6
M aeve storms out of Mettā Café feeling invigorated. If Briggs Murphy wants a show, she’s happy to provide one, after what he did last night. Dumping the smoothie on his head is the least he deserves after tricking her. She seriously thought he cared. He sure as hell kissed her like he cared. Evidently, years of acting for tourists has its benefits. Maeve had had no idea Briggs was faking it or she never would have told him her karaoke secret.
Taking revenge now has nothing to do with being a Doherty, no matter what this business is between them and the Murphys. Maeve doesn’t care about some ancient, Shakespearean feud between families she doesn’t even know, whatever her genetics. She’s a Kaminski, and she has no intention of staying on this island for any longer than she has to. She has a dentist appointment in July. She can’t miss that. It’s written in green pen in her datebook!
But it felt good to pretend, to see Briggs’s face covered in green slime.
Maeve gets out her phone and wishes she could call Sonya, but it’s the middle of the night in Chicago, and Sonya hoards beauty sleep like Maeve with multipurpose storage bins. Instead, she checks her connectivity—still catching the wireless from the café—and texts the only person who can expedite her exodus from Inishglass.
I need to see you.
Miss me already, Kaminski?
I’m not in the mood for banter, Eoin.
Hungover? Drinking alone is never a good idea.
She pauses, fingers over the keys, but Maeve is not about to tell him about Briggs.
Jet lag is a beyatch.
You have a filthy mouth, Kaminski.
Don’t flirt with me.
You’re the one who said you needed me. I’m just here to service you.
Stop.
Stop what?
No suggestive texts.
My text was innocent. Any inferred suggestion is reader error.
We need to talk.
Isn’t that what we’re doing?
In person.
Must be serious. Too bad I’m booked today.
Pilates and a facial?
So you noticed my toned abs?
I noticed nothing.
People underestimate the importance of a strong core.
Thank you, Tracy Anderson. Now, cancel your wax appointment. I need to see you.
Who waxes anymore when lasering is so effective? You’re not my only client, Kaminski. It’ll have to wait until tomorrow. I have an opening at one.
Thanks for squeezing me in.
I sense your sarcasm.
It’s your fault I’m on this damn island, and now when I need you, you’re busy! What the hell?
You know, most people spend a lot of money to come to this island.
Don’t make me feel guilty.
I’m just saying ... you could enjoy yourself. Just for the day.
Maeve groans at her phone. She tried that last night, and it backfired.
Tomorrow, Kaminski. The Moorings. 1 p.m. My advice—get some fresh air. A long walk is the best cure for jet lag.
Fine. Don’t be late this time.
Sheep are unpredictable, Kaminski. Save yourself the heartache and lower your expectations.
Maeve rests back against the building, her adrenaline now waning, leaving her feeling tired again. She really could have used that smoothie.
For one glorious moment when she woke up this morning, Maeve forgot where she was. She pressed the crisp white bedsheets to her nose, enjoying the clean smell. The sunshine just starting to stream through the window. The crisp air and the smell of salt water. And then she remembered where she was, and the day has been on a downward slope since.
As it turns out, the Cabbage Patch is a field filled with eco-pods, round structures just big enough for two people. Maeve’s has a double bed, small couch, kitchenette, small bathroom, and a TV. It’s charming, neat, clean, and contained, just how Maeve likes her spaces. But the idea of spending the rest of the day in hers, surrounded by only her anxiety, feels claustrophobic.
This morning she dressed sensibly in black leggings, white crop top, and purple zip hoodie, with her raincoat stuffed in a sling backpack along with her planner. When her life is tossed in the air, a person can’t go wrong with athletic casual. Oddly enough, she’s dressed perfectly for the walk Eoin just suggested.
Then she has an idea. Briggs will be occupied with washing green smoothie out of his hair and clothes for the next hour at least. Maeve looks around for any spying eyes and then opens a browser on her phone and searches “The Thatch, Inishglass.” An information page comes up right away, with location, address, phone number, website, hours of operation, pictures, and reviews.
As its name implies, the pub has a thatched roof. Unlike the Moorings’s whitewashed exterior, black trim, and red door, the Thatch is a stone building with green trim and a door of the same color. Flower boxes line the windows, and Irish flags hang from either end of the building. It’s utterly charming, and the reviews say as much. The Thatch has a 4.7-star rating. Maeve flips through the images of food and pints and locals playing music. The place looks delightful and cozy, as much as she hates to admit it. She skims the reviews, which gush about the authentic Irish atmosphere, the food—apparently the bangers and mash is to die for—and the local “trad music.” Most of the reviews mention the Murphy-Doherty feud and the shenanigans between the two pubs.
Maeve laughs at a particularly funny one.
Nick P.
Cleveland, OH
/14/2021
There is only one reason to come to this godforsaken turd of an island Ireland shit out millions of years ago ...
THE THATCH. I’d swim through a channel of used diapers and bologna. I’d walk across a moor of BO and dirty scalp mist. Do yourself a favor. Don’t go to Ireland. It rains every fucking day here. But if you do find yourself on this floating fart pebble, take the ferry from Cork over to Inishglass and go to the Thatch. Best pub in Ireland. And if anyone tells you different, tell them the Dohertys can go to hell.
Another five-star review lays out the feud perfectly. Maybe Maeve should have done a little research before coming here. A small failure, she now admits, but how was she supposed to know Liam came from a quasi-famous family on the world’s smallest island.
Jessie V.
Brussels, Belgium
7/28/2019
Two households, both alike in dignity, on the fair island of Inishglass where we lay our scene ...
Don’t be fooled by this island’s Irish charm, the rolling green fields and colorful pastel houses. Behind Inishglass’s fair facade, an ancient feud rages between the Murphys and Dohertys.
Lucky for us, pints instead of pistols are their weapon of choice. These two families own the only two pubs on the island, and both offer everything a tourist could want to tickle their Irish fancy. Go to either for a drink, but stay for the high jinks. Just be alert. Before you sugar your tea at the Thatch, make sure a Doherty didn’t sneak salt in that shaker. Sip your water carefully at the Moorings, a Murphy may have put vinegar in that glass. You can’t be sure when a Murphy or Doherty will exact revenge, but one thing is certain—you’ll have a jolly good time when they do.
And don’t worry about a truce. In a feud that’s lasted over two hundred years, it’s not likely to end anytime soon.
Another review catches Maeve’s attention, raising her heart rate a notch.
Christyn B.
San Francisco, CA
3/31/2021
No regrets.
It’s a Saturday night like any other. You walk into a pub, survey the local beers on tap, find one that looks appealing, put on your lipstick, and hope the pint tastes as good as it looks. But on Inishglass, there is one beer that tastes exceptionally better than all the rest, and you can only find it at the Thatch. Strong and cool, this beer will leave you feeling lightheaded and satisfy your every craving. (Don’t be afraid to ask. This pint is very giving.) I must say, I cried a little when the pint was done. I wish I could have this beer every damn night. I would drink it slowly. Savor every inch of it. Run my fingers down the sweaty glass and lick the foam from its rim.
If you find yourself in Inishglass, stop at the Thatch and savor the beer. Don’t let the opportunity pass. You might wake up hungover and tired, but I promise, you’ll be fully satisfied. Tell Briggs I sent you.
Maeve may not know Christyn, but she does not like her. And Christyn is not alone. As Maeve scrolls, she notices all the reviews written about Briggs, some more explicit than others. Some just mention what a kind person he is. Some describe him in detail, like he’s the heartthrob in a romance novel. It’s infuriating. At least Maeve wasn’t the only person he fooled. In fact, she can’t find a single review that speaks poorly about him. She has half a mind to leave one now, but that is too low for her, even with her bruised ego.
She opens a new browser and searches “The Moorings, Inishglass.” As with the Thatch, there are thousands of reviews, averaging 4.5 stars. The Moorings doesn’t have quite as many reviews, but it’s not trailing by much. Maeve glances at the top review and stops still.
Gary M.
Fortrose, Scotland
5/1/2023
It’s with a heavy heart that I report that Liam Doherty, owner of the Moorings, has passed away.
I was lucky enough to visit Inishglass a few months ago and returned last week with my girlfriend so she could experience the island and its famous feud. Unfortunately, the entire place was shut down, including both pubs. I’m leaving this five-star review because I’ve never seen what felt like an entire village mourning one person. The collective grief and love was overwhelming. Even a Murphy would have a hard time denying emotion. I only met Liam Doherty once, very briefly, but he must have been a great man. I can only hope that when I’m gone, I’m as missed as he is.
As to the future of the Moorings, no one on the island would say a word, which leads me to believe there’s a story here, but we’ll all have to wait and see.
Maeve closes the browser straightaway, feeling as though a boulder has been placed on her chest. She isn’t prepared to read about Liam, not today at least. With everything else that’s happened in the past twenty-four hours, it’s just too much.
She needs a walk, and she knows her destination. As she’s mapping the route, a short blond woman runs out of the café toward her, carrying a green smoothie. She’s in a cropped white V-neck T-shirt and stretchy bell-bottoms, with colorful tattoos down both arms.
“Wait!” she hollers after Maeve. “Your Jet Lag Lube!” She shoves the smoothie into Maeve’s hand. Startled, Maeve takes the drink and stares at the woman, who is maybe a few years older than her. “Brilliant move, by the way. Everyone inside is talking about it. They love the drama.”
“Thanks,” Maeve says, the word sounding more like a question than a statement.
“I promise, the drink works. I created it myself after a brutal flight home from Nepal.” The woman holds out her hand, and they shake. “I’m Aoife, by the way. I own the café.”
“Maeve. How did you know I’m jet-lagged?”
“I see it every day round here. You pick up on the signs.”
“Do I look that bad?”
“No!” She laughs. “You look gorgeous. Better than most in your situation.”
Aoife looks as though she didn’t mean that last bit to slip out, and Maeve gathers that she isn’t talking about Maeve’s transatlantic flight. Aoife’s looking at her the way the man on the ferry did—like Maeve is familiar.
The words of the review come back to her: an entire village mourning one person.
“Sorry about your loss,” Aoife says quietly.
But Maeve can’t accept her sympathy without feeling like a fraud. She didn’t know Liam. It’s wrong to claim the loss. She holds up the drink. “Thanks for the smoothie.”
“My pleasure.” Aoife smiles. “Can I see your cell?”
It’s an odd question, but Maeve hands over her phone, not wanting to make a bad impression. Aoife touches the screen a few times and hands it back to Maeve.
“I put my number in your contacts, just in case.”
Maeve looks down at the name: Aoife Sheehan .
“Are any names around here spelled phonetically?” Maeve jokes. “How is a person supposed to read that and know the pronunciation?”
“It’s ‘ Ee -fa.’ That’s the Irish for you.” Aoife laughs as a group of tourists walks into the café. “I better dash. Call or text me if you need anything. I hold a meditation class here every morning at six thirty, right before we open. You should come.”
“I’ve never meditated before.”
Aoife shrugs. “Time for something new, maybe.”
Maeve considers the idea and takes a sip of the smoothie. She practically moans at the taste. “Holy hell, this is good.”
“Told you.” Aoife winks. “Anything to help.”
She disappears into the café as Maeve sucks down more of the smoothie. She doubts that Aoife offers her phone number and unlimited help to all the tourists who come into her restaurant, which means Aoife has one very distinct reason.
Liam.
Which leaves Maeve to wonder—why the hell did Liam tell everyone about her if he wanted nothing to do with her?
It doesn’t take long to walk to the Thatch. With a few hours before it opens, and Briggs probably still cleaning smoothie out of his ears, Maeve trusts she won’t run into anyone. Still, she’s cautious, wearing sunglasses firmly fixed on her face and a hoodie pulled up over her head. Like the online pictures suggested, the place is quaint and well cared for. The outside looks like it belongs on @visitInishglass’s Instagram. Picnic tables are lined up out front. Similar to Chicago, people in Ireland must take as much advantage as they can of warmer weather. Today, people are out riding bikes and strolling the beach. A few brave souls are even in the water, though none going farther than their knees. Only a lunatic would fully submerge themselves, Maeve thinks.
What’s most noticeable about the pub is the banner hanging over the door, proudly announcing the Thatch as having been “Voted Best Pub in Inishglass!”
By whom? Maeve wonders. Briggs probably took the liberty of claiming the title without any formal vote, she reasons. Another convenient lie to benefit himself. How infuriating. But then why should she care? This is not her home. These are not her people. She is not involved in this feud. She will be gone from this island soon enough, and her time here will be a distant memory.
But that doesn’t mean she isn’t a little curious.
She takes one more careful glance around her, then climbs up onto one of the picnic benches and sneaks a peek in the window. The walls are painted a brick-red color and covered in a collage of signs, just like at the Moorings. A few large barrels are scattered around the center of the room, acting as tables. Banquette seating runs along one wall. There’s no TV or games. It’s simple, just a bar and seating, a place to come and uncomplicate your life.
Maeve imagines Briggs behind the bar, leaning on his elbows, a charming, concerned grin on his gorgeous face, coaxing out of each customer what ails them, so they’ll keep coming back and buying more drinks. Like Yelp says, he makes people feel at home, giving them whatever they need. And according to the reviews, in some instances that’s an amazing night of sex ...
Maeve tries to push the memory of their kiss to the farthest recesses of her mind, but it comes back to her in a heat-filled rush, distracting her so much that when someone behind her says, “We don’t open ’til noon,” Maeve loses her balance and falls unceremoniously off the bench, knocking them both to the ground.
She jumps to her feet, apologizing profusely to the man she just squashed. He’s dressed in a green-and-blue rugby shirt and a shit-eating grin. Maeve snatches her sunglasses from the ground, only to realize they broke in the fall. Her hood has fallen away as well. Her anonymity is gone.
“I could make an exception ... just this once,” the man says in an American accent.
Maeve brushes dirt from his sleeve. “I’m so sorry.”
“Rough night?”
She runs her fingers through her hair. “Why do you say that?”
“Drinking before noon. It’s either hair of the dog or still drunk from the night before.”
Maeve laughs to hide her nerves, but her mind works in overdrive to find a way to escape the situation. Thank goodness Briggs didn’t catch her. She decides to play tourist and hope that whoever this American is, he didn’t know Liam. “I was just passing by and was intrigued. I’ll be going now.” She starts to walk away.
“Chicago. Definitely Chicago.”
Maeve stops. “What?”
“That’s where you’re from.”
“How did you know that?”
“One of my many talents.” He brushes his shoulders off with an endearing smirk. “I can usually get the state, if not the city.”
“That’s . . . impressive.”
He gestures toward the pub. “It’s a skill I’ve honed while bartending and avoiding adulthood for many years.”
“At least you’re self-aware.”
“If you understand your role, you can play it better.” Maeve cocks an eyebrow. “Clever, with a crooked smile, a charming gap between his two front teeth, and a body not chiseled by the gods, but a perfect replica of an Idaho potato.” He pats his stomach like he’s just eaten Thanksgiving dinner.
“Is that your Tinder profile?”
“Romance book description, actually. Product of being raised around seven sisters. When most boys were reading Playboy , I was reading Fifty Shades of Grey , which is surprisingly like Playboy , but better.”
“Wow. Seven sisters. I can’t even imagine.”
“Irish Catholics. We’re like dogs. We come in litters.”
“You’re Irish?”
“Half. Dad’s side. My mom’s Chinese. What about you? Are you here to chase down your ancestry like most Americans?”
“Polish,” Maeve says, not lying, but ... omitting. “And an only child.”
“If you want a sister, you’re welcome to any of mine. Except Hailey.”
They both chuckle. Maeve sees her opportunity for an exit. “Well, it was nice to meet you. Sorry I squashed you.”
“Hugh Duffy, King of Useless Talents. And don’t be sorry. It was oddly pleasurable,” he says. After a pause, he adds, “I’m just waiting to see how long I have to stand here before you tell me your name. I’m in no rush. Take your time.”
To lie would only make the situation worse, so Maeve hopes he’ll forget her and never mention this incident to Briggs. “Maeve Kaminski.”
“Maeve Kaminski from Chicago.” He points to himself. “Hugh Duffy from Detroit. What are the odds? Two Midwesterners meeting in Ireland.”
“I’d say pretty good this time of year.”
Hugh chuckles. “Well, you might be Polish, but today you have the luck of the Irish. I know this place looks like it serves only warm Guinness, but I promise, I make the best damn Negroni you’ve ever had.”
“How did you know I love a Negroni?”
Hugh extends his arms wide and winks. “King of Useless Talents. So what do you say?”
“I think ten thirty is a little early for a cocktail. But thanks.”
“Are you sure you’re Midwestern? We make a sport of day drinking.”
“Some other time. I don’t want to get you in trouble with your boss,” Maeve says, turning toward the road back to the Cabbage Patch.
“If there’s one thing Briggs isn’t opposed to, it’s bending the rules for a beautiful woman.”
She stops. She can’t help herself. “Briggs?”
“I know ... he’s a total fucker. Even the name is intriguing.”
“You don’t like him?”
“Unfortunately, I love the guy,” Hugh says. “He’s as good-looking as he is kind. It’s offensive to the rest of us secondary characters.” Maeve raises an eyebrow, frustratingly intrigued. “Alas, I’ve been cast as the goofy sidekick in life. The quirky roommate. The less attractive best friend who lives vicariously through his much hotter buddy’s wild sex life. A self-deprecating guy with a longshot crush on a completely out-of-his-league woman who won’t notice he exists until the end of the movie.”
“You really have yourself nailed.”
“I’ve had twenty-seven years of practice.”
“And how would Fifty Shades of Grey describe this ... Briggs?” The question comes out before Maeve can think any better of it, and she instantly regrets it.
“Viking in size and broodingly handsome, walks through life like a perfectly tailored Tom Ford suit,” Hugh says. “He’s basically James Bond. Every man wants to be him, and every woman wants to ... well, you know.”
“He sounds very on-brand for a man-whore.”
“If only his conscience didn’t get in the way. His heart is as big as his—”
Maeve’s eyes grow wide. “I got it.”
“But he’s shit at making Negronis. So ... how ’bout it?”
Maeve should have left already. In fact, she never should have come in the first place. “I think a nap will be better than a drink at this point. It was nice to meet you, Hugh Duffy.”
As she walks away, he hollers after her. “Come back tonight and I’ll make you that Negroni!”
“I’ll think about it!” she calls back over her shoulder.
A bold-faced lie. Maeve will never set a foot inside the Thatch. Not tonight. Not ever. If there’s a God in heaven, she will be long gone from this island before Hugh ever tells Briggs he met her.