Fuck it - it’s not like anybody here knows me…
When the song ends, I get the lounge girl’s attention and order three more pints. Then, I clear my voice and get to my feet before I can think about it and chicken out. I begin to sing a traditional Irish folk song that I learned at school. My voice is shaky at first, but then it smoothes out. It’s a haunting tune called She Moved Through The Fair but I change the she to he.
I breathe deeply between verses. I used to have a good voice at school, and I can only hope that it’s still okay. So far so good, if the expressions around me are any guide. It’s as though someone else is directing me, and I shift my body round so that I turn in the direction of the bodhrán player and sing to his back.
The lounge girl sets our pints down on the table and then drops the third one over to the bodhrán player. His face comes into view as he turns to her, the forehead creased in a question. I sing on.
Ridlee is looking up at me, her jaw dropped. She mouths the words: what the fuck. The lounge girl is nodding in my direction. The bodhrán player turns around and looks right at me, and he is gorgeous! I have an all over body blush now.
“It won’t be long now, my love, ’til our wedding day…” I finish the song and sit back down. The music starts up again, and he raises his pint in salute. I match the gesture.
“Um, hello? You sing?” hisses Ridlee.
“A little,” I say, my eyes still glued to the bodhrán player.
“Are you okay, Erin? You’ve gone all dreamy and goo-goo eyed.”
“Mmmm?” I can’t focus on her or what she’s saying. I only have eyes and ears for this man in front of me.
The musicians stop for a break. He stands up with his pint in his hand and comes toward our table.
“Evening,” he says.
“Evening.” I respond.
“Thanks for the drink.”
“You’re welcome.” I rack my brains for something cool and sexy to say. Nothing comes, so I say, “You play very well.”
“And you sing very well.”
We just stare at each other, smiling. My heart is racing and my palms are getting sweaty. There is electricity fizzing between us. Could this be Mr. Holiday Fling? ‘Cause if it is, I am so ready to be flung.
“Eh, Mr. Bow-wow player, my name is Ridlee, and this here is my good friend, Erin.”
He smiles at me more. I smile back, more.
“Micheál,” he says.
“Me-haw?” repeats Ridlee, confused again. “That’s an odd name. Do you work with donkeys?”
“Mi-Hall, Ridlee. It’s Irish for Michael.” I tell her dreamily, my eyes still glued to the bodhrán player’s.
“Will you join us?” I ask him.
“I’d love to.” He sits.
Ridlee is elbowing me in the ribs.
“Cut it out!” I hiss at her. I turn back to Micheál, smiling.
Things are definitely looking up.
CHAPTER EIGHT
RIDLEE
THE MUSIC IN THIS PLACE is unbelievable. Who would’ve thought a group of people playing such simple instruments could create this amazing sound? I’m once again getting that feeling that I’ve been thrown back in time a couple hundred years or so with a dash of faerie magic thrown in for good measure. The only thing spoiling the effect is the jukebox in the corner of the room. If anyone so much as dares to lift a coin in its direction I’m going to smash its neon glass parts to bits. I swear, I’ll do it.
Erin’s too busy flirting her lady balls off with the hot drummer to appreciate the music and ambiance in this place. Typical. I can’t blame her though; even when the instrument is only as big as a dinner plate, the drummer is still the sexiest guy in the room.
My eyes scan the space as it continues to fill up. The beers are going down easier and easier, almost making me want to call Uncle Miley just so I can share the good news. Nothing would make him happier than to turn me into a raging Guinness-aholic. I’m pretty sure I’m halfway there already.
As I lift my second pint to my lips to finish it off, I notice an old man in the corner who appears to be holding a private audience of sorts. He has a big, hardcover log book out in front of him and the people sitting around him are held in rapt attention as he runs his finger down the page and looks around the room. Is he taking notes? Is he a reporter? A medieval tax man?
“Who’s that guy?” I ask, nudging Erin.
She ignores me. She’s too busy making goo-goo eyes at the drummer who appears to have permanently abandoned his post in the band. Since she rarely falls for any guy, usually too busy working to bother, I leave her alone. She needs to get laid like nobody’s business and I’m not going to be the one to stand in the way of that. I wonder what Mrs. O'Grady will think about a banging headboard waking her up at two in the morning. Hopefully she takes her hearing aids out after midnight.
I get up and wander over in the old man’s direction, ostensibly to get a fresh beer but really planning to eavesdrop. Maybe he knows an estate lawyer I can talk to in town about Erin’s little problem. He looks like a local.
I’m just a few feet away, and I can hear him talking. Now if he could just do it in plain English, I’d be all set. I’m catching about one in every ten words. The last few that made it into my brain were aye, fair match, and romance.
Say what? I sidle closer, winking at the barman who somehow knew I was after a Guinness and set it down in front of me without me having to say a thing. This old man in the corner is holding court over romance? What planet am I on? Since when do old dudes in tweed talk about love?
I overhear the rough-looking man sitting in front of him. “Aye, but will she adapt to life on the farm is me question. Ye know I cannot leave for a honeymoon.”
The old man pats him on the hand. “Trust the process, lad. And ye got yer brother to see ti things when you’re gone. It’s one and done, it is, off to the grand old U.S. of A. for a week of traipsing around the city, and then the life of wedded bliss awaits.” He chuckles and the ten thousand wrinkles in his face crease, making me think he’s already passed his centennial, possibly even a few years back.
“Ye’ve done right by me brother and me da, so I’ll put my trust in you, Mr. O’Henry.”
The name rings a bell. Where have I heard it before?
“Are ye lost, Lass?”
I’m so busy staring at his face I don’t realize he’s talking to me until the long awkward silence between us has stretched to breaking. The farmer guy looks over his shoulder at me and seems embarrassed to be caught sitting there. The other onlookers fade back and blend into the nearby crowd.
“Um, me? No. I’m not lost. I’m just curious what you’re doing over here.” This is the beer talking. The one small part of me that’s still sober wants to slink away for being caught eavesdropping on what was obviously a pretty private conversation.
“I’m match-making.” The old man raises a pint in my direction and takes a drink.
The farmer gets up to leave, and I waste no time in taking his seat. I’m a few inches lower to the ground than Mr. O’Henry now, which makes me feel like a supplicant to the king.
“What can I do for ye?” he asks, folding his hands neatly in his lap. His suit is brown and from last century. Possibly even the eighteen-hundreds.