Page 47 of Beneath Pearly Irish Skies
“You’ve put me down for the horse race, then?” Shannon called as they walked past the new release section and out the door.
He gave a crisp wave over his shoulder. “She’s always had spirit, that one. I’m not sure a bookshop is where Shannon’s heart lies, but she’ll find her way. All right, we’re off to see Gavin McGrath at the Brazen Donkey.”
She glanced down at her watch. It was only eleven thirty in the morning. Were they going to offer her a drink? Most likely. This was Ireland. What was she going to do?
She tripped over the weatherstrip of the door, causing everyone to look over. The pub was already doing brisk business. The two televisions had on a horse race and a soccer game. Five tables were full, and the ten barstools were all taken, mostly by gray-haired men. Her stomach clenched when Gavin McGrath came through the flapper door and charged toward them, all six foot six of him. He grabbed Eoghan’s hand and shook it exuberantly before turning to Megan.
“You’re finally darkening my door then, girl,” Gavin said. “I heard from my son that you’d paid the butcher shop a visit this morning. I’m ready for you. Eoghan, you can put me down for the horse racing as well as three hundred euros for a donation. I need to keep my Siobhan happy, don’t I?”
“That’s very nice of you.” When he sent her a quick wink and grabbed her hand, she found herself letting him lead her to the bar. She looked over her shoulder. Eoghan wouldn’t save her—he’d stopped to talk with some of the men clustered at a table.
“Fergal Kennedy, move out of the way for the lady.” Gavin toweled off the area as the older man exited his seat, taking his Guinness with him. “Come, Megan! I’ll get these other fellows to open their wallets too.” He hoisted her onto the recently vacated red leather barstool, lifted the flapper door, and then he was grabbing a glass and a bottle of whiskey and pouring her a drink.
“It’s a bit early,” she said, looking at the generous pour.
Gavin leaned forward, scratching his cheek. “Only have a sip, then. Make an old man happy. And I don’t mean Eoghan, girl.”
She lifted the glass and touched her lips to it. Liquid fire was a usually a good description for whiskey, but today she tasted warmth and caramel as well. A cheer erupted in the pub.
“To Megan Bennet!” Eoghan said, hoisting a whiskey in the air. “Slainte.”
No one had ever toasted her. The feeling was as warm as the whiskey. “Slainte,” she replied with an easier smile, taking another sip. The flavor really was nice after she got over the fire on her tongue.
“Now, who’s going to help keep our beautiful new arts center open?” Gavin asked, taking a green and blue houndstooth tweed cap from the hat rack and waving it above his head. “And me own wife from crying every night over its potential closing.”
Oh, the Irish and their drama. She kind of loved it.
“I can give you a handkerchief for her tears, but little else,” one of the ancient men at the bar said with a wink in her direction.
Megan startled. She’d never met so many men who winked before coming here.
“But for this pretty Yank, I might part with twenty euros,” said the winker with blue eyes as he dug out some bills.
Pretty? Her? Funny how Eoghan had said something similar. Maybe the effort she’d put into lightening up and being more herself was making her appear more attractive. People talked about the extra light in someone’s eyes and face when they were happier. These days she mostly was. Suddenly she remembered the message on Keegan O’Malley’s cattle.Pretty. Girl. Smile.She caught sight of herself in the mirror behind the bar and did just that.
“Ah, she is a pretty one at that,” Fergal Kennedy agreed from his post against the wall covered in old Guinness paraphernalia, the best of which included a bright toucan balancing two pints of beer on his beak with the saying, “Lovely Day for a Guinness.”
“What do you teach at the center, love?” the man to her right asked as Gavin handed him the hat. He slid in some bills and handed it off to someone else.
Suddenly all the men seated at the bar stopped their conversation and leaned forward, pints in hand. She took a hasty sip of whiskey to embolden herself. “I teach ceramics. Pottery.”
“We have the finest clay in the world,” Fergal said, throwing in some money and passing the hat to the next man. “Are you going to be selling your pottery at the St. Stephen’s fair?”
“I am,” she said, clutching her glass. Of course, she would need to spend more time at the studio if she was going to make enough pieces.
“Well, I’ll be looking forward to seeing your treasures,” Fergal said with a wink.
“Stop your flirting.” Eoghan gave a squeak. “Fergal, you leave that nice lady to herself. She doesn’t want to be caught up with the likes of you.”
“And this from my first cousin,” Fergal said with a hearty laugh, coming over to the bar and putting his elbows on the top. “I hear he’s taking your pottery class. Watch out for him. He’s been trouble since he was born, me own mother used to say.”
Clearly trouble worked for the O’Dwyer men. They had their permit in hand for the St. Stephen’s Day fair, after all.
“If you’re first cousins,” Megan said, reaching for her drink and taking a sip, “does that mean you’re in your nineties too?”
He gave another laugh. “No, I’m only eighty-eight, and I feel as young as a spring lamb.”
“I fear having that lamb served at my table,” Gavin said with a laugh, pouring a Guinness slowly. “Tough meat that.”
