Chapter Two
Aidan
I don’t have the heart to tell the woman who stormed in like a hurricane that we’re not open for another fifteen minutes. On my way in, I must have forgotten to lock the front door, but who needs a pint at this hour? I know all the folks who pop into my da’s pub—the loyal regulars. Most of them remember me from twenty-eight years back when I was toddling around here in nappies. They’ve their dedicated times that they saunter in for a drink, and they stick to those habits like the law.
“Nice to meet you too, Aidan.” She flashes a mischievous grin that shakes something inside me.
She’s clearly American, based on how she talks. I sift through past conversations with my best friend. She has a half sister coming into town for the wedding any day now, but did Cara say that was today? Tomorrow, I think, for breakfast. Besides, that woman’s name is Juniper, not Marissa. Of that I’m certain.
We sometimes get tourists who have the sheer fortune of making a pit stop in Ballygrá on the way to the coast. Or, less frequently, ones who did dedicated research to unearth an old family pub like ours.
This woman looks and acts different, though. She’s not gleefully ordering a pint of Guinness, and there’s no guidebook glued to her palm. She’s soaked, so I see no harm in giving her a drink.
“What’s brought you here?” I ask.
“It’s kind of a long story.”
“Well, you’re in luck, ’cause I’ve got nothing but time.”
Marissa glances out the window and bites the corner of her lower lip.
“No pressure, of course,” I say. “Normally, we get people who’ve had one too many and take any opportunity to overshare. Go on, be mysterious if you prefer.”
She takes my invitation to not talk about whatever’s troubling her and nods to the front wall instead. “Is that…sorry, is that a sheep on your dartboard?”
“Oh, aye.” I chuckle as I recall the day my brother printed that photo and taped it there. “That sheep was a menace to society.”
“So you throw darts at him?”
“No. I mean, yes we do.” Christ, I sound like a lunatic. “I promise, no sheep were harmed in the making of that dartboard. Funny story, actually.”
“Okay.” She sits up straight and folds her arms on the counter. “You said you had nothing but time.”
“And you?”
“I’ve got enough time for you to explain yourself.”
“Well, when I was maybe twelve or thirteen, objects started going missing from people’s gardens. Small things. Deck—” I stumble over the word and take a breath to slow down. “D-decorative gnomes, potted plants, clothes drying on the line. That sort of stuff. The incidents increased to where they brought the Gardaí into the schools to talk to the kids. The police. There was a clip in the newspaper about it too, all about people losing their garden decorations and bedsheets without a trace.”
She listens intently as I find my stride in the story, and the amused curve of her lips draws me in. I regale her with how one Saturday afternoon, someone disturbed the summertime calm by yelling down the main street.
“Everyone hears, ‘Thief, thief!’ and they poke their heads out of the windows to witness a chubby ram tottering down the road with boxers in its mouth. Right behind it is old Mr. Langley, buck naked, arse out, waving his arms like a lunatic.”
This prompts an eruption of laughter from her, and the sound gives me a heady feeling.
“Was that his only pair?” she asks with a giggle.
“An excellent question that we may never have the answer to.”
“What was going on?”
I smile, pleased she’s interested in hearing more. “Turns out, this clever ram had a tucked-away spot on the far side of a hill—a grove where he’d been collecting all the stolen treasure. Every family in town had something there.”
“Did you?”
“My mam’s favorite dress.”
“Sounds like this sheep had style.”
I exhale an easy laugh. “Absolutely. People stopped by and salvaged what they could from the heap, and most forgot about the spot altogether.” My hands beg for something to do to not look awkward in front of her. I shove them both in my pockets. “My brother and I thought the place was special, though. Somewhere we could hide away and get up to mischief with friends, or girlfriends, when we got older. Escape the constant watch of folks in town.” Good memories of him send a dull ache into my chest. “Growing up where everyone knows everyone means privacy’s a valuable resource.”
“And the sheep?”
“Exiled,” I reply, and her jaw drops. “Humanely. We’re not monsters. He lived off the rest of his days at a farm where the fencing’s sturdier, I imagine.”
“Good. I’d hate for him to walk in here and see his face up on that board.” Her response comes out dry, but her smile tells me she’s in on the joke.
I need more of this—joy, joking, anything to make the workday less monotonous. Serving drinks at the pub isn’t how I imagined my life at this age, and I’m not suited for it the way Michael was. Still, it’s the right choice—for Mam and Da, and for my brother. He always put family first.
But this woman’s mere presence almost makes me forget I’m here. I toss a towel over my shoulder and wonder how long I can tempt her to stick around with drinks, but it looks like I don’t have to bother. Her glass sits in the same spot, untouched and full to the brim.
“Everything all right there?”
“Yeah. No. I’m not sure.” She angles in as if to tell me a sweet little secret. Like a reflex, I shuffle closer too. “What would you do if you had one of those moments coming up where you knew…you just knew your life was about to change? And your brain is telling you to run the other way, to do the thing you’ve always done. But you can’t, and everything will be different, and you don’t know if you’re ready.”
“Well, I’d…Christ.” I comb a hand through my hair, not sure how to respond. If I’d known what would happen to my brother, how it would rip my family apart at the seams, what would I have done? “None of the big, life-changing moments I’ve had were ones I could plan for.”
“Yeah, it’s probably a weird question anyway.”
“No, no, I understand what you’re asking, I think.” Focus. That wholesome all-American accent distracts me to the point that I have to reboot my brain to form a response. The way this woman’s voice mesmerizes me means I’ll have to watch out for Juniper when she’s here—no need to be caught drooling over my best friend’s long-lost half sibling.
“Well,” I continue, “I suppose…I’d go into that moment ready for the shift. Embrace it. It’s lucky to know beforehand that your life won’t be the same, because sometimes change happens without you preparing. So enjoy it, go all in.”
Marissa seems to give genuine consideration to my advice, but I know I’m a hypocrite. A man whose days look the same, doling out sage advice on epic life changes. If anything, I want to prevent change. There should be some way to pin an asterisk to what I say. No doubt my ex would laugh at hearing me talk about embracing transformation when I wouldn’t even follow her to Dublin.
“You sound like my best friend.” She tucks her dark brown hair behind her ears, though some strands promptly slip out. “Did she tell you to say that?”
“Take my input with a grain of salt. What am I but a lowly barkeep?” I say the last bit with a flourish of sarcasm, but the words taste bitter.
“You’re a photographer, aren’t you?” She nods to the back corner of the pub. She caught me flipping through pictures this morning, so I’m not as smooth as I’d like to think.
“That? That’s just…” I trail off, picking up my Nikon from the counter. “It’s a hobby.”
“What kind of photography?”
“Oh…landscape, street photos. Depends on the location.” The inkling of that intrepid photographer I want to be stirs, combined with a hint of dread. This week, I’ve an interview for the master’s program where I’ll have to talk about myself, my work, and what I’ve done since putting my studies on hold.
“Can I see?”
“Sure.” My thumb rotates the camera dial in circles, and I show a few photographs to her while her big brown eyes widen with awe. More of her chin-length hair falls out from behind her ears, bringing a whiff of her floral shampoo with it.
“Not my best work,” I say, ignoring the scent, “but it’s what I could catch this morning.”
“You’re fantastic. For just a hobbyist, that is.” She grins again, boosting my ego. “How long have you been doing photography?”
The faint sound of footsteps rises from the storeroom downstairs. No doubt that’s Da. My shift has gotten derailed in the best way possible, but that means I’ve yet to dry all the glasses. The pub’s not open.
“Uh, since I was a teen.”
“Only a hobby, though?”
I shrug in response, using indifference to will our conversation in a different direction.
“Not many bartenders carry a camera to work, but plenty of photographers bring their cameras everywhere they go, like you.”
He’ll walk in any minute, and I hate him a little for squashing this moment for me—this tiny blip of time where someone sees me for what I’m good at, not simply as Aidan McCarthy, the son of a man who owns a local pub in County Kerry, or as the younger brother of the town’s favorite bartender.
“You there?” Da’s voice rumbles in the back office above some paper rustling.
“I’m here,” I call out, shoving the camera below the sight line of the bar—a rapid motion that the woman’s eyes track.
“Need you downstairs to help me move up a few more of the kegs ’fore we open.”
“Down in a second.”
The thud of his footsteps fade, and what luck that he didn’t waltz in here. I’m in no mood for an argument, which our conversations almost always turn into these days.
“You’re not actually open, are you? Oh my god, I’m so sorry.”
“I don’t mind, if—”
“ So annoying of me. I barged in and—”
“Really, stay,” I tell her. What’s another ten minutes?
“Oh shit.” Her tone shifts as she surveys the floor. She sets a duffel on the barstool and digs through it. “My purse. Where’s my purse?” Her voice sounds strained, and her hands are frantic as she searches the area around the bar. She lifts her duffel bag and pats the seat, as if the correct motions will make the item appear out of thin air, like a magic trick. “My passport .”
“Is it on the ground?”
She looks at her feet, then shakes her head, eyes wild. A quick rummage in her coat pockets produces only a few crumpled euros and a folded-up paper. “Shit.”
“We’ll get it. We’ll find it. You might’ve dropped it on the way here. Can’t be far.”
“Mhmm. Yeah.”
“Have a seat.” I set my hand on the bar top mere millimeters shy of hers, hoping to calm her. “I’ll grab the phone from the back, and we can make a few calls. Okay?”
She nods, and I allow myself to fall into those dark brown eyes for a split second before fetching the landline. When I return from the office, she’s gone.