know that I’m not toying with him—not anymore anyway, but he beats me to it.

“I’m a live-in-the-moment kinda guy, Erin. The past is the past. Maybe they are real memories, maybe they’re not. It doesn’t matter much. Life is now. This moment.”

I take my hand away, a little abashed but not understanding why. Should I be reading between the lines here? Is he telling me that things between us have changed since Ireland and that there’s no longer anything there? I don’t know and he doesn’t elaborate.

We settle the bill and head back out into the street. I try to shake the feeling that our ship has sailed and that whatever spark was there before has been extinguished by money and lawyers and threats of lawsuits. Or, put more simply, by me.

“Let’s do a Duck Tour!” suggests Michaél, giving no indication that he’s suffering like I am.

“What? Really?” I consider the big pink vehicle that takes tourists round the city as they wave and honk at real Bostonians. This is not included in my top ten pick. I was initiated into Bostonian life by Ridlee, a bonafide Bostonian, and she never recommended tourist gimmicks. Discover it like a local, she advised, and that’s what I’m trying to pass on to Michaél. “Nah, that’s lame,” I say digging at some imaginary hole in the ground with the toe of my Converse.