Page 55 of Road Trip
She balled up the napkin that she’d been twisting between her hands, snatched up the racing form, and pushed up from her chair.
“Sinead. Come!”
The cocker spaniel perked up her ears and hopped down from her perch.
“Who d’ya think you are, young lady?” Esme said, shaking a finger in Therese’s face. “You’re not to come round here looking for me again. Understand?”
Drawn by her outburst, Esme’s pool-playing friend sauntered over to the table. “Who’s this then?”
Therese stuck out her hand, which the man ignored. “Therese Dunagin. I was just telling Lady Esme about my mother’s family being from here. She was actually raised at Tarrymore. Maybe you knew the Connors?”
“Never mind that. She’s just a cheeky American asking questions about things that are none of her concern,” Esme Rossington snapped.
The dog sat back on its haunches, looking longingly at Therese, who tossed her a bit of cheddar.
“Sinead! No!” Esme scooped the dog into her arms and stalked out the door.
CHAPTER 24
As they approached the Three-Legged Goat’s front door, Liam took Maeve’s hand.
“It’s the only way through this madness,” he explained when she raised a questioning eyebrow. “We plow straight through the middle. I’ll run offense, you stay close or I’ll lose you for sure.”
True to his word, Liam tucked his head down and, with Maeve’s hand clutched tightly in his, he elbowed his way through the throng.
The pub was dimly lit, with strings of multicolored fairy lights looped around the windows and along the bar back, which extended the length of the narrow room. There was a makeshift raised stage at the rear of the room, covered in threadbare red carpet. The Hooligans, three men and two women, were setting up folding chairs and mike stands.
Around the middle of the room, the wooden tables and booths—of cracked red plastic upholstery, were packed with people, and more stood, three deep, at the bar.
Liam scanned the crowd with a practiced eye. Finally, he spotted a towering bearded man waving frantically from a spot by the bar. “There’s Donal,” he told Maeve, his voice nearly drowned out in the din produced by the crowd and the band’s warm-up tinkering.
“Come along.” He steered her now, with one hand placed lightly on the small of her back.
“There you are,” the giant’s voice boomed. “Christ, I thought forsure you were ghosting me as payback for yesterday.” He pointed at two vacant barstools, across which a jacket had been draped.
“I coulda sold these seats for twenty quid, several times over tonight.” He held out his hand.
“Donal Moody,” he said, crushing Maeve’s hand into his. “Sit down quick now, before I change my mind and sell your seat.”
“Maeve Dunagin,” she said, hopping up onto the barstool he’d indicated.
“Is that an American accent I detect? How in the hell did a lovely like you have the misfortune to meet up with this character?” He jerked a thumb in Liam’s direction.
“Well, actually…”
“Obviously, she won the lottery,” Liam cut in, pulling his barstool closer to hers to allow his friend to wedge into the space.
“I took the distillery tour, and then he volunteered to give me the traditional Irish music experience tonight,” Maeve said.
“A shame you slagged off work yesterday, or you could have met her first,” Liam said. “You know, if your mum hadn’t been sick…” He made finger quotes around the last part of the sentence and turned to Maeve. “That’s Donal’s code for banjoed.”
“Terrible sick with a migraine, she was,” Donal protested, then added with a wink, “… Or maybe that was me.” He picked up a half-full pint glass on the bar and drained it.
The bartender appeared and Liam nodded at Maeve.
“I’d like a Tarrymore on ice with water back,” she said, and he nodded approvingly.
“And the same for me,” Liam said.
