Five
Quinn shouldn’t have been surprised to hear that Lilly Parker’s family owned a vineyard and winery. After all, it seemed to be the primary industry in this area, and everyone in Forestville was probably tied to one somehow. But he was surprised. Maybe because she’d been sorting muffins and serving tea back at Russian River House, or because her hair had been up in a messy bun, or because her mother had talked to her like she was some sloppy waitress working the lower ranks of the kitchen, but something—the shy way she’d carried herself probably—had told him she was just an old-fashioned working class girl.
“You have a widespread operation ‘round these parts, do you?” Quinn tried not to feel awestruck by Lilly’s presence. After all, running a vineyard and winery couldn’t be all too different from owning a family restaurant, could it?
“Widespread? Well, we’re not the largest winery in the area. That would be the Phillips and the Enderman’s place west of here. But we’re a decent size. We produce around fifty-thousand cases a year.”
“Impressive!” Quinn said like he knew anything about how fifty-thousand cases compared to other wineries.
“The Phillips’ place produces over a hundred-fifty thousand,” she clarified. “You could say they’re a big competitor.”
Quinn loved listening to Lilly talk on about all the different types of wine they produced, how their winery may have been smaller than the Phillips’, but their fields were richer, their grapes more flavorful, and their hospitality warmer.
“Can’t argue with that,” he said, smiling at her. He liked how Lilly had taken them under her wing. How, once she’d walked out of the bed-and-breakfast, a transformation seemed to take place. Like she could be herself again, like air had found its way into her lungs, like the distance between her and her mother had given her back some lost confidence. Like she’d come alive. He liked when she showed them the vines, where the grapes were crushed, when she was explaining how Syrah and Shiraz tended to be full-boded, bold wines with notes of pepper and dark fruit flavors like blackberries, and how Europeans usually labeled them Syrah while Australians labeled them Shiraz.
Things he’d never cared about before but knew now because Lilly had explained them so well in her pretty flute-y voice he could listen to all day long. Of course, he also loved her baked breakfast goods. He almost hadn’t wanted to rave too much about them out of fear that the attention would go to her head, but Jesus, Mary, and Joseph—those things were fierce!
After leaving the vineyard, they walked around town a bit, and she showed them a flower market, pointed to a couple more wineries from the road, and the Russian River itself. But then a series of texts rang in, and she claimed she had to get back to the bed-and-breakfast, also family owned and operated, more her mother’s baby, while the winery remained her grandparents’ domain. They headed back.
“Thank you for the tour, Miss Parker.” Quinn took her hand and kissed the top of it gently. The gesture made her blush underneath her pale white skin, and once again he took pleasure watching her squirm. Lord, he was having trouble shaking fantasies of her squirming—in bed, beneath him, on top of him, around him…
“The pleasure was all mine, gentlemen,” she said, pulling her hand back until it was in her pocket. Crystal blue eyes actually twinkled with girlish pride. “Con, I think your brother has the lead now with the way of women.” She chuckled.
“Ah, he’s banjaxed,” Con said, patting his brother on the back.
“Whatever that means. I’m going to have to buy myself an English-Irish dictionary to be around you two,” Lilly said, heading up the steps. “The Irish pubs are on the east side. Bookstore down the street, and grocery store around the corner. Need me to drive you?”
“Nah, we have ourselves a car. It’s parked around the side. Thanks, we’ll see you later tonight? Maybe? Hopefully?” Quinn smiled at her one last time, soaking in her classic form before she closed the door. Then, he let out a huge breath and ran a hand through his hair. “Whew. She’s a fine thing, that one.”
“I saw her first,” Con said.
“Feck off. You did not.” Quinn wouldn’t let Conor’s playing paws anywhere near Lilly, if he could help it.
They headed to the car park, boots crunching over gravel. “Why do you think she doesn’t like the Phillips Family?” Con asked. “You think it’s a winery rivalry thing?”
“Of course. Years of family feuding, like us and the Calhouns.” Quinn recalled the Calhoun Family of Salty Dog fame, the American Bar Grill across the street from The Cranky Yankee in Dublin. Even though there was more than enough business to go around, their families were always at odds with each other. When the Yankee was damaged in the fire, and their dad subsequently died, the Calhouns reached out to help, but Quinn could almost sense a smarmy happiness about it. “Either way, if she doesn’t like the Phillipses, then she won’t like us either, so we can’t tell her we’re related. Got it?”
Con looked at him sideways and shook his head. “Not so sure that’s the best way to approach things, brother, but she’s your gal.”
“My gal? I never said she was my gal.” And don’t you forget it, wee one.
“Well, you could have fooled me with that kiss atop her hand.” Con buttoned up his jacket. It had gotten a few degrees colder now that the sun had gone down.
“It’s called chivalry, you maggot, something you wouldn’t know anything about.” Quinn opened the automobile door and slid in, reminding himself that he needed to drive on the right side of the road, make right turns on the right, left turns on the left, and everything would be fine.
“Chivalry is fakery, Quinn.” Con slid into his seat and closed the door. “I’d much rather be up front and real in telling a bird she’s got great knockers than lying to her about why we’re here. Just tell her. There’s nothing dishonorable about it. You’re learning about mam’s place of birth.”
“I will if I have to. Can I just sense her out first? Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, I like to know people before I tell them things, not like you who barely says hullo before you snog ‘em. Let’s get going.” He started the ignition and headed off cautiously toward the east side of Forestville, hoping not to crash into anything and still find a place called Mulligan’s Tavern by the time they arrived.
East Forestville boasted a bookshop named Quill’s, a couple drugstores opposite each other, a park where teens all sat around laughing or skateboarding, and a Catholic church right across the street. It only took five minutes to get there, and by the time they were almost out the other end, they finally found where the action was.
Not Mulligan’s.
From the tales their dad used to tell them, Quinn had imagined a wonderful, bustling pub off River Road where the craic never ended and it was always a jolly time, but what they found instead when they arrived was a desolate old building with faded shingled tiles, a broken neon sign, and two old cars parked in a car park made for fifty.
What was worse was that across the road was another, more lively pub called The Cat’s Meow where the music blasted strong, half the town was singing, and the craic was strong. “Let’s go for a pint over there, eh?” Con said, eyeing the more lively spot.
“Con, The Cat’s Meow was not where mam and dad met, you dope. We’re going to Mulligan’s.” Quinn gave the dismal old building another once-over and shuddered. If, after a quick visit, they didn’t find their father’s college buddy, Paul Brennan, then they would cross the street and get bolloxed at The Cat.
“I was afraid you’d say that.”
Pulling on the heavy wooden door, a bell chimed, and the few locals sitting around all whipped their heads around to look. “How’s the craic?” Quinn said in his usual way.
“Eh.”
“Eh,” came various greetings from several old geezers.
“Evening, gentlemen,” said an older man from behind the bar. He was standing with a young barmaid in her early twenties, pretty as a picture, with her black hair up in a tight bun. She wore a red tank top that cradled her breasts in that perfectly snug way, and her lips were painted bright red.
“Evening,” Quinn said, trying on an easy smile. “We’re looking for an old friend, Paul Brennan.”
The man laughed to himself. “I never forget a face.” His cheeks and eyes lit up like a Christmas tree. He looked like Saint Nicholas after several pints. “You look familiar, lads. Where might I remember you from?”
Quinn strolled up to the bar and extended his hand in greeting. He paused when he spotted a framed photo on the wall behind the man buried amidst a multitude of other framed photos of patrons over the years. It was Mam with his father, both of them in their early twenties, thirty years ago. Above their heads was the Mulligan’s Tavern sign from outside, only lit up with working neon.
“Why, you look like you’ve seen a ghost, boy,” the man said, following Quinn’s line of sight. “I’m Paul. How can I help you?”
“Great to meet you. Name’s Quinn. This is my brother, Con, and I’m afraid I’ve come with some bad news about your old friends right there behind ya.” He nodded at the framed photo.
Paul swiveled to look at the photo. “Grant and Maggie? Know them? Ah, don’t tell me. Why, you’re the spittin’ image. I should have known. From the moment you walked in. You’re their lads, aren’t ya?”
“We are. We’re five brothers, but only two of us are here this week visiting. Our father passed two years ago, I’m afraid, and our mam, well, she left us last week.” Quinn had told family and friends since the tragedy occurred, but it never got any easier. Just saying it now brought tears to his eyes. He swiped at them with the back of his hand.
“Ah, I’m sorry to hear that, lads. Your father was a pal of mine at Trinity in Dublin. He gave of his time to help me open this establishment many years ago when he met your mother. A good man, he was. I’ll never forget him.”
“Thank you,” Quinn said, pressing his lips together to keep from losing it. Hearing someone else talk about his parents that way, well, it made his heart ache even more.
“Have a seat. What can I get you, on the house? This is Dara, my youngest. I’ve three girls. You’d think the Lord would’ve blessed me with just one lad to watch the games with, but no.”
“Stop it, Dad. I watch the games with you all the time,” Dara said in a much more American accent than her father. She leaned over to wipe the countertops, showing off her talented cleavage for Con’s appreciation mostly.
Quinn smacked his brother’s arm hoping it would prompt him to focus on Dara’s eyes.
“You boys staying here in Forestville?” Paul asked.
“Russian River House,” Quinn said, watching Paul fill up two pints of Guinness for him and Con. Frothy, with a thick head of foam on top. Perfect.
“Penny Parker’s place? Oh my God, their muffins are to die for. Try the cranberry orange.” Dara’s big green eyes flared, as she remembered Lilly’s pastries.
“We did!” Quinn felt pride at having tried Lilly’s muffins first-hand from the baker herself. He suddenly wished she were there with them, though Mulligan’s didn’t seem the type of place Lilly would frequent. “They were quite fantastic.”
“They are the bomb!” Dara finished wiping up the counter then winked at them. “Don’t keep him up too late. He’ll get cranky later. Dad, I’ll be outside waiting for ya’. Gonna go have a smoke. Bye, boys.” She gave Con, in particular, a pointed look, then strutted out from behind the bar. Now there was a girl overflowing with confidence, Quinn thought. Maybe a little too much for Quinn’s taste, but for Con...
They turned their attention to an American football game on the telly and shouted when the other patrons shouted, cheered when the other patrons cheered, pretending they were in the know, though Quinn knew a bit about the sport, being it was similar to rugby. Con polished off his pint then stood and headed outside. “Alright, I’m pulling my socks up. Wish me luck.”
“Good luck,” Quinn murmured, glad to get rid of his brother for a while. The boy needed the distraction of a hot bird anyway. He wouldn’t be surprised if Con got some ass before he did on this trip, not that Quinn had come for any ass. But he couldn’t deny when he thought that particular phrase, Lil’s sweet face and body—including her gorgeous ass—formed in his mind. “So Paul, what’s going on here? Business a little slow?”
Paul shrugged, chewing on a piece of straw. “Eh, what are ya going to do? Been thirty years in the business, and everything is fine, you know? Then one day last year, these ossified plonkers across the street decide to renovate the Piggly Wiggly into a pub. Ah, sure, it’ll be grand! Let’s open up a pub across the street from another feckin pub! Maggots.”
“Shite,” Quinn commiserated.
He’d heard this story in its various forms more than once from restaurant owners in Dublin, and the only way to keep up was to modernize, update, and bring in the trendy, new crowds. It was the main reason he’d wanted to update the ovens and appliances at their restaurant and hire a new cook to put together a fresh menu—it was time for a face lift. “I know what you mean. My dad’s restaurant was going through a similar phase when he died. You’re at a crossroads now.”
“Aye, but I don’t know how much longer I can stand it here, Quinn, I really don’t. I’m tired. My wife is tired. We’re ready to retire, but we can’t, you know? It’s hard—you build your dreams…I wanted to hand this place off to Dara and her sisters, but there’s not much to hand them now. I don’t blame Dara that she wants to up and leave every night before closing time. Ah, feck.”
“You have to change something, Paul. Put something new on the menu. Offer dessert. Offer cake. Offer muffins.” Quinn laughed, though it wasn’t such a bad idea. Still, he had Lilly on the brain, and not about just how sexy she was, and that was more than he could say about most women when he first met them. “Something different, something those cats across the street don’t have, and watch the clientele come waltzing back in.”
Paul gave Quinn a sad smile. “You have a head for business, like your father.”
“Nah, Brady’s the business mind in our family. I’m the rugby player, but I’ve learned a lot since my dad passed.” More than a lot, actually. While Brady was good with the numbers, Quinn saw himself more as the creative part of the operation.
“Rugby, you say. Who’d you play for?”
They talked about Quinn’s rugby years, including the possibility of Quinn rejoining the team, before settling into a comfortable silence and football watching.
During a break in the game, Quinn glanced around the empty bar and sighed. “Get a pole and some strippers in here, Paul,” Quinn said, polishing off his beer.
Paul laughed and lifted his glass to a toast. “Hear, hear! To pole strip dancing across from St. Mary’s! Brilliant idea, Quinn O’Neill!”
“Thank you, thank you. I try.” Ah, the craic was getting better already. See? All it took was a couple new faces.
Suddenly, the door chimed, and Paul craned his neck to see past the bar’s edge. Quinn leaned back to see who would show up at Mulligan’s at eleven o’clock at night when the real action was happening across the street. He couldn’t believe his eyes when he spotted the prettiest fish out of water he’d ever seen—Lilly, still in her jeans and gray wrap-around sweater—walking into the dirty, smelly, smoky tavern.
“Well, what do you know?” he mumbled, happily surprised.
She spotted Quinn at the bar and sighed with relief. “Hi.” She gave him a little wave. “Thought I might find you here. Buy a girl a Guinness?”