Page 93 of The Irish Goodbye

Well, no it wasn’t, but it was the only way to live any semblance of a life. Because Niall had a piece missing, a piece so huge it was shocking no one noticed it—sometimes he felt like he was walking around with only half a torso. Once there was a place where a soft, warm body used to fit snugly, where golden hair spilled into his hands. Now there was only a shadow. A shadow with a name too painful for him to even think, let alone speak it.

The dinner rush finally subsided around ten. Niall left the kitchen in Michel’s capable hands and headed out to check on the bar.

“All right, Gemma,” he said to the bartender, a no-nonsense woman with cat-eye glasses.

“Evening, Chef,” she said as she removed the foil from a bottle of wine, expertly sinking in the corkscrew and popping it open.

“I’ve got that,” Niall said. He liked being behind the bar after the kitchen calmed down. It reminded him of his roots. He liked talking to the customers, getting to know the regulars. “Who’s it for?”

Gemma jerked her head. “Seat seven. You good, Chef? I was going to take a quick smoke break.”

“Go,” Niall said. There were only two tables left and a handful of patrons at the bar. Niall poured the wine. It was a cabernet—his stomach clenched. Her favorite. He put the bottle back and carried the glass over to the right person. It was a woman with blonde hair and Niall’s heart somersaulted, but she turned and of course it wasn’t her. This woman’s hair was shorter and her eyes were blue.

“Cheers, thanks. Will, do you want a drink?” she asked the man taking off his coat and sitting beside her.

“God, yes,” he said. He had an American accent. Niall wondered if this particular corner of the bar was haunting him on purpose. “And food too, if the kitchen’s still open.”

“It is,” Niall said. “Open for another thirty minutes.”

“Are you the chef?” the man asked.

“I am,” Niall said.

“Not often I see a chef serving drinks,” the man said. He held out his hand. “Will Kincaid.”

“Niall O’Connor,” Niall said, shaking his hand. He noticed Deirdre watching from the host stand. “I like to come out once the rush is over. I started my career behind a bar.”

“I love that,” Will said. “Most of the chefs I work with have egos the size of hot- air balloons. You’d never catch them behind a bar.”

“You’re in restaurants too, then?” Niall asked.

“I’m an investor,” Will said. He looked around at the décor. “Ritchie did well for himself with this spot.”

“You know Ritchie?”

“Oh, please don’t get him started,” the woman groaned. “The two of them are like little boys trying to one up each other all the time.”

“Ritchie’s a friend,” Will said emphatically, and the woman rolled her eyes.

“Order a drink, for god’s sake, Will. I’m Jules, by the way,” she said. “And I have zero to do with restaurants except to go wherever Will recommends.”

“I’m glad you two decided to stop by the Star,” Niall said.

Jules cocked her head. “You look familiar, have we met before?”

“Don’t think so. I only just moved here in August.”

“I’ll have a Sazerac,” Will declared. Niall slid him a menu and went to make the cocktail. Two more people came in to sit at the bar, and Niall poured them some water and gave them menus as well.

“You don’t have to work behind the bar, you know,” Deirdre said, sipping a club soda at the service station. “This isn’t O’Connor’s.”

Niall felt the blood drain from his face. He had told Deirdre in no uncertain terms when he’d joined this venture that the subject of Inishmore was strictly off limits.

“I know,” he snapped. “I do it because I like it.”

Her lips pursed. “Right. Sorry. Hey, who was that man you were talking to?”

“Will Kincaid,” Niall said.