“A fair price, is it?” asks Uncle Miley, all wily now.

I smile at him. We understand each other perfectly. Ridlee smiles too.

“Well, a fair price of what the bar used to be worth,” I explain. “Before I did all the renovations and basically saved it from bankruptcy. Here, look.” I pull some photos out of an envelope I have in my bag. They show the pub before any of the renovations were done. The plaster is hanging off the walls, there’s sawdust on the floor, and crap everywhere— teapots and plates and all sorts of junk from the old country.

“Nice,”says Uncle Miley, “but what did it look like before?”

“That is before!” His response deflates me a bit. Doesn’t he see the sawdust? The tired tea service?

A collective “oohhh” goes up as the photos are passed from person to person.

“What does it look like now?’ asks Aunty Ger.

I grin and pull out the brochure that I had recently put together for a marketing campaign. My family leans in to have a look.

“I’ve gutted the place so that it’s now one huge room instead of little snugs and nooks and crannies.”

The brochure shows an immense bar with stools running the length of it and a neon Fightin’ Irish leprechaun above it. There are neon shamrocks here and there and gaelic football jerseys on the walls. There’s a photo of me pulling a pint, wearing a green shirt with the words Kiss Me I’m Irish emblazoned on the front. A huge, green, cardboard shamrock behind me offers three shots for three dollars during happy hour.

“Lovely, sweetie,” says my mum, handing the brochure back to me. A general ‘mmm’ is emitted from my dad, aunt, and uncle.

“You don’t understand!” I hear myself whining. “That’s the kind of thing they want, right Ridlee?”

“Right!” says my loyal friend, but I can tell she doesn’t really know what we’re on about. She hasn’t been to a proper Irish pub yet. The airport bar doesn’t count.

“Look, I’m sure ye know best, Darlin,” says my dad, “but ye wouldn’t catch me drinkin’ in one of those ‘themed’ bars. How can ye even have a conversation with all the music and the televisions blaring and the general din?”

“People don’t want to talk, Dad, they want to get drunk.” I slump back in my seat and almost fall backward off the stool. Why does my family always have to make me feel like a child? It doesn’t matter what I do; it’s never good enough.

“Don’t mind us, Pet,” pipes up my Aunty Ger, “we’re just old fogeys who enjoy a bit of atmosphere in a pub. I’m sure yer themed bar is lovely.”

“The Pot O’Gold has atmosphere! Doesn’t it, Ridlee?” My plea stinks of desperation, I can smell it. But I can always rely on Rid.

“You betcha! It’s bustin’ with atmosphere, especially on Rave Night. Although the cokeheads can get out of hand sometimes.”

My uncle cuts in, “Lookit, if Erin wants to have a theme bar instead of a real pub, that’s her business!”

“Thank you, Uncle Miley. I think...”

“The real question is how is she going to deal with this Flanagan fella?”

Everyone around the table nods gravely. He waits for a moment before going on. “Now, I’m thinkin’ that the best way to deal with him is with a couple o’ baseball bats and some heavies. Or a shooter. I know a guy.”

“No!” I am almost on my feet. “No violence!”

TOLD YOU, Ridlee is mouthing to me from the other side of the table. She pulls her hand out from under the table, thumb cocked and index and middle finger pointed. She’s seen one or two too many episodes of Love/Hate and is convinced that this is the way problems get sorted in modern Ireland. I should never have turned her on to the show; I’ve created a monster.

“We’re gonna work this out the right way,” I say, facing my friend.

Four faces turn from me to Ridlee. Sheepishly, she returns her imaginary gun to its holster. “That’s right,” she agrees, nodding. “Legally.” She raises her almost full pint glass.

“Legally!” we chorus, though some more enthusiastically than others, and raise our almost empty pint glasses.

“Slainte!” says my dad, tipping his glass to clink.

“Slainte, to your health,” says Mum.

The rest of us do the same and drain our glasses.

“Slainte!” Ridlee takes a sip of her Guinness and winces ever so slightly.

“You don’t have to drink that,” I tell her.

“What? No, I love it! Yum!”

“Give over!” My uncle takes her glass and downs the pint in one. “Amateur,” he mutters with a smile, and we all follow him out of the pub and into a typical September Dublin morning.

We hurry to the car to avoid the rain that’s beginning to fall and head home. Ridlee and I have one night here before we head down to County Clare. A fun night in the Big Smoke.

CHAPTER FOUR

RIDLEE

ERIN’S ALL EXCITED ABOUT SHOWING me her hometown, but I’m way more interested in seeing the sites right here in her family’s house. My two-hour nap has completely recharged my batteries and I’m ready to soak up the Irish magic. I’ve only seen bits of the city as it went past the car windows, but it was enough to realize that the real sparkly stuff isn’t out there; it’s inside the houses, with the people. And Erin’s people are insane. I mean that in the nicest way. I could totally hang out with them for longer than one night we’ve planned and probably never get bored, not even for a second.

If it’s not the accent getting to me, it’s the humor. I’ve never heard so many off the wall expressions. Her aunt called her uncle a harse’s ass and a fierce hoor loud enough that I heard it in my sleep and incorporated it into my dream. I don’t even know what a fierce hoor is, but in my half-sleep/half-awake state, it was an angry prostitute with wild hair and bared teeth.

Erin’s whining at me again. “Come on, Ridlee, you can’t mean it. Stay here all night?” She gestures to the window. “But there’re the pubs and the clubs and Dubs. We’re missing out hanging around here with this lot.”

“Dubs? Is that another Irish expression?”

“Dubliners. Irish lads. They build ‘em brawny here.” She wiggles her eyebrows at me, going for the hard sell. “I think you might like ‘em.” Her grin could not be more cheesy.

I play it cool. “I can wait. I’m kinda likin’ the vibe here at Casa O’Neill.”

She almost stomps her foot. “You can’t be serious! My Uncle’s already three sheets to the wind and my father won’t be too far behind. Anything can happen then. I’ll be humiliated.”

“That’s kind of what I’m hoping for.” Searching through my suitcase, I wonder what the appropriate outfit might be for sitting around an Irish living room, being regaled with tales of Erin’s childhood. Definitely something black. With a touch of green, maybe. I’ll totally blend.

“You’re a bad person,” she says. “A wretched excuse for a human being. Selfish. Heartless.” This is her last ditch effort.

“I know. I agree.”

She huffs out a puff of air. “Fine. If you insist on dragging me kicking and screaming through my childhood again to provide cheap entertainment, I’ll have to get locked. You’ve left me no choice. My mum has a bottle of Jameson hidden under the kitchen sink and I mean to empty it directly into my bloodstream.”

“Good. I have my camera fully charged.”