Page 9 of The Irish Goodbye

O’Connor’s was full but not crowded when she arrived that evening at five minutes to six. There were Guinness posters and soccer jerseys on the walls and a long sleek bar with a dozen gleaming metal taps. Mirrors hung behind neat rows of liquor bottles, and antique lights glowed overhead. There was a smattering of tables, about half of them occupied, along with a sofa and a couple of armchairs crowded around a dormant fireplace. In one corner, there was a small, elevated platform that served as a stage—a lanky man with thick brown hair was playing guitar and singing a cover of “Trouble” by Ray LaMontagne. He was talented, his voice rich and clear. She hovered in the doorway, looking for Alison. When she didn’t see her, she decided to grab a seat at the bar.

An old man with a bulbous nose and red cheeks two seats away tipped his cap to her. Cordelia gave one of her long-practiced New York half-smiles, the kind that said, “I acknowledge your existence but don’t talk to me.”

It didn’t work.

“And what might your name be, missy?” he asked.

“Leave the girl alone, Darragh,” a rough voice said. “Can I get you something to drink or d’you want to look at the menu?”

Cordelia turned, thinking she’d take the largest glass of wine they had to offer, and instead found herself staring straight into a pair of aquamarine eyes beneath a thick mess of black hair.

“You!” she cried. “You fucking asshole!”

4

Niall wasn’t quite sure what to say to that.

“Sorry, do I know you?” he asked, as Darragh chuckled and a few other regulars turned to watch the action.

“You broke my camera!” the woman shouted. Half the bar was looking now. Niall was mortified but still confused as to why this stranger seemed to hate him so much.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.

“Yesterday, getting off the ferry.” She was so mad he could practically see steam shooting from her ears, her cheeks puffing out in a way that was more comical than intimidating. “You bumped into me and made me drop my camera and it broke.”

She said this with the ferocity of a victim of some truly great crime, like armed robbery or running over a beloved cat. But he remembered her now.

“I believe it was you who bumped into me,” he snapped.

“I definitely did not.”

She definitely did, but Niall didn’t want her causing more of a scene. Sure, maybe he’d been walking too fast but it wasn’t his job to pay attention to every tourist coming off the ferry. “Look, I’m sorry, it was an accident, okay?”

The woman glared. “Do you have any idea … any idea—”

“Hey, it’s just a camera right?” Niall forced a chuckle. He wanted this drama over so the regulars would stop staring. They’d stared at him enough already since he’d started work this afternoon. Seamus Donovan in particular had been making all manner of snide remarks. “How about I replace it for you? What was it, a hundred euro or something?”

Not that he had much cash to speak of, but Colin might lend him the money.

“It cost one thousand four hundred dollars,” she spat at him. “But that isn’t the point.”

“One thousand—Jesus Christ!” Niall exclaimed. “What are you tossing something that expensive around for?”

“I wasn’t tossing it around,” the woman hissed. “You were barging down the docks like a bull in freaking Pamplona.”

The door opened and Niall saw Alison Murphy step in. “Oh, thank god,” he muttered, eager to get away from this angry American. “Need a table, Alison?” he called, but to his dismay, she hurried over and took the seat beside the girl.

“Sorry I’m late—” she said, then stopped when she saw the expression on the woman’s face. Niall didn’t blame her. She could probably melt metal with those eyes. “What’s going on?”

“This”—she hooked a thumb violently in his direction—“is the asshole who broke my camera.”

Darragh and a few others snorted into their beers.

“Now look,” Niall said, leaning forward. “That’s the second time you’ve called me an asshole and there won’t be a third! I said I was sorry about the camera.”

“No, you didn’t,” she snarled. “You said the word sorry. That doesn’t count as an apology.”

“Well, I am sorry, all right? But could you please … keep your voice down? First drink’s on the house.”