Chapter 2
KANE
As the lights flicker to life in Kavanaugh’s for the first time since Connor’s passing, my fingers, calloused from years of being hands-on in my family’s pub, absently polish a whiskey glass.
I recall the conversations with the old man that started cordially enough, although he stubbornly refused every offer to buy him out.
The familiar ache of my family’s expectations weighs heavily on me as I glance over to the side table where the expansion plans are.
The rolled up document details all of the changes that would finally merge the two historic pubs, which has long been the dream of my dear grandmother, Eileen.
My father’s motivation for merging the bars always felt more like a hostile takeover, rather than a labor of love.
Since the lights are on, that must mean Connor’s granddaughter is finally here. I heard through the grapevine she was coming. I figured once old man Kavanaugh died, I’d finally have a shot at buying the business from his estate, but then I found out there was an heir. And that’s not all I heard.
Leave it to the small town gossip mill and you’ll find out more than you need or want to know, and then some.
Especially once the pints start flowing.
Deputy Finn Fitzgerald, a regular at both establishments, is worse than the little old ladies in the Pelican Point garden club.
And I think he’s sweet on Maeve, the long-time bar keep at Kavanaugh’s.
When Finn stopped by after shift the other night, he told me about the “city girl” granddaughter who inherited Kavanaugh’s.
Seems she’s a hot-shot marketing executive in Boston.
That doesn’t mean she knows a damn thing about running a tavern.
Either way, I’m not one to back down from a challenge.
Call it the competitor in me. I still want that bar.
I tell myself it’s just business as I stride across the alley to Kavanaugh’s.
I haven’t dared to approach the place since the son-of-a-bitch chased me out of it with an old rusty sword.
I whisper a quick prayer and make the Catholic sign of the cross as a confessional for speaking ill of the dead before knocking on the door.
Time to face the new competition head on.
Suddenly, the door swings open. Standing before me with a scowl on her face rivaling old man Kavanaugh’s is an auburn-haired beauty wearing a vintage dress.
She looks like one of the singers on the Irish folk song record album my grandmother loves to listen to, rather than the corporate marketing executive from Boston everyone’s been talking about.
I hold out a hand in introduction. “I’m Kane O—”
“I know who you are.”
I lower my hand and flash her the signature smile that usually charms all the ladies. It’s obvious she has no intention of returning the greeting or the smile. “I just wanted to welcome you to the block. From one family pub owner to another.”
She rubs her crinkled forehead as if the mere sight of me gives her a headache.
“I know why you’re here, so you can save your welcome. And your sales pitch. This bar will remain in the Kavanaugh family forever. It’s not for sale at any price.”
Then she promptly slams the door in my face.
Nice to meet you, too, Quinn Kavanaugh.