by Eliza Watson
“No worries, luv. I’ll block off an area of the bar for them. Can teach ’em how to pull a pint.”
“Awesome. Do you have any Coffey T-shirts you can put on the bill?”
“Just received an entire lot of them. My sister is here. She can teach them a bit of step dancing.”
“Thanks a mil. I owe you one.”
“Well, seeing as you’re offering, ya know what I’d be liking?”
“Rachel?”
“Absolutely brilliant, ya are.”
According to Rachel, he’d already had her in every room of his townhouse at Christmastime, the last time they’d seen each other. Yet Rachel claimed they were only friends.
“Three more days and she’ll be here.”
We were going to visit our newfound rellies in the Midlands and then off to England to see George, my mom’s half brother. I’d met George for the first time last month when he’d tracked me down while I was working in Prague.
I thanked Gerry and was preparing to call Gemma back when a text came through from Mom.
No luck.
My stomach dropped.
She still hadn’t found Grandma’s birth certificate.
I needed her birth, marriage, and death records to apply for Irish citizenship. If I could even locate her baptismal certificate, I could submit it with a notarized letter from the Irish registrar’s office stating a birth certificate wasn’t on file. The only proof I had of her living in Ireland was her engagement picture taken at a Dublin photography studio prior to marrying her first husband in England. A large envelope containing my citizenship application and the other required documents was waiting to be mailed once I found Grandma’s birth record.
One of my selling points to my Irish boss was that I was eligible for dual citizenship, making the job transfer from a temporary Brecker contractor to full-time Flanagan employee seamless. Not being a Brecker employee, I wasn’t eligible for an intracompany transfer. Even if I was, there were a slew of restrictions. If I told my boss I was unable to get citizenship, it might be grounds for termination. It would also demonstrate my lack of planning skills.
Obtaining Irish citizenship, so I wasn’t deported when my ninety-day allowable stay expired, was becoming a bigger threat to losing my new job than nasty Gemma.
Chapter Two
I’d barely slept, thanks to Zoe’s snoring, rain pelting against the soft-topped caravan, and knowing Gemma was toasty warm in her hotel bed. The following day, it was still pouring at noon, so Zoe and I left before the roads were closed due to flooding.
And all the toilets had been flushed. Having to resort to using a urinal would have been my breaking point. We’d parked the car at the end of the muddy drive to ensure our getaway. Luckily, I only had to schlepp a small carry-on bag a mile to the vehicle. We’d been driving for a few minutes when a delayed text came through from Declan. A pic of him dressed in a green-and-black plaid kilt, black shirt, and black knee-high socks.
Be still my heart.
There was something insanely sexy about a guy who was confident enough to wear a kilt. I rarely wore a skirt without tights, thanks to an ugly scar on my knee from when I was eight and had fallen on my bike wheel’s spokes. I’d been a major klutz from an early age.
I FaceTimed Declan despite no makeup and not having washed my hair for five days. He answered, dressed in a white polo shirt and tan slacks. Very disappointing.
“Your text just came through. Put the kilt back on.”
A sly smile curled his lips. “Right, then, that’s a change. Usually you’re asking me to be taking clothes off.”
I went warm all over, smiling.
“Ack!” Zoe hollered. “I’m not listening to my brother have FaceTime sex.”
“Oh yeah, your sister’s here.” I directed the phone at Zoe, who gave him a wave. We hadn’t seen each other in two weeks, and I’d be all over FaceTime sex if Zoe wasn’t there. “The glamping trip was a bust. It poured the entire time, yet we had no running water. Go figure.”
“Not to gloat, but it’s twenty-four here, about seventy-five Fahrenheit.” A breeze playfully tousled his short, wavy brown hair. “Taking the entire lot of ’em on a catamaran cruise.”
Declan was in Malta, located in the Mediterranean somewhere between Sicily and Africa. I’d looked it up. He’d be home in two days to go to the Midlands with Rachel and me. Malta would be his last trip abroad. He’d canceled six months of back-to-back meeting jobs to work local events and spend time with me.
Fingers crossed I’d be there to spend time with.
The sparkle in Declan’s blue eyes dimmed. “My house sold.”
“Woot!” Zoe punched a celebratory fist in the air.
Yet Declan didn’t look nearly as excited.
I smiled. “That’s great. Isn’t it?”
“Yeah, of course, it’s grand. Just surprised it sold so fast.”
Declan had lived in the house with his wife, Shauna, before she’d passed away three years ago. He’d been renting it out since her death. It held a lot of memories.
“Any luck on your granny’s birth certificate?” he asked, changing the subject.
I shook my head. “Mom and my aunts have searched everywhere. Either my grandma managed to obtain US naturalization without one, or she destroyed it, trying to hide her past. My aunt Teri remembers my grandpa saying he’d obtained his driver’s license by sending a quarter into the DMV. I don’t think they were nearly as strict about documentation back then.”
“Forget the birth certificate,” Zoe said. “You two get married and you’ll be a citizen. And now that Declan sold his house, you can buy a place to live.”
A look of panic seized Declan’s face. My heart hammered. We didn’t even plan on being roomies. We certainly weren’t buying a house together. Zoe and I hoped to share an apartment if she found a job in Dublin after she graduated from college in May. I’d been too quick to shack up with my ex-boyfriend Andy, and moving out had been a complete nightmare. Not that Declan was anything like that narcissistic controlling bastard, or that we’d ever break up. But I finally had my first apartment without a man’s help, proving I could stand on my own.
“Why are you two acting so weird?” Zoe said, breaking the silence.
“We’re not,” we both said.
I shot her a warning glance.
“Right, then,” Declan said. “Keep me posted on the certificate. I’m sure you’ll find it.”
Declan and I avoided the topic of what would happen if I didn’t locate it.
“Yep. Keep me posted on the apartment hunting.” I wanted him to know I hadn’t taken Zoe’s comment seriously. And that her crazy idea about us getting married hadn’t been mine.
We said our awkward good-byes and hung up.
Zoe laughed. “Well, if he wasn’t motivated to find your granny’s birth certificate before, he is now.”
“That wasn’t funny.”
“Bloody well was.”
“What if he thinks I’ve been talking to you about us getting married?”
“You two will get married. Why not do it a wee bit sooner than planned?”
Some people married for love, some for money. I loved Declan, but I didn’t want him to think I was marrying him for my Irish citizenship. Honestly, he wouldn’t think that, but I didn’t want our family and friends to question our decision if and when we did get married. My moving here might have been on a bit of a whim, but you didn’t marry on a whim in Ireland when it took five years to get a divorce.
* * *
We stopped by Coffey’s pub to tell Gerry we’d returned early so he didn’t have to walk Mac, the Irish terrier that I’d won at Christmas. Bernice and Gracie—two event attendees turned genealogy clients—had entered me in the contest while I’d been escorting a Dublin consumer promotion. Besides not having had the time to research bringing a dog into the US and the financial responsibility, I’d lived with my parents. Mom would not have appreciated dog sitting while I was jet-set
ting around the world. Growing up, I’d had a cat and a hamster. Mac seemed to sense that he was my first dog and was taking full advantage of my inferior dog-training skills.
The day after St. Patrick’s Day, the pub was still decked out for the holiday. Up-lighting washed the long wooden bar in green, and a lively traditional Irish tune competed with the chatter. Shamrock streamers ran the length of the walls, which displayed soccer, rugby, and hurling team memorabilia.
Zoe pushed her way through the crush of people toward the bathroom.
A woman in a low-cut strapless green dress with a black belt, green velvet top hat, and black thigh-high pantyhose was flirting shamelessly with Gerry. The pub owner was fortyish with short dark hair, blue eyes, and biceps big enough to stop an occasional brawl. He had on a green Coffey’s Dublin T-shirt.
As if feeling my curious stare, he glanced over at me with an uneasy smile. “Jaysus, what happened to ya?”
I thought I looked pretty good for having taken a sponge bath with rainwater and slept in my outfit—Zoe’s flannel pants and sweatshirt—too cold to change into my jammies. I recounted our adventure.
He poured a Flanagan’s cider ale over ice and placed the glass on the bar. “Sounds like you could be using a jar.”
“Maybe two.”
I took a sip, savoring the sweet apple taste. A Guinness would hit the spot, but it’d be just my luck Gemma would wander in and catch me drinking a competitor’s brand. I’d rather get fired for not having dual citizenship than to give Gemma the satisfaction of getting me canned. Five months ago on my first trip to Ireland, I’d taken a pic of my first Guinness. I’d never imagined that I would one day be referring to it as a local brew and to Flanagan’s as my employer’s ale.
“How did everything go with the group?” I asked.
“Grand. That Gemma is a bit daft though, isn’t she? Sat here telling me how Rachel had screwed up the entire event even though I told her I knew Rachel quite well.”
“Yeah, she’s a trip.” Speaking of knowing Rachel quite well, I peered over at the slutty leprechaun giving me the evil eye.
“Just a friend,” Gerry said.
I raised a skeptical brow.
“All right.” He lowered his voice. “Maybe a wee bit more than a friend. We date on occasion. It’s not like Rachel doesn’t see other blokes.”
“She doesn’t.”
A pleased smile curled his lips. “Doesn’t she now?”
Rachel was going to kill me. She’d have lied and said she dated on a weekly basis. She didn’t have time to date. She’d liked the idea of me living above Gerry so he could babysit me, but she’d made me promise not to discuss their relationship. Did that include not telling her about the slutty leprechaun?
I shrugged. “I really shouldn’t say. I haven’t seen her lately to know if she dates or not.”
I didn’t blame Gerry for dating other people. He and Rachel only saw each other every few months, and she sent him mixed signals. But when I stopped by for a pint after work, the conversation always turned to Rachel. He was totally gaga over her.
“You need to discuss this with Rachel. It’s not my place to tell her about that.” I slid a sideways glance toward the chick still staring at us.
Gerry nodded faintly. “Have you heard anything on your citizenship?”
I shook my head. “They say it can take up to six months.”
Or never if I didn’t find Grandma’s birth certificate.
I hadn’t told Gerry about my challenges because I hadn’t told Rachel. She’d blow a gasket that I’d gone for the job on a whim and without her blessing before confirming my ability to obtain citizenship. Plan B was to get a work permit, which was no easy task. The employer had to have advertised, attempting to hire an Irish citizen. And over a hundred occupations were ineligible for job permits, including a slew of administrative and clerical jobs, under which my position was categorized. The list of regulations was overwhelming.
I really needed to work on a plan C.
Gerry snagged a business card by the cash register on the back bar. “Scottish couple was in here last night, searching for their Coffey rellies, wondering if we might be related.” He handed me the card. “Told them mine hailed from County Cork. They believe theirs were from County Westmeath.”
Gerry and I’d met on my first Dublin meeting with Rachel. She’d located the Coffey surname pub hoping we might be related through Grandma’s Coffey family. If we were, it was likely four generations twice removed.
“Even if you’re not related to them, they’re interested in hiring your services.” He headed down the bar to refill a few pints.
If the couple turned out to be related, I’d give them a family discount. I was too poor to be overly generous. However, I wasn’t feeling particularly qualified to be charging people at all. And I really didn’t need one more family tree to not be able to trace. Besides Grandma’s birth record, I hadn’t found McKinney rellies for Bernice and Gracie to visit on their Scotland trip this summer. I’d found zip on Gretchen’s German grandpa. And it had been sheer luck I’d discovered Nigel’s ancestor’s horrific past while perusing family trees online.
Nigel’s grandfather believed he was the result of his mother’s affair with a married blue-blooded aristocrat. Actually, his father had remained unidentified because he’d been a felon, shipped off to Australia to serve a life sentence. At least he’d been convicted of burglary and not murder. Yet there was nothing worse than debunking stories passed down through generations, deeply ingrained in a family’s identity. Like Gretchen planning to retire in a quaint Bavarian mountain village because the grandpa she’d never known had been German. What if I finally found his records and he turned out to be Danish? I once read Denmark didn’t even have mountains. What if I discovered Bernice and Gracie’s ancestor was German when they’d paid for a trip to Scotland?
I slipped the business card into my pocket. “You probably have tourists in here quite a bit looking for Coffey ancestors.”
Gerry nodded. “Maybe you should give me a stack of business cards to hand out.”
Maybe I should make some business cards.
“Could give a stash to my mates Jimmy Reilly and William Cavanaugh. They surely have tourists in their pubs all the time looking for relations.”
Would the Irish government issue me a work permit if I worked for myself?
Five months ago I’d been completely adrift, no sense of who I was or what I wanted to be. Researching Grandma’s ancestry and discovering my Irish roots had given me a sense of identity, direction, purpose, importance, pride…a sense of everything!
I pitied the poor immigration officer who had to drag my butt on a plane back to the States.
* * *
Three types of people lived above a pub. Those who wanted to drink until all hours and not have to drive home with the stricter drunk-driving laws. Ones like me who needed cheap rent rather than a view of Saint Stephen’s Green. And the elderly who couldn’t hear the noise below. When my neighbor Fiona’s TV wasn’t blaring, she was hosting her ukulele group. A lively Irish tune came from her apartment, and Zoe and I did a little jig while I unlocked the door.
We entered the studio apartment, and Mac jumped up from my deflated bed and raced over to greet us.
I pointed at the flattened sheet of plastic. “Didn’t Mommy tell you to stay off that so your claws didn’t put a hole in it?” I let out a frustrated groan. “I had it leaning against the wall. He must have knocked it over.”
His tail wagged despite his green tutu, which matched Zoe’s and mine. He stared up at me with happy brown eyes, his tail going faster. Caving, I swept a hand over his tan fur and spoke in that cutesy pet-owner voice that used to annoy me. “Did you miss Mama? I can’t blame you for acting up when Mommy was gone, can I? But you have three beds, and now Mommy has none.”
“Watch it. Your scolding might make him cry. He sucks you right in, playing on your guilt.”
“I know, but he’s s
o stinking cute.”
“And naughty.”
I pulled off my purple wellies and placed them on the mat by the door. I tossed my coat over the back of a red couch Declan’s parents had given me. Gerry had donated a wooden chair and small desk, which was my work area and dining table. Flanagan’s allowed me to work from home two days a week. However, when I wasn’t at the office, I worried about what Gemma was doing to sabotage my job. Out of sight, out of mind. And as a new employee, I needed to get to know my coworkers.
“What the bloody hell is that?” Zoe pointed under the table at a pile of colorful yarn that looked like a rat’s nest.
Mac had chewed Zoe’s knitted hats to bits. She’d been knitting pet apparel like a maniac, preparing for a craft show with her grandma and aunt that weekend. Their family’s cottage industry helped her pay for college and stash away money for the decorating shop she planned to open. I’d be her first client. My only wall décor was Declan’s sketch of me and the framed watercolors of the Charles Bridge in Prague.
Zoe marched over and snatched the mutilated cardboard box off the floor. She shook the box, glaring at Mac. “This was on the table, where you aren’t supposed to be. Naughty. Very naughty.”
Mac whimpered and hid behind me.
“I’m not protecting you. Zoe’s right. That was very bad. Why can’t you be more like Esmé?”
Esmé was the cocker spaniel at Madame Laurent’s hotel in Paris. The well-trained dog had escorted me to my guest room upon check-in, greeted me nightly on my return to the hotel, and welcomed me each morning at breakfast. The only time she’d disobeyed me was when she insisted on sleeping with me. She turned out to be better than sleeping meds.
“Now your mommy is going to have to learn to knit and help Auntie Zoe replace all the hats you wrecked.”
“I can’t knit.”
“Then teach your son to.”
“But I’ll replace the yarn.” I took a twenty euro bill from my purse and gave it to Zoe.
“Thanks. I’ll go buy more yarn.” She grabbed Mac’s leash off a hook by the door. “And you need to walk off some of that energy.” She opened the door. It took some coaxing, and a few treats, for Mac to go along willingly.
