Page 12 of What Love Can Do

Pulling on the heavy wooden door, a bell chimed, and the few locals sitting around all whipped their heads around to look. “How’s the craic?” Quinn said in his usual way.

“Eh.”

“Eh,” came various greetings from several old geezers.

“Evening, gentlemen,” said an older man from behind the bar. He was standing with a young barmaid in her early twenties, pretty as a picture, with her black hair up in a tight bun. She wore a red tank top that cradled her breasts in that perfectly snug way, and her lips were painted bright red.

“Evening,” Quinn said, trying on an easy smile. “We’re looking for an old friend, Paul Brennan.”

The man laughed to himself. “I never forget a face.” His cheeks and eyes lit up like a Christmas tree. He looked like Saint Nicholas after several pints. “You look familiar, lads. Where might I remember you from?”

Quinn strolled up to the bar and extended his hand in greeting. He paused when he spotted a framed photo on the wall behind the man buried amidst a multitude of other framed photos of patrons over the years. It was Mam with his father, both of them in their early twenties, thirty years ago. Above their heads was the Mulligan’s Tavern sign from outside, only lit up with working neon.

“Why, you look like you’ve seen a ghost, boy,” the man said, following Quinn’s line of sight. “I’m Paul. How can I help you?”

“Great to meet you. Name’s Quinn. This is my brother, Con, and I’m afraid I’ve come with some bad news about your old friends right there behind ya.” He nodded at the framed photo.

Paul swiveled to look at the photo. “Grant and Maggie? Know them? Ah, don’t tell me. Why, you’re the spittin’ image. I should have known. From the moment you walked in. You’re their lads, aren’t ya?”

“We are. We’re five brothers, but only two of us are here this week visiting. Our father passed two years ago, I’m afraid, and our mam, well, she left us last week.” Quinn had told family and friends since the tragedy occurred, but it never got any easier. Just saying it now brought tears to his eyes. He swiped at them with the back of his hand.

“Ah, I’m sorry to hear that, lads. Your father was a pal of mine at Trinity in Dublin. He gave of his time to help me open this establishment many years ago when he met your mother. A good man, he was. I’ll never forget him.”

“Thank you,” Quinn said, pressing his lips together to keep from losing it. Hearing someone else talk about his parents that way, well, it made his heart ache even more.

“Have a seat. What can I get you, on the house? This is Dara, my youngest. I’ve three girls. You’d think the Lord would’ve blessed me with just one lad to watch the games with, but no.”

“Stop it, Dad. I watch the games with you all the time,” Dara said in a much more American accent than her father. She leaned over to wipe the countertops, showing off her talented cleavage for Con’s appreciation mostly.

Quinn smacked his brother’s arm hoping it would prompt him to focus on Dara’s eyes.

“You boys staying here in Forestville?” Paul asked.

“Russian River House,” Quinn said, watching Paul fill up two pints of Guinness for him and Con. Frothy, with a thick head of foam on top. Perfect.

“Penny Parker’s place? Oh my God, their muffins are to die for. Try the cranberry orange.” Dara’s big green eyes flared, as she remembered Lilly’s pastries.

“We did!” Quinn felt pride at having tried Lilly’s muffins first-hand from the baker herself. He suddenly wished she were there with them, though Mulligan’s didn’t seem the type of place Lilly would frequent. “They were quite fantastic.”

“They are the bomb!” Dara finished wiping up the counter then winked at them. “Don’t keep him up too late. He’ll get cranky later. Dad, I’ll be outside waiting for ya’. Gonna go have a smoke. Bye, boys.” She gave Con, in particular, a pointed look, then strutted out from behind the bar. Now there was a girl overflowing with confidence, Quinn thought. Maybe a little too much for Quinn’s taste, but for Con...

They turned their attention to an American football game on the telly and shouted when the other patrons shouted, cheered when the other patrons cheered, pretending they were in the know, though Quinn knew a bit about the sport, being it was similar to rugby. Con polished off his pint then stood and headed outside. “Alright, I’m pulling my socks up. Wish me luck.”

“Good luck,” Quinn murmured, glad to get rid of his brother for a while. The boy needed the distraction of a hot bird anyway. He wouldn’t be surprised if Con got some ass before he did on this trip, not that Quinn had come for any ass. But he couldn’t deny when he thought that particular phrase, Lil’s sweet face and body—including her gorgeous ass—formed in his mind. “So Paul, what’s going on here? Business a little slow?”

Paul shrugged, chewing on a piece of straw. “Eh, what are ya going to do? Been thirty years in the business, and everything is fine, you know? Then one day last year, these ossified plonkers across the street decide to renovate the Piggly Wiggly into a pub. Ah, sure, it’ll be grand! Let’s open up a pub across the street from another feckin pub! Maggots.”

“Shite,” Quinn commiserated.

He’d heard this story in its various forms more than once from restaurant owners in Dublin, and the only way to keep up was to modernize, update, and bring in the trendy, new crowds. It was the main reason he’d wanted to update the ovens and appliances at their restaurant and hire a new cook to put together a fresh menu—it was time for a face lift. “I know what you mean. My dad’s restaurant was going through a similar phase when he died. You’re at a crossroads now.”

“Aye, but I don’t know how much longer I can stand it here, Quinn, I really don’t. I’m tired. My wife is tired. We’re ready to retire, but we can’t, you know? It’s hard—you build your dreams…I wanted to hand this place off to Dara and her sisters, but there’s not much to hand them now. I don’t blame Dara that she wants to up and leave every night before closing time. Ah, feck.”

“You have to change something, Paul. Put something new on the menu. Offer dessert. Offer cake. Offer muffins.” Quinn laughed, though it wasn’t such a bad idea. Still, he had Lilly on the brain, and not about just how sexy she was, and that was more than he could say about most women when he first met them. “Something different, something those cats across the street don’t have, and watch the clientele come waltzing back in.”

Paul gave Quinn a sad smile. “You have a head for business, like your father.”

“Nah, Brady’s the business mind in our family. I’m the rugby player, but I’ve learned a lot since my dad passed.” More than a lot, actually. While Brady was good with the numbers, Quinn saw himself more as the creative part of the operation.

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