Page 152 of If Looks Could Kill
He stopped mid-sentence when he saw me.
“Hello, Mike.”
Down went the crate of bottles. He ran a hand over his hair and tuckeda shirttail into his trousers while his uncle watched, amused. He scooted around his uncle and ran to me.
He almost knocked me over. I laughed and hugged him back, inhaling the clove scent of him.
The door swung shut behind his uncle. He’d gone away to give Mike some privacy.
Mike lifted me off my feet and swung me. It felt like he might hurl me like a discus.
Hoots and catcalls sounded from the old duffers in the far corner of the tavern.
Mike grinned. He didn’t mind them, and neither did I.
“You came back.” He held me at arm’s length. “Whyn’t you tell a body you were coming back? Don’t you know how I’ve been suffering?” His face grew serious. “Is this just a visit?”
This was the best part of all, the part I’d rehearsed a thousand times on the train.
“No,” I told him. “It’s not a visit. I’m back to stay.”
He let out a whoop that got a rise out of the old duffers, then crushed my ribs once more.
“Why doncha kiss her?” hooted one of the old sods.
“I’ll kiss her when I’m ready,” Mike called back, “but not to please the likes of you.”
“Better let me kiss her,” teased the talkative one, “and show a young scalawag like you how it’s done.”
His mates seemed to feel that O’Flynn’s hadn’t offered this much entertainment in a good long while.
“I’d better get you out of here,” Mike said.
Uncle Mike came through the swinging door just then. He stayed placid and unruffled, as though my arrival wasn’t newsworthy at all. His wife, following on his heels, was the opposite.
“Tabitha!” she squealed.
“Hello, Aunt Mag.”
“Uncle,” Mike began, “I wonder if I might—”
“Go on,” his uncle said, waving a hand at his nephew. “You’ll be no use to me tonight anyhow. Show Miss Tabitha a good time while she’s in town.”
“She’s not here for a visit,” Mike said. “She’s here to stay.”
Aunt Mag looked ready to pop. “I’ve got Irish stew on the stove if she’ll join us….”
“Maggie,” her husband said, “I think the young ones would like to be alone.” He brought Mike his cap and coat.
“Of course.” Aunt Mag was not the crestfallen type. “You’ll just come back later for dessert, then. I’ve got a lovely cherry tart.”
“Come on.” Mike laughed. “If we don’t go now, we’ll never escape.”
The bell jangled behind us, and we climbed the stairs to the street.
The rain had returned. The glow of streetlamps shone in the puddles.
“Are you hungry?”
