by Mary Carter
Books by Mary Carter
SHE’LL TAKE IT
ACCIDENTALLY ENGAGED
SUNNYSIDE BLUES
MY SISTER’S VOICE
THE PUB ACROSS THE POND
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
The Pub Across the Pond
MARY CARTER
KENSINGTON BOOKS
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
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New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2011 by Mary Carter
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
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ISBN: 978-0-7582-7422-9
Table of Contents
Books by Mary Carter
Title Page
Copyright Page Dedication
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Epigraph
PROLOGUE - Declan The Greatest Love Story Ever Told in Ballybeog
CHAPTER 1 - Declan Going Gaga
CHAPTER 2 - The Fucked-up Man
CHAPTER 3 - O Sacred Heart of Jaysus
CHAPTER 4 - One More Chance
CHAPTER 5 - The Good Woman
CHAPTER 6 - Leaving Home
CHAPTER 7 - Air We Ever Going to Land
CHAPTER 8 - The Ambassador of Craic
CHAPTER 9 - Make a Wish
CHAPTER 10 - Cabernet Sauvignon
CHAPTER 11 - The Family Tree
CHAPTER 12 - The Welcome Party
CHAPTER 13 - The Hangover
CHAPTER 14 - Extending a Branch
CHAPTER 15 - Three Black Swans
CHAPTER 16 - Mud and Secrets
CHAPTER 17 - Empty Kegs and Vampires
CHAPTER 18 - A Man Walks into the Kitchen
CHAPTER 19 - When One Door Closes
CHAPTER 20 - Bewitched, Bothered, and Bedazzled
CHAPTER 21 - The Walled Pub
CHAPTER 22 - They’re Called Sheep
CHAPTER 23 - Down the Hatch
CHAPTER 24 - Trivial Matters
CHAPTER 25 - Mending Fences
CHAPTER 26 - The Curse of the Full Moon
CHAPTER 27 - The Nice Guy
CHAPTER 28 - Her One and Only
CHAPTER 29 - The Half Tree—Present Day The David’s Interlude
CHAPTER 30 - A Few Stiffies
CHAPTER 31 - On the Edge
CHAPTER 32 - The Eavesdroppers
CHAPTER 33 - Tips to a Good Proposal
CHAPTER 34 - The Americans
CHAPTER 35 - A Note of Clarification
CHAPTER 36 - Pulling Out the Punches
CHAPTER 37 - Las Vegas, Nevada Are You Lonesome Tonight?
CHAPTER 38 - Down Under
CHAPTER 39 - Bringing in the Guards
CHAPTER 40 - Everything’s Better with a Tan
CHAPTER 41 - Sunny Days
CHAPTER 42 - Goats Will Eat Anything
CHAPTER 43 - The Visitor
CHAPTER 44 - The Do-Over
CHAPTER 45 - Crying Wolf
EPILOGUE - Declan—One Year Later Say Nothing Until You Hear More
Home With My Sisters Teaser
The Things I Do For You Teaser
Author Q&A
A READING GROUP GUIDE - THE PUB ACROSS THE POND
To the Irish
In memory of Tony Bracken (Uncle Tony)
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
There are so many people to thank for this book, I don’t know where to start. So I will start with my agent, Evan Marshall, and my editor, John Scognamiglio, who both surprised and terrified me when he said he loved the idea for the book. Thank you, John, for your never-ending support.
From the bottom of my heart I want to thank Kevin Collins and the entire town of Kilmallock, Ireland. Thank you, Kevin, for showing me your home. Thank you for the all the crazy text messages you answered whenever I had an obscure question about Irish culture, the books you suggested (or bought for me), and your stories. I treasure the memories.
Thank you to Eileen Collins for reading all my books and for your gracious hospitality, your fabulous cooking, and a beautiful place to stay.
Thanks to Bridget, Seamus, and little James Collins, Mary Sheedy, Owen Sheedy, and my new best friends for life—James Sheedy and Ann-Marie Murphy—(if there are two nicer people on the planet, I’ve yet to meet them—Cows, Ann-Marie, Cows!), as well as Jamie Sheedy, Andy and Sarah, Mandy, and you too, Helen!
Thank you to Dermot O’Rourke: I wish I could go back in time to when you were a publican at O’Rourke’s—it sounds like those were some days—but thank you for your stories, jokes, and hospitality; Mike and Joanne Collins; Sheila and Greg Flannigan at the fabulous Flannigan’s Pub; and Mike Fitzgerald at Fitzgerald’s Pub; Natalie O’Brien from Natalie’s Café (you really do have the best cappuccinos). Thanks to the folks who played poker with me and forgave me a few mistakes. And thank you to Deirdre and Thomas—if any of my readers find themselves in Limerick, do make a reservation at the French Table.
In a broad sense, I’d like to thank the regulars at both Maguire’s Pub and Murphy’s Pub in Queens—Angus, Alan Cotter, Jimmy Kehoe, Kevin Mcinerney, Eoin Wogan, and Martin Tierney. If you said, “Don’t put that in the fecking book,” I listened. Likewise, if you said, “Put that in the fecking book,” sometimes I listened too. Angus, thanks for giving me inspiration for bits of one of the characters, and an idea for one of the scenes. Thank you to all the musicians who play terrific traditional Irish music. Thanks to Peter Maguire.
Thank you, Val. I’m mentioning you mostly because you kept asking me if I was going to mention you.
I’d like to thank the bartenders: Tony Bracken (quintessential Irish bartender, perpetual good mood, never failed to call me petal, give me a hug, or ask if I was all right. You are missed, Tony), Sara Murray, Elaine McKenna, Anne O’Shea, Tony Healy, Maria Molloy, and Colm Cahill. The talent, patience, and humor it takes to entertain, serve, police, babysit, and counsel is underrated. They are superstars.
Thank you to Siobhan and Thomas Hahn for reading my books in English and German and inspiring one of the bits in the book.
I’d like to thank Pat Ward and Martin Devaney for a few good one-liners.
Locally, thank you to Susan Collins and Mary and Jimmy Egan for their generosity and hospitality.
From my travels to Galway, I need to thank Declan O’Donnell and Alexander Riabykh for their company and some suggestions on the fictional name of the town, as well as some amusing stories.
Thank you to cab drivers, musicians, tour guides, publicans, and unsuspecting citizens on buses in Dublin.
I know I’m forgetting someone or many someones, so please forgive me. If you’d like, call me on it and I’ll buy you a pint.
Lastly, I just couldn’t finish these acknowledgments without thanking the Irish in my family (be it several generations removed, the spirit remains): my mother, Pat Carter, and in memory of my grandmother, Mary Cunningham-George; my aunts: Bessie, Jane, Margaret, and Florence; my second cousin Mary Christine and her husband, Dave; and my Irish ancestors from Ballymena, County Antrim. I’ve yet to make it there, but I’m sure when I do, it will feel a little bit like home.
May good luck be your friend in whatever you do, and may trouble be always a stranger to you.
—Irish Blessings quote
The only sure thing about luck is that it will change.
—Bret Harte
Just tell yourself, Duckie, you’re really
quite lucky!
—Dr. Seuss
If one is lucky, a solitary fantasy can totally transform one million realities.
—Maya Angelou
Luck is believing you’re lucky.
—Tennessee Williams
Luck never gives; it only lends.
—Swedish proverb
My luck is getting worse and worse. Last night, for instance, I was mugged by a Quaker.
—Woody Allen
I’m an American girl looking for a REAL Irish guy. Must come with an accent. I’m a fun girl! Facebook me!
American woman looking for a well-off STABLE Irish guy who just wants to go out for a laugh. No crazies, married, or “separated.”
PLEASE COME FROM IRELAND AND NOTHING TOO PERVERTED. Thanks!
I’m an American lassie looking for the stereotypical movie romance. Please have an Irish accent, be under 40 years old, and don’t send me any pictures of your cock-a-doodle-doo. Here’s your chance to sweep me off my feet.
Looking for my Irish Prince Charming but tired of kissing drunk frogs. . . .
I’ve always had a fascination with Irish men. I don’t know if it’s the accent or what, but I’ve always had a soft spot. HOWEVER, no drinkers, gamblers, cheaters, or redheads. May overlook ONE of the above if you can Riverdance.
That’s right, I am American and I love Irish men! I came on here hoping to find an Irish dude for love, friendship, pen pals? Whatever works for you! I plan on visiting Ireland, you can count on that. So, c’mon guys, hit me up! Bonus points if you play the banjo.
I’m American and would love to explore the Emerald Isle with a charming Irishman.
I am a hopeless romantic and the boys here are not exactly cutting it.
I would love to meet a true man, one that I can trust and give my undivided love to. One that I would cross oceans to be with. . . .
Also I love the accents. . . .
I am sick of the States, sick of the people here. They have no culture, no passion, no sense of being. I am three-quarters Irish and love it there in Ireland, love the Irish men, and would love to meet a few. I am looking to move to Ireland in the next couple of years after I get my divorce.
Looking for my “Sunrise and Sunset”???
I would like to find my sunset and sunrise. Partly cloudy okay too. R u out there somewhere?
PROLOGUE
Declan The Greatest Love Story Ever Told in Ballybeog
It was the greatest love story ever told in Ballybeog when everyone was drunk but nobody wanted to go home and all other great love stories had been told.
Name’s Declan, but I’ll answer to most anything as long as yer thirsty and polite, and in that order. Ah, say nothin’ until you hear more. I’ve been a publican at Uncle Jimmy’s going on twenty years now. Most days it’s good ole craic, but sometimes when you’re a publican, you’ve gotta be a bags. I wasn’t sure Carlene Rivers, the Yankee Doodle Dandy who won the pub, had that in her. She had sweet written all over her, and I hate to say it, but girls like that always seem to attract the wrong kind of lads. I’ve seen many a sweet lass get the guy of her dreams, only to watch him turn into her worst nightmare. Over time their men belly up to the bar more than they do the bedroom. Because the Irish men who “do” usually don’t hang around here. And Ronan McBride was no exception.
Nobody thought the lad would ever settle down. There are three kinds of Irish men: those who do, those who don’t, and those who say they might but probably won’t. Ronan McBride was the latter. He was thirty-three years of age but still hadn’t worked out his boyish ways. I don’t know why nature makes those marriage-phobic men so alluring to the women—a course, no one would disagree that he was the best-looking man in the family, and I’m not just saying that because he was the only man in the family. His father, James McBride (or Uncle Jimmy, as he was known around here), had passed, God rest his soul, leaving Ronan, his mother, and six sisters to run the McBride family pub. In heavenly retrospect, I bet James wishes he would’ve just left the pub to the girls; it would have been an insult to his only and eldest son, all right, but as I said, sometimes when you’re a publican, you’ve gotta be a bags.
As the song goes, Ronan was a rambler and a gambler, although he was never a long way from home. I can’t tell you what it was that made the birds go absolutely mental over him, except he was over six feet and had all his hair. Let’s just say he had his pick of chickens in our little town, not to mention a hen or two who would’ve liked to sink their beaks into him.
But it was Carlene who got folks to whispering that maybe, just maybe, our terminal bachelor might mend his wayward ways. There was something in the air whenever those two were in the same room. A bit of a spark you might say, especially when they were arguing. Yep, things certainly hummed when they lit into each other, and for anyone watching it was great craic. Although we worried about Sally Collins, of course—she’d been absolutely lovesick over that boy her entire life. Still, it did me good to see that beautiful Yankee bird come into town and shake up his world, and my money was on her from the beginning.
But despite cheering the lass on, I understood Ronan’s terror. For some, there’s nothing more frightening than love, except maybe running out of ale. I was like him meself, one of the Irish men who don’t. And let me tell you, many are the nights when I’ve regretted it. Cold, long, rainy nights when I’m lying in bed and I close my eyes and some skirt that I chased when I was a younger lad comes skipping into my dream, all pretty, bouncy, and smelling nice, only to start giving me shit for letting her go.
Worse than the terrors, those dreams. I’ve known Ronan since he was a squaller, and I didn’t want him to make the same mistakes I did. I used to say, “What’s for you, won’t pass you,” but I know it’s a lie. I let them pass me. I always thought there’d be more time.
I’m in me seventies now, and it’s probably too late for me. I’m a scrawny-looking thing with black wire glasses and I’ve a tuft of silver bird nest sitting on me head, but I’ve been told I still have a right nice smile (even if they’re not all me original teeth), and believe it when I tell ye I got me share of tiddlywinks back in the day. I’m not much over 5’5”—which I read in some touristy-type book is average for an Irishman. The average Irishman, according to this book, is 5’5”, drinks four cups of tea a day, has 1.85 kids, and spends three euros a day on alcohol. I don’t know where the writer of these so-called facts was getting his information, but it sure wasn’t here, ’cuz some of our lads spend five euros an hour on the black stuff. That’s a pint of Guinness for you blow-ins.
To make a long story short, I’m just your average Joe Soap. I make up for it in other departments, if you know what I mean. Ah, but this story isn’t about me or my regrets, so I hope you can put away all lurid thoughts of my national endowments. If you want to take that matter up on a one-to-one basis, and it goes without saying that you have to be a good-looking bird, then you can Facebook me. I didn’t join the fecking thing until the pub went up for raffle in America, but now that I’m on it, I reckon I might as well make the most of it. On that note, if anyone has an extra goat to give away, I’m on that farming game and I can’t seem to get a fecking goat no matter what I do, so send me one, so, if you please.
To make a long story short, we were a nice, quiet town until that fecking raffle went viral. That means a lot of people on the Internet saw it. The tickets were sold in Irish festivals all over America, and they went for twenty dollars apiece. Everyone and their mother wanted to win a pub in Ireland. And if Carlene’s mother looks anything like her daughter, I would’ve gone for a mother-daughter combo, but the Young Yank came on her own. And in the wink of an eye, our quiet little town weren’t so quiet n’more.
Situated on the West Coast of Ireland, we’re nestled on the edge of Galway Bay. We might be small, but we’re mighty. Close enough to Galway City we only need to follow the scent of heather and lager along the coast to lay our fingers on her thriving pulse, but tucked far enough awa
y that until that fecking raffle, we didn’t get too many blow-ins.
We’ll call our little village Ballybeog, or, in Irish, Báile Béag, which means “Little Center.” I picked it because it sounds pleasant and Irish-y and because nobody in their right minds wants me to use its real name. Not out of shame, mind you, but for fear of being overrun by Americans like what happened in Dingle when the dolphin showed up. Nothing can ruin a sweet little village faster than a gaggle of Americans tracking down their “Irish roots” with their iPhones and dodgy laminated diagrams of supposed family trees.
Regardless, everyone will be treated as if they’re welcome at the McBride family pub. This is the place to be. Drink away your troubles, catch up with the locals, watch a horse race, listen to traditional Irish music, play a game of pool, or darts, or cards, and see how much better life treats ye after a nice pint. Or two. Or twelve. Nobody keeps count except the Americans. Right now the place is jammers. We’re waiting on a bride. So let me tend to my other customers now, but doncha worry. I’ll check back to see how you’re doing or freshen your pint. And if you get half a mind to be neighborly, don’t forget to send me a fecking goat.
CHAPTER 1
