by Mary Carter
“Bookies,” Anchor said.
“Same old ding-dong,” Eoin said.
“So, how ye keeping?” Collin asked.
“I’m keeping . . . well,” Carlene said. For someone who just woke up, is wearing the same clothes she wore last night, and hasn’t even had a cup of coffee yet. “Although I have a lot to learn,” she said. Like how to keep men from sneaking in before dawn and starting without me.
“We’ll teach you,” Riley said. “Let’s see you pour a pint of Guinness.” His gravel voice carried the weight of cigarettes and bricks. The men straightened up respectfully as Carlene took a pint glass and held it under the tap. She couldn’t remember if Declan had pushed it or pulled it. She pushed it. A collective groan rose from the bar. Carlene stopped. She kept the pint glass under the spout and pulled the lever instead. The men erupted in disgust.
“Start fresh,” Collin said.
“Rinse the glass out, for feck’s sake,” Riley said.
“Somebody play some tunes, this is going to take a while,” Ciaran said.
“Tunes?” Carlene said. “I have tunes?” Collin pointed. There, behind the battered pool table, was a jukebox. The discovery filled her with unexpected joy. Her pub. Her customers. Her tunes. From now on her life would be filled with surprises, and music. And men who liked to drink at eight o’clock in the morning.
“You think we’d come to a pub that doesn’t have tunes, Yank?” Anchor said. “We have motorcars, petrol, electricity, and Facebook too,” he added.
“D’mind him,” Ciaran said. “His Irish charm takes about twelve pints to kick in.” Carlene glanced at Anchor. “That’s twelve pints into you, lass, not him,” Ciaran added. Anchor laughed. He threw his head back and kept laughing. It was a laugh fit for a man of his size. So infectious, she had to laugh too.
“Focus on the Guinness,” Billy said from the tree. “Become one with the pint.”
“Don’t mind him,” Eoin said, jerking his thumb over to Billy. “We’ll throw him out with the branch.” Collin held up the plug to the jukebox.
“Drumroll,” he said. The men pounded their hands on the bar. Collin plugged it in and stood back. It didn’t light up. He shook it. He kicked it. “Dead,” he said. “Add that to the list.”
“Now you can’t drown out our shite talk,” Eoin said. Collin punched the jukebox again. Carlene wondered if she should tell him not to do that, but she wanted to keep the few customers she had. She leaned in and whispered to Eoin.
“How old is he?”
“Drinking age in Ireland is eighteen, luv,” Collin called from across the bar.
“Sorry,” Carlene said. Wow, the young ones had really good hearing.
“But he’s only sixteen,” Ciaran said. Carlene must have look stricken, for they all laughed.
“Fuck off,” Collin said.
“I second that,” Billy said.
“They’re nineteen and twenty,” Ciaran said. “But some pubs let ’em in even younger than that.”
“Am I going to die here waiting for that pint?” Riley said. Carlene turned her attention back to the Guinness tap. The men shouted instructions, and she followed along like a game of Paddy Says.
Pull the lever. Tilt the glass. Easy does it. Now you have to stop pouring halfway, put the pint glass down, and let it settle. That’s right, ease up now. Put the pint down. Walk away from the pint. Busy yourself with the customers, but keep one eye on it. Never let a man’s glass get empty. Take yer top off if you’d like. You don’t even need to ask, just throw down a second one when there’s only half left in the first one. Now go back to yer pint. Fill it until there’s about this much head at the top. Billy, would ye stop laughing every time somebody says “head”? No, that’s a pope’s head. No, that’s a bishop’s head. That’s right, you want a priest’s head. So do a lot of other people around the world right now, but we won’t get into dat now, will we? Speaking of which, will you be wanting mass times?
That’s pretty good, but you were a little slow, so throw her out there and do another one. No, no, throw her out to one of us, not down the sink. Try it a little faster now. Remember. A pat on the back is only six inches from a boot up the arse. Give it to Riley, he’s the oldest and ugliest. Did you know there’s a bog in the backyard?
On what felt like her twentieth pour, Carlene got a loud cheer.
“Not bad, not bad,” Anchor said, checking his watch and measuring the head. She smiled and winked.
“You got something in your eye, darling?” Ciaran said. She must not have the winking thing down.
“You’re from Ohio, right?” Collin said.
“That’s right,” Carlene said.
“Cleveland,” Collin continued. “Home of the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.”
“Metallica!” Anchor said. “Inducted in 2009.”
“Cleveland,” Collin continued. “Home of America’s first traffic light, nineteen-fourteen.”
“Really?” Carlene said.
“I swear on me pint,” Collin said. “Ohio. ‘Hang on Sloopy,’ official state rock song.”
“If you lived there, it would be ‘Hang on Sloppy,’ ” Anchor said.
“Ohio,” Collin said. “Seventeenth state to join the union. Indian name meaning ‘longest river.’ Home of John Glenn, oldest man to venture into space.” Collin leaned over and looked at Riley. Riley put his fist up.
“I’ll send ye into outer space,” Riley said. Collin laughed.
“Ohio. The Buckeye State. Ohio. Home to Drew Carey. Ohio—”
“Okay, okay,” Ciaran said. “Now we all know you can fucking Google. Now shut the fuck up about Ohio.” He glanced at Carlene. “No offense, darling.”
“None taken,” Carlene said. Ohio was a long way away. Ohio was another world. She had a new life now, a new, glamorous life. She looked at all the pints lining the bar. “How do I wash the dishes?” she said out loud. Eoin joined her behind the bar.
“CmereIwancha,” he said. She moved next to him. He held up a pint glass, then pointed to two small sinks below the bar. They were both already filled with water. He picked up a yellow box next to one of the sinks.
“Just a smidge,” he said, shaking the detergent in the first sink. He flipped a switch and a little built-in brush began to twirl. Eoin tipped the glass over it, swirled it around, then dipped it into the second sink, which he loudly proclaimed was the “sanitizing sink,” before he brought it to rest on a nearby drying rack. When Carlene thanked him, he beamed as if he’d shown her how to mine for gold.
“No bother,” he said. “No bother a’t’all.” When he walked back to the stool it was with a definite swagger.
“Did I tell you I’m the reason you won the pub?” Anchor said.
“You drew the name of the winner?” Carlene said.
“No, no, ’twasn’t me,” Anchor said. “But it was my idea to have a fallback,” he said. “Otherwise, this would have been Tan Land.”
“So I heard,” Carlene said.
“Pale is the new tan,” Ciaran said. Everyone laughed. He acknowledged them by lifting his pint glass and giving a nod. Carlene looked at the tree branch. She was going to have to figure out what to do about Joe McBride.
“So you owe me,” Anchor said. He had a huge grin.
“What did you have in mind?” Carlene said.
“Take yer top off,” Ciaran said.
“Says the married man in the group,” Eoin said.
“Says the other married man in the group,” Ciaran said.
“Ah, I’m just joking you,” Anchor said. “Free drinks for life ought to do it.”
“So what did you do back home?” Collin asked. “In Ohio?”
“I managed a training gym,” Carlene said.
“What the fuck is that?” Riley said. He sounded offended.
“A gym where boxers train,” Carlene said. She held up her fists and moved her feet in place.
“Fuck me pink,” Riley said.
“So you go from sweaty men lifting weights
to sweaty men lifting pints,” Ciaran said.
“So it seems,” Carlene said. Just as Carlene was wondering if she should ask the men if they were going to pay for the drinks, and how to use the cash register, Ronan walked in. She was definitely going to have to get the front door fixed; she didn’t like not being able to see who was sneaking up the hall. Ronan started talking to the men about horses, odds, and tips, and within seconds, they were up and leaving the bar. They laid money next to their pints, smiled, and waved, and those wearing hats tipped them to her, and soon they were gone. All except Ronan and Riley. Carlene was starting to wonder if Riley ever left his stool. Carlene picked up the money on the bar, looked at it, and then set it next to the cash register. She removed their pint glasses and set them next to the sink to wash. She looked up when she heard Ronan laugh.
“You don’t know how to open the cash register, do you?” he said.
“Declan hasn’t trained me yet,” Carlene said.
“Declan’s not going to train you,” Ronan said. “He’s retired.” Not train her? Declan was the nicest man she’d ever met. He called her chicken, and pet, and petal, and luv. Of course he would train her. Maybe he didn’t realize she wanted training. And why did she get the feeling Ronan was slightly annoyed with her this morning? What had she done?
“Head hurting this morning?” he asked her.
“A little,” she admitted.
“You weren’t easy to put to bed,” he said. Startled, she looked at him. Then slowly, an image of Ronan walking her up the stairs, or actually near carrying her up the stairs, rose in her bomb shot–foggy brain.
“You put me to bed,” Carlene said, more as a statement to herself than asking a question.
“Don’t remember?” Ronan said. There it was again, a sarcastic bite to everything he said.
“It’s a bit fuzzy,” Carlene admitted.
“Wish I could say the same thing,” Ronan said. There it was again—a catch in his voice. Annoyance. Anger even.
“Why?” Carlene said. “What did I do?”
“Just pray you’re never captured behind enemy lines,” Ronan said. “You get a few pints in ye and you sing like a canary.” Carlene winced. She didn’t have a clue what he was talking about. What did she say? What did she do? Obviously nothing funny happened—she was wearing all of her clothes when she woke up. Great. Her and her big, drunken mouth—whatever it said.
“You seem to be enjoying this,” Carlene said. “Why don’t you just tell me what I said—or did?”
“Never mind,” Ronan said. “It’s for the best.” What was for the best? Why was he suddenly so cool toward her? She couldn’t have said anything mean to him, could she? She wasn’t a mean person. Ronan walked over and stared down at the tree branch. “Joe is going to walk all over you,” he said. “Among other people.”
“No, he’s not,” Carlene said.
“What are you going to do about it?” Ronan said.
“I’m going to return it to him,” Carlene said.
“He’s crafty,” Ronan said. “You’ve got to watch him.”
“I’ll certainly never play poker with him,” Carlene said. The second she saw the look on Ronan’s face, she regretted the comment. It was as if she’d slapped him across the face. But they all joked with each other around here! How was she to know what was over the line and what wasn’t? And why was he acting so weird—and what did she say to him last night when he’d tucked her into bed? She was so tired, and overwhelmed, and hungover, and Ronan should never have let those men into her bar so early in the morning.
“I was wrong about you,” Ronan said. Carlene just looked at him. She had no idea what he was talking about. He looked confused, and disappointed in her.
“You don’t know me,” Carlene said. “You don’t know me at all.”
“I know enough,” Ronan said. He hoisted Riley out of his seat. Riley tried to protest. “Let’s leave the Yank in peace,” Ronan said. Riley grabbed his pint glass and allowed Ronan to escort him down the hall. He never looked back. Carlene stood, hands on hips, staring after them. She listened to the back door open and slam shut. Then silence. She couldn’t believe it. He was so cocky, so cold, so sure that he no longer liked her. What the hell could she have said? And why did she care so much?
It was probably for the best. He was probably only being nice to her so he could warm his way into her heart and then get his pub back. She didn’t come here to fall in love—
I love you. Why did she remember saying “I love you”? Did she say “I love you” last night? Oh shit. No. She couldn’t have. Stumbling up the stairs. Ronan holding on to her.
What a little bed.
It is, isn’t it? Sorry it’s not the Taj Mahal.
It’s perfect. I love you.
You’ve had a lot to drink.
I do. I know I just met you, but I love you. You have gorgeous reptilian eyes, did you know that? Primal. Like an alligator. Or a snnnnnnnaaaaaaaaaaake. She put her arms around him, nibbled on his neck.
Carlene, stop it. Go to bed.
I don’t care if you’re a gambler and a fuckup. I’d bet on you. I love you.
No pajamas. Okay. Just lie down. The sooner the better.
Come here, I want to tell you something.
Go to sleep.
Come here.
He did. He walked over and leaned down so that his face was only inches from her face.
What?
You smell nice.
Tank you.
And you’re much, much nicer than my Irish husband.
Carlene put her head down on the bar. She would have pounded it into the wood, but that would have been redundant. Oh God. Saying “I love you” was humiliating, and she didn’t mean it, of course she wasn’t in love with Ronan, she was just drunk, and overwhelmed, and he was way too good looking for his own good. But why, why, why did she have to mention Brendan?
CHAPTER 14
Extending a Branch
Carlene grabbed one end of the branch with both hands and hoisted it off the ground. It was heavier than she thought. She took a few steps down the narrow hallway and headed out the back. The branch was rough and sticky, and it sounded like a dead body dragging along the floor behind her. She liked the smell of bark, but not enough to keep it, hang it in the pub like an air freshener. Every few steps she had to stop and rest. This is totally crazy, she thought, as she inched it next door. Joe is going to walk all over you. They all are. Ronan had hit a nerve.
He seemed to hit a lot of nerves, too many of them, which was why she’d opened her big mouth and let all that garbage spill out. Now he thought she was married. Maybe it was for the best. What good would come of starting a relationship? Hadn’t she learned her lessons with Brendan? Besides, she would attract way more customers as an aloof, single woman. Which was why she was going to have to find a way to make sure Ronan kept his mouth shut. Just thinking of how he’d pushed her away when she made drunken advances on him filled her with shame. Was he the kind who didn’t kiss and tell?
They’re going to walk all over you. He was right. Normally, she was a very nice person. Some might even say too nice. Too nice meant you knocked on your father’s door four times, then waited four seconds, then knocked on his door another four times, then waited yet another four seconds before performing your last quad-knock.
Too nice meant you wiped your feet fifty times, washed your hands a hundred, ate only macrobiotic food while in his presence, wore fresh blue rubber gloves, and paced the yard with him until three A.M. when he needed to go for a walk. It meant you worked long hours at the gym because he could no longer handle more than a four-hour shift; it meant you met men who saw “too nice” coming a mile away, then just as you were falling for them, dumped you with the “you deserve better” line, something that always made her feel a deep sense of shame. After all, shouldn’t she have been the one to declare she deserved better? Too nice meant even your best friend in the world thought you owed her over a two-do
llar loan. Too nice was a thief, robbing bits of your life out from underneath you, one experience at a time.
Funny, Carlene didn’t always feel nice on the inside. Sometimes she felt filled with rage, sometimes she criticized innocent bystanders in her head, and sometimes she performed random acts of rudeness, like the summer she waitressed at a popular truck-stop diner and filled all the sugar jars with salt and all the salt shakers with sugar. It was time she yielded more to those feelings when appropriate, like when neighbors saw fit to shove trees through her front door.
There were at least twenty cars parked on Joe’s front lawn. Carlene stood at the side of the shop, wondering if she should wait until the crowd died down. No. Let the locals see that she wasn’t a pushover. There were plenty of people who’d witnessed Joe’s timber tantrum, why shouldn’t she have an audience as well?
A little bell sounded a welcoming jingle when she opened the door. The branch made a scraping sound on the floor tiles as she hauled it in. The shop was narrow but surprisingly long. It stretched back so far she couldn’t see the end. Tall shelves in multiple rows were packed with canned food, cereals, sweets, chips, household products, gardening tools, patio furniture, decorative vases—and that was just the first few shelves. No space was bare. Carlene would have to be careful not to swipe any products off the shelves. Standing up for herself was one thing, knocking down a hundred cans of Murphy’s Mushy Peas would raise the war to a whole new level.
Carlene picked up speed and tried to locate the counter. The shop was set up like a maze. She pulled ahead of the first row of shelves and stopped dead. A group of well-dressed people stood in a circle in the middle of the store. They were singing softly, and all of them held little glasses, raised in a toast. Suddenly, the singing stopped, and everyone turned and looked at her. She took a few steps forward. Here she could see they were all gathered around a young couple who were holding an infant wearing a little white dress. Next to them stood a stocky priest. He held his Bible over his stomach. A christening, they had just come from a christening. Why were they celebrating it in the store? Joe McBride stepped forward.
