“Donal,” she says sadly.
My mind kicks into gear. Time for an intervention!
I swerve the car into a lay-by with a grotto cut into the wall. We skid to a stop, throwing gravel round us. I cut the engine and turn to my friend.
Ridlee looks at me, shocked. “What the hell, Erin?!”
“This has got to stop.”
“What?”
“All this mooning over men! This is not us, Rid. We’re not like those pathetic girls who give up their dreams the minute Mr. Dreamy comes along. Lookit … I like Micheál and you like Donal…”
“No I don’t… ” she tries to interrupt me.
“Yes. You do. A lot. And I can see why. He’s cute and nice an’ all. But he and Micheál are just cute guys with cute accents, living in this gorgeous place. It’s classic holiday romance stuff. We have hot, exciting lives back in Boston. We have bright futures. I have a five-year plan. Let’s just get this inheritance business sorted, see the lads one more time for kicks, and get the flock outta here. Agreed?” I put out my pinky for a pinky promise.
“Agreed!” she says smiling again and wrapping her finger round mine.
“Who’s that?” she asks nodding toward a statue of the Virgin Mary in the grotto.
“That’s Mary.” I say, starting the engine again.
“What’s her story?”
“She gave up her dreams for the ultimate Mr. Dreamy and remained a virgin forever,” I pull out onto the road and high tail it into Lisdoonvarna.
Ten minutes later, we are sitting opposite Cathal O’Mooney and Ridlee has her lawyer hat on.
“Good morning. And what can I do for you fine lassies on this fine morning?” asks Mr. O’Mooney, indicating that we should take a seat. His office is small and old fashioned and smells a bit musty.
This should be straightforward enough. I sit down, smile in his general direction, and let Ridlee do her thing.
She too sits and places in front of her on the desk a leather binder holding all the facts of the inheritance and Margaret’s will. She does not open it, but instead, takes out her ipad and starts working from that.
“Aha!” exclaims Mr. O’Mooney. “You’ve got one of those new fangled tablet things. Sure, isn’t it funny how we’re all so backward in coming forward; sure, they used to use tablets in Moses’ time.” He laughs uproariously at his own joke.
Ridlee gives me a look that says, Craaazy… before addressing him. “Now, Mr. O’Money…”
“Moon.”
“I’m sorry?” Ridlee cocks her head like a swimmer trying to get water out of her ear.
“It’s ‘Oh-Moon-Eee,” he explains congenially, “not money.”
“Right. Okay, so, in any case, we, that is, my client, Ms. O’Neill, is looking for a certain Padraig Flanagan on a matter of some urgency. We were hoping that you might be able to help us track him down.”
Mr. O’Mooney rubs his chin, apparently thinking. “That’s a mighty common name round these parts, Miss. Do you have any other information about this fella?”
Ridlee turns to me, eyebrows arched.
It’s my turn. We’ve rehearsed what we’re willing to divulge and what we’re not. “Eh, he was a friend of my grandmother’s, Margaret Daly. They both lived here in Lisdoonvarna before the war.”
“The Civil War?” he asks, leaning forward in his seat.
“No, the Second World War,” I say somewhat perplexed.
“Ah, sure, that was the English an’ all. That wasn’t our war a t’all a t’all.” He stares at the floor as though lost in some old memory. He can’t be more than fifty or sixty at most himself. There was no way he was even around back then. I am starting to get the idea that this guy knows more then he’s letting on.
“To return to the matter at hand, Mr. Oh-Moon-Eee,” interjects Ridlee, “do you happen to know of any Padraig Flanagan or maybe some of his descendants living in the Lisdoonvarna area who might have known my client’s grandmother?”
“I do.”
Ridlee looks at me, her eyes narrowed as if to say, what’s this guy’s game? She turns back to him and says, somewhat sarcastically, “Do you think maybe you could share that information with us?”
“Well now,” he says, shifting in his seat, his large belly straining against his suit pants, “I think I’d like to know a little bit more about the nature of your enquiry before I go givin’ out confidential information willy, nilly.”
“Are you representing Padraig Flanagan, Mr. Moon-Eee?” asks Ridlee, getting pissed.
“O,” he says, lacing his fingers together and settling them on the desk.
“Oh, you are representing him, or Oh you’re not?” asks Ridlee, on fire now.
“O-Moon-Eee,” he says, the corners of his mouth twitching almost imperceptibly.
“Are you playing with me, Mr. Oh- Moon - Eee?” she asks, clearly annoyed. “Because if you are, I’ll find another lawyer to help in this matter and you can say goodbye to any fee that might have been coming your way.” She pops her iPad in her handbag and goes to stand up.
I look up uncertainly. As far as I know this is the only solicitor in Lisdoonvarna.
“Ah now, Miss? Sorry, what was your last name?”
“Taylor. And it’s Ms., not Miss.”
“Ms. Taylor, I apologise, please have a seat. Would you ladies like a cup of tea? Or maybe a coffee?”
“No, thank you,” says Ridlee, sitting down slowly, “we’d rather just get this matter settled.”
“Of course," he says, then turns to me. ”You spoke of your grandmother in the past tense, Ms. O’Neill. Has she passed recently?”
“Yes, a little over a month ago. In Boston, where she lived most of her life.”
“My condolences. I didn’t know her personally, but I have heard good things about her. Lisdoonvarna is a small town; everybody knows everybody else and their business too, if you know what I mean.” He raises an eyebrow, all business now. “Unfortunately, Padraig Flanagan has also passed away.”
“Oh,” I say, perhaps a bit too brightly.
He puts on a pair of glasses and flips open a laptop I hadn’t noticed on the desk. The bumbling solicitor act is all over and he taps on the keypad, quick as lightning. “He does, however, have one grandson living.” He looks at Ridlee over the top of his reading glasses. “Does the matter now concern him?”
“Yes,” says Ridlee. “My client was left a bar — a pub — in her grandmother’s will, but it was also left to Padraig Flanagan, or his descendants should he no longer be living.” She opens the leather folder and takes out a document with photos of the bar as it was before the renovations. “This is the bar here.” She hands him the paper. “It’s called the Pot O’Gold and while it’s not much, my client has worked and lived there for a significant part of her life and would like to remain, running the pub. To that end, she would like to offer Padraig Flanagan what we consider a fair price for his half of the pub.” She passes the solicitor another piece of paper with the offer on it.
I watch him carefully, but he has a poker face; his expression gives nothing away.
“Okay, well, leave it with me. I’ll contact Padraig Flanagan’s grandson and explain the offer and get back to you as soon as he gives me his answer.” He’s gazing at the photos of the bar, his nose scrunched ever so slightly.
I know I shouldn’t but I can’t help but add, sadly. “I know it doesn’t look like much, but it’s my home.”
He looks up and smiles reassuringly.
Ridlee continues. “So, here are all the documents pertaining to the business and the apartment attached to it. Obviously, as the boy’s attorney, the responsibility of due diligence lies with you, Mr. O’Mooney. I look forward to hearing from you.” Ridlee uses the clipped tone she reserves for when she’s being all legal an’ shit. I have to bite my lip so I don’t break out in a huge smile.
After receiving Mr. O’Mooney’s assurances that he’ll get right on the matter, we walk out of the solicitor’s office, all nonchalant. “Pub, pub, pub, pub, pub, pub, pub,” I sing-song, hooking my arm through Ridlee’s and guiding her toward the nearest public house.