8
T he banner is false advertising, that’s all there is to it. It needed to be taken down.
Maeve would swear under oath she didn’t go on an evening bike ride intending to steal the sign. Sonya hadn’t returned her texts or snaps. The eco-pod was too quiet, and Maeve was too alone. The only interaction she’d had was Aoife’s Instagram request—she considered ignoring it, but Aoife had been so kind and thoughtful, and the smoothie really did help her jet lag—and there’s only so long a person can stare at the ceiling before she goes crazy. Then she remembered the e-bikes Ivy offers to guests at the Cabbage Patch. It started off innocently, a way to burn energy in the hope of then falling asleep. An island doesn’t have that many places a person could go. She was bound to ride past the Thatch at some point.
The pub was bursting with people. Maeve felt its vibrancy from outside, and yet she wasn’t allowed in. Her loneliness hit a new low. And that damn sign. It was total bullshit. There was no vote. Briggs was crowning himself king. She couldn’t stand for it. Stealing the sign was her parting gift. She may not want the Moorings, but she wasn’t going to let the Thatch lie so blatantly. It’s a matter of principle. She thought the coast was clear, until that kid came out of nowhere. At that point, there was no choice but to finish the job and get away as fast as she could.
Now, as she waits outside the Moorings in daylight, the sign is neatly folded in Maeve’s backpack. She’ll take it back to the States as a souvenir, proof that she got a little crazy while in Ireland.
Maeve takes a few pictures of the pub, knowing that Sonya will want digital documentation of everything. If only she had a picture of Briggs. Then again, she isn’t sure she wants his image on her phone. In a weak moment, she might look at it, like she did with pictures of Zac Efron when she was in junior high. A ridiculous, unattainable heartthrob fantasy.
“On time, as requested.” Eoin climbs out of his car in a fitted blue button-down, slim dark jeans, and a pair of unscuffed Nikes. Maeve snaps a picture of him before he can protest. He’s metropolitan and smooth, a contrast to the rough, rocky island, and he stands out. “You’re welcome to use that picture however you’d like,” he says, and winks.
Sweet Jesus, does this guy ever turn it off? “No sheep today, Asshole?”
“Just trying to keep my client happy.”
“Good. Because I need help, and you’re the only person who can help me.”
“I can do a lot of things for you, Kaminski. But I usually like to buy a woman a drink before we get down to the dirty stuff. How about it?” Eoin gestures toward the pub. “I hear they sell drinks here.”
“You’re one of the most unprofessional people I’ve ever met.”
“Thanks for the compliment.” Eoin’s hand settles on Maeve’s back, and he guides her through the red door.
Inside, nothing has changed. Already, half of the tables are filled with lunch customers. Soon the place will be crawling with people. Maeve recognizes the man from the ferry at the bar. He catches her eye, and she gives him a small wave. Immediately, he is out of his seat and coming toward her.
“I’ll grab us a table,” Eoin says, and scoots away.
The ferry passenger wags a finger at Maeve, a broad grin on his face. “I knew I recognized you. You have your father’s eyes. Why didn’t you tell me you’re Liam Doherty’s daughter?”
“I didn’t want to cause a fuss ... or puke on you,” Maeve says quietly. “And if you would ...” She’s about to ask him not to draw attention to her when he cuts her off and announces her arrival to the whole damn pub. The place lights up like he’s just announced free beer for everyone. For the next ten minutes, Maeve is passed around and introduced to more people than she can keep straight. The only name she retains is Derry, the man from the ferry, because it rhymes. Apparently, he’s a fisherman and provides all the local fish on the menu at the Moorings.
“Your father was my number-one customer for thirty years. Bought anything we caught, even when the pub didn’t need it, just to keep me in business,” he explains. “We all heard about what you did last night. Your father would be damn proud.”
With everyone’s attention on her, Maeve draws a complete blank. What did she do last night?
“The sign!” Derry announces. “Bloody brilliant!”
Maeve downplays the move. “I just don’t think it’s right to advertise a lie.”
The next thing she knows, a pint is shoved into her hand, and Derry yells, “The Thatch has met its match in Maeve Doherty!”
The sheer enthusiasm is so contagious that Maeve doesn’t bother correcting her name. She finds herself chanting along, clinking glasses, celebrating like they just won a battle. And while she knows it’s all for show, and that Derry is just doing his part to keep up the charade of the feud, it’s hard not to get caught up in the ridiculous fun of it.
Eventually Eoin pulls Maeve from the crowd, proclaiming that she needs space to eat so she can keep up her strength for battle. No one argues, and Maeve and Eoin settle themselves into a corner table.
“What’s this about a sign?” Eoin asks. Apparently, he’s the only person in town who hasn’t heard.
Maeve takes a sip and says, “I may have stolen something from the Thatch. It was an impulse grab. It just kind of ... happened.”
“Really?”
Maeve prefers to avoid an interrogation. “You know, you could have warned me what I was walking into, Asshole. ‘By the way, you own a pub, and your family is in a Shakespearean feud with another family on the island, but it’s all fake, so just play along.’ Kind of an important detail.”
“You asked me to leave you alone.” Eoin sits back, his arms crossed over his chest. “I just followed my client’s instructions.”
“Whatever. I’m not here to argue. We have business to discuss.”
“Sounds serious. But I can’t do business until we’ve eaten. I ordered you the fish and chips. Hope that’s OK.”
“What did you get?”
“A salad. Dressing on the side. I have a figure to maintain.” Eoin displays his sculpted chest like it’s a work of art.
“You dress like you walked out of the pages of GQ .” She points at his cocktail. “You drink old-fashioneds. You avoid people at all costs. And I’m guessing you carry earbuds on you at all times.”
“And?”
“You’re obviously a city boy, Asshole! Why do you live here?”
“An old-fashioned is whiskey.”
“Trendy whiskey.”
“Fine.” Eoin rests his elbows on the table. “You got me. I’m new here. In an old sort of way.”
“Meaning?” Maeve pushes her pint to the side and mimics his pose.
“I grew up here. Left when I went to uni. Did some time in London after that. Recently started working for a firm in Cork that just so happened to be handling your father’s estate. They needed someone who knew the island, and I volunteered.”
He relaxes back in his seat again, but Maeve isn’t completely convinced he’s sharing the whole story. She’s about to pry further when a server delivers her fish and chips and his salad. Her hunger beats out her curiosity, and Maeve eats nearly her entire meal. Fifteen minutes later and sufficiently stuffed, she sits back and notices Derry glancing in her direction every few seconds. She gives him two thumbs up, and a blush blooms on his wrinkled cheeks. And right then, for the first time, Maeve feels bad for what she is about to do. She can’t stay on this island. She can’t give up her life in Chicago for a place she doesn’t know. She cannot, after twenty-four years as a Kaminski, suddenly become Maeve Doherty, even if it has been a bit fun to pretend.
“OK, Asshole. This can’t wait any longer,” she says.
Eoin raises a hand to stop her, noting the serious tone. “Let’s take this conversation outside.”
The day has clouded over, but the green hills are vibrant. The cool June air is edged with salt and earth. Maeve takes a picture, but it doesn’t capture the magnitude of the scene. One has to be here, in person. Since she arrived, her skin has been brighter and rosier, even with the jet lag. She hadn’t noticed how sallow she’d gotten from months of hiding in her garden apartment, drinking bad wine, unable to go out because she’s broke.
She follows Eoin down the road toward the sea. “Look, I appreciate what Liam was trying to do, leaving me the pub.”
“And what was he trying to do?”
“To make up for the fact that he wasn’t in my life. But he really doesn’t need to. I never felt abandoned. I have two amazing parents. Liam had nothing to feel guilty about. So while I appreciate the gesture, I can’t take it. This place isn’t my home.”
“What are you saying, Kaminski?”
Maeve takes a deep breath. “I want to sell the pub.”
Eoin’s head bobs. “Liam thought you might say that.” He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out an envelope.
“What is this?”
“Honestly, I don’t know. Liam instructed me not to open it but, in the event you want to sell, to give you the envelope and say you have his blessing, contingent on the completion of what’s inside.” He hands Maeve the sealed envelope.
Maeve is cautious as she peels back the flap. How many surprises are in store for her on this tiny island? Inside is a single piece of paper. Written in neat, masculine block letters is a list.
K NIT AN A RAN C ABLE S CARF
W IN THE A NNUAL F OOTBALL R OUNDERS G RUDGE M ATCH
V ISIT C AIRN I SLAND
“What does this mean?” Maeve shows Eoin the list.
“It means ... to sell the pub, you have to complete the list.”
“Can Liam do that?”
“Technically, yes.”
Maeve reads it again. The three items seem random, disjointed. “Knit an Aran cable scarf? But I don’t know how to knit. And what is the Annual Football Rounders Grudge Match?”
“It’s a ridiculous island tradition.” Eoin shakes his head. “Football rounders is a game. You call it kickball in the States.”
“I have to play kickball?”
“Not just play, Kaminski. You have to win. And there are only two teams that ever play in the grudge match.”
Maeve gasps. “Dohertys and Murphys!”
“A real tourist trap, if you ask me. But it’s the biggest event of the summer. Same time every year. First weekend in July.”
“July!” Any panic Maeve had managed to stave off now ignites with a fury. “I can’t stay here that long. I have things to do. I have a dentist appointment and ... work!”
“If you want to sell the pub, you don’t have a choice.”
But she had a plan . Tell Eoin she wants to sell the pub. Leave the details to him. Go back to Chicago, collect her inheritance when the place sells, and pay off her debt, with money to spare. Enough for her and Sonya to go out any night they want, Maeve’s treat.
“Who normally wins?” Maeve asks. When Eoin doesn’t say, the answer becomes clear. Damn Briggs Murphy! “When was the last time the Dohertys won?”
“I believe it was over five years ago.”
Maeve’s head falls to her hands in an avalanche of dread. Normally, she loves a good list. She never goes to the grocery store without one. To-do lists, wish lists, packing lists ... But lists are meant to clarify and organize. They give structure and reduce stress. This one, however, does not. And the most frustrating part is that the person who could answer all her questions is gone.
“I don’t have enough clothes to be here until July. Or a place to stay. I can’t just leave my life. I have a job! An apartment! I’ll miss the Chicago Pride Parade! I can’t miss the Pride Parade!”
“Calm down, Kaminski.” Eoin grabs her shoulders and tells her to breathe. “Ivy has you booked for the whole summer, free of charge. And as for clothes, I’ve always found them highly overrated.”
“Why would Liam do this?” Maeve exclaims. “Why would he ruin my life after he wanted nothing to do with it?”
“Maybe he didn’t think he was ruining your life. Maybe he was dying, and this was his way of making up for choices he regretted.”
That stabs through Maeve’s self-loathing and pouting. She deflates, her anxiety now making her want to cry. But for herself? Or Liam?
“There is another choice,” Eoin offers. “Don’t sell the pub. Then the list means nothing.”
“I have to sell.” But she can’t admit that she’s in debt because she fell in love with the wrong guy. It’s too pathetic. “Ireland isn’t my home.”
“Well ... then I suggest you start on the list.”
Three tasks. Three seemingly harmless acts, but they feel like mines rigged to blow up her life. “This last one,” Maeve says. “What is Cairn Island?”
Eoin points off the coast to a tiny island, like a broken piece of Inishglass perched a mile or so away. “That’s Cairn Island.”
“It’s not that far.” Maeve pulls on Eoin’s arm. “We could go there now!”
“And how do you suggest we get out there, Kaminski? Swim?”
“Isn’t there a ferry or something?”
“Ferries don’t go there.”
“But I took one to this island. Can’t we use the same one?”
“That’s not how it works.”
“Then we’ll borrow one.”
Eoin’s eyebrows rise. “Do you know how to drive a boat?”
“No. Don’t you?”
“Do I look like I know how to drive a boat?” In truth, Eoin looks like he’s used to being driven, most likely in a big black SUV with tinted windows. “Do you see that water?” He points at the angry whitecaps between Inishglass and Cairn Island. “It’ll eat us alive. And even if we made it, and that’s a big if, where would we dock the boat?”
“But I have to go. It’s on the list.” She points to it.
“My suggestion: start with a safer activity, like knitting. At least that won’t kill you.” Maeve’s shoulders slump at the sarcasm, and Eoin laughs. “Come on, Kaminski. I’ll let you buy me another drink. Take a day to adjust. You can start on this list tomorrow.”
Standing outside the Moorings, Maeve assesses this place that she had no clue existed, and that now runs her life. This island she never intended to visit, now her home for the foreseeable future. If she wants to clear her debt and get back to her life, her only choice is to settle in and work her way through this. And if that’s the case ...
Maeve opens her backpack and pulls out the stolen banner. “Hey, Asshole,” she says. “I’m gonna need your help hanging this up.”