Chapter 4
KANE
Friday night dinner service at the Irish Brogue is always busy.
I typically spend most of my time in the kitchen, but I keep getting drawn to the front of my place, the sound of music and laughter drifting in from the open door at Kavanaugh’s.
It reminds me of how the other pub used to sound in its glory days, while the Irish Brogue struggled when my father ran it, or more accurately, when he almost ran it into the ground.
I’m still hanging around the hostess area when my grandmother walks in with a basket on her arm, which can only mean one thing.
“Gramma! What are you doing here?” I bend down to give her a kiss on the cheek.
“Just bringing my grandson some of my famous Irish soda bread.”
“Thanks. What will it take to convince you to hand over your recipe, so I can put it on the menu? This is an Irish pub, you know.”
“Oh honey, you know my commercial baking days are behind me. Besides, old-fashioned soda bread is not something I’d expect to see on your menu.”
I know she’s right about that. My decision to revamp the bar into a modern gastro-pub is what turned the business around. I can’t let nostalgia cloud that vision now.
My grandmother’s face suddenly drains of color and I follow her line of sight. Quinn is standing in the open doorway of Kavanaugh’s smiling and greeting customers.
“Kane, who is that girl? And why is Connor’s bar open? I thought it closed down when he passed.”
“Are you okay, Gramma? Do you want to sit down?” I take her arm gently to help guide her to a chair.
She shakes me off and moves her head back and forth as if to clear a fog from her brain. She then gives me a look; the same one she used to give me when I was a kid trying to put something past her.
“Answer my question, young man. Who is that?”
I look out the door again, even though I know exactly who it is.
Quinn is a vision, her long reddish-brown hair loosely curled.
She’s wearing an emerald green dress that matches her eyes and brown leather boots.
Her smile lights up the entire block as she greets her customers.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen a woman so beautiful.
“That’s Quinn. Old man Kavanaugh’s granddaughter. He left the bar to her.”
I notice the slight quiver of my grandmother’s hand as she turns away, mumbling something about “history repeating itself” before hurrying outside of the bar.
“Gramma, wait…”
She either doesn’t hear me or she‘s ignoring me because she doesn’t look back.
I stand just outside the pub to make sure she makes it home safely, watching her toddle around the corner to her apartment at the rear of the building.
I can’t shake an ominous feeling about the emotions playing out on her face that hint at buried memories and a connection to the past having to do with the Kavanaughs.
What aren’t you telling me, Gramma? I wonder before going back inside.
Later that night, I’m sitting in the empty pub, doors locked and lights down low.
I reach under the bar and take out my private stash of Jameson 18 Years Old Limited Reserve, my favorite whiskey.
As I sip on the mellow-tasting spirits with subtle traces of vanilla, I pore over the pub’s books and the acquisition plan for Kavanaugh’s Korner.
Purchasing Kavanaugh’s is just good business, I tell myself for the thousandth time, even as Quinn’s determined green eyes and feisty spirit haunt my thoughts.