Page 42 of Beside Golden Irish Fields
Of course, the cheer that went up when the patrons spotted her helped, drowning out Coldplay. She’d never been cheered before. Her mind was so heady from the praise, she might as well have had three whiskeys.
“It’s herself, at last,” an old man said, stepping forward and taking her elbow and leading her to the bar. “I’m Eoghan O’Dwyer from earlier, and I’d like to be the first to buy you a drink. You’re not like one of those American women on the telly who only drink white wine?”
“God, no,” she answered as people made room for them in front of the scratched-up bartop. “I love whiskey.”
“Then you’re in the right country, you are.” He signaled to Gavin what she imagined was a sign to pour her a drink and gave a naughty wink. “You don’t know me, do you?”
Liam snorted beside her. “She might wish she didn’t remember you.”
When he pointed to the unmistakable red bow tie displayed between his gray cardigan, she laughed heartily. “Oh, I didn’t recognize you with clothes on.”
A few people around them laughed, including Liam. “Never do we want to see you without your clothes on again, Eoghan. You’ll give me nightmares about aging.”
“Itisa nightmare, Liam O’Hanlon,” the man said, “so you’d best enjoy your youth while you have it. But we aren’t here to speak of aging. We’re here to speak about me posing naked on a permanent basis for this fine girl here.”
“Jesus,” Gavin said, extending a whiskey to her, “that’s enough of that talk, so it is. Siobhan was threatening to put me own clothes in the spare bedroom after today’s craic.”
“Ah, she’ll get over it soon enough,” Eoghan said, picking up his whiskey and clanking their glasses together. “We don’t have enough craic anymore. Everyone seems to be bothered by a little bit of this and that. I swear! What’s the point of living if you don’t have fun now and then?”
“Well, you’d be knowing it,” Gavin said, “given that you’re in your ninety-third year.”
“You’re ninety-three?” She catalogued the age lines flowing like tributaries through his oval face, along with the twinkle in his Van Dyke brown and verdant green eyes. “Good for you then for showing up today and auditioning. I’m buyingyournext drink.”
He turned around and held up his whiskey and yelled, “The Yank congratulated me on auditioning today for the life model position and is buyingmynext drink.”
Another cheer went up.
Leaning in, he gave her a cheeky grin. “Am I hired then?”
“No,” she said with a laugh. “But things could change.”
“Around here they don’t change much,” he told her. “I think sometimes the weather has more fun than we do, what with all its ups and downs. Days like today remind us we need to stir things up more. Like Bets loves and Mary Kincaid hates. You watch that one, girl. But I’m keeping you from the others. Liam will be introducing you to the village proper like. They’re mad to meet you.”
She kissed his cheek. “Thanks for the drink, Eoghan.”
“Anytime, girl, anytime.” The old man righted his bow tie and gave her another grin.
“Gavin, his next one is on me.” She dug out some bills and laid them on the bar before Liam tugged her through the crowd. He introduced her to table after table and to those mulling around with their ears cocked to overhear their conversation.
Gavin came out to fill her glass, saying everyone was vying to buy her a drink. How many did she have in her? She shrugged and knocked the whiskey back, inciting another cheer. Forget her doctor and her worry about her blood pressure. What she really needed was a night to blow off some steam. Let out all that pressure in her blood. Yes, that was it.
“I like whiskey,” she told Liam after some whiskey fairy had put another in her hand. “But I think I love Irish whiskey.”
“So I see,” he said, putting his arm around her sweetly. “We couldn’t be related otherwise.”
She studied his features. The sedge brown hair. The green eyes. Strong granite jaw. The gold hoop in his left ear. “You know what, cousin? You really look like a pirate.”
He cheered her glass. “I’ll take that as a right fine compliment.”
“It looks as though someone might need a chair,” she heard a familiar voice say.
Turning around, she wobbled a bit, spilling her drink. “Dammit, Carrick. Look what you made me do.”
“In for a few whiskeys already, Yank? I heard you had a day.”
He was standing with Jamie and a few other men she didn’t recognize. They were all the same towering height as the Fitzgerald men with dark hair in various shades of brown, massive shoulders, and well-defined facial features. Glorious subjects to paint. “You all might be the most gorgeous men I’ve seen in a long time. I wish I had a paintbrush right now to capture you.” Even more so in this moody lighting—the pub was all dark wood, with mellow yellow streaming from brass fixtures above them.
“I can come tomorrow to pose, if you’d like,” one of them said. “I always thought it would be wonderful to be painted. I had an artist outside Notre Dame in Paris make a portrait of me. I’m Brady McGrath, Gavin and Siobhan’s eldest. This here is my twin brother, Declan. He’s a butcher—”
