“Whatever’s bugging you. Ever since Michaél left the B&B yesterday, you’ve been moaning and groaning and sighing and whining.”
“I haven’t whined once.”
“Bull. Come on, I’m only staying out here for five minutes, max. My tits are freezing. My nipples are going to break right off.”
“So much for an Indian Irish summer, eh?” Erin tries to smile, but it doesn’t last long; there’s just a flash of it and it’s gone again.
“Four minutes,” I warn. “You have four minutes left.”
Erin huffs out a loud breath. “Okay, fine. You want to know what’s bugging me? I’ll tell you. Yesterday, Michaél and I had a fab time. He taught me how to surf, shared a homemade picnic lunch with me, including a delicious soup made by his own fair hands, and then he proceeded to tell me about this dive bar that he’s inherited half of and how he’s going to use his part of the proceeds from its sale to get out of debt!” She stops and looks at me, yelling the last part. “His last name is … wait for it… fucking Flanagan! Why did I not think to ask his last name?”
I stop and face her, nodding as I carefully think my way through her conundrum. “Huh. Fucking Flanagan. How unfortunate for him.” This does add a wrinkle to our little plan, but as far as I’m concerned, it makes no difference. We continue forward as if we don’t know him. It’s just business.
Erin nudges me and forces me to continue walking with her. “I feel like a fraud. A scammer of the highest order. I have to tell him the truth. Tell him the bar’s changed.”
I grab her shirt sleeve and stop her with a yank. “No, ma’am, you do not.”
“Why?” She’s looking at me, near tears.
“Because. It’s his duty to do the due diligence, not yours. You told him the facts: there’s a bar in Boston that he owns half of. You made a fair offer to buy him out and it’s his job to figure out if our offer is acceptable to him or not. This is how it works. This is the law.”
“Buuut…” Aaaaand cue the whining.
“No. Huh-uh. But nothing. I don’t want to hear it, Erin.” I’m getting peeved now. “Seriously. I’m your lawyer and I’m telling you to listen to me. You think because you surfed with this guy and sampled his super soup that you’re sitting on the same side of the table, but you’re not. You’re not, do you hear me? You are on opposite sides of the bargaining table.”
She’s still whining. “But I don’t want to be on opposite sides of the table. Why can’t we do this as a team?”
My jaw drops open. “Holy shit, woman, did you just ask me why you can’t make this complete stranger a partner in your business? Or is that the blood pudding fucking up my hearing?”
“He’s not a complete stranger.” She can’t meet my eyes.
“Yes, in fact, he is. After we do this deal you will never see him again. Do you hear me? Never.” I yank on her hand for emphasis, trying to get through to her. Apparently she has way too much dick on the brain. “Babe, I hear what you’re feeling, okay? You had a great time with him. He seems like a super guy.”
She interrupts. “He is super.”
“Sure. For now. But he’s Irish and he wants to stay in Ireland. Do you want some guy you had sex with one time to be calling the shots over your bar when you’re in Boston?”
“No.” She admits that unwillingly, but admit it she does. It gives me hope she’ll listen to good sense.
“Can he, or can he not, go online and see what the bar looks like for himself, without even going to Boston?” I stare her down, forcing her to look at me.
“Yes. I suppose he could.”
“And can he, or can he not, read all the reviews online about the place?”
“Yes, sure. I suppose.”
“And can he, or can he not, click on Google images and see the crowds of people dancing around and swinging beer mugs in the bar?”
She shrugs. “How do I know?”
“Stop. Okay? Just stop. You’re being ridiculous. If this guy is such an idiot that he doesn’t even bother to do that much, then you certainly do not want him as a business partner.”
“I suppose that makes sense. But…”
I wave my hand in her face. “No. I’m not hearing your buts. Your buts are coming from your vagina.”
Her eyes bug out and she slaps my arm. “Ridlee! What are you saying? Are you crazy?”
I shrug. “No. I know a woman suffering under a dick’s thrall, that’s all. You’ve got it bad for him. He must be magic in the sack, that’s all I’ve got to say.”
She turns towards the B&B and walks with slow steps. “It’s not just that. Sure, he was fantastic and all, but he’s also just fun to be with. I want to hear everything he has to say.” She clenches her fists and folds her arms up in front of her as her passion for this guy fills her. “I want to breathe him in. I want to learn about his favorite things and his most hated things. His fears, his desires, his dreams.” She sighs as her hands fall limply at her sides. “I suppose I have fallen under his thrall, but I’m not sure it’s his dick doing the hypnotizing.”
I put my arm around her shoulders and hug her to me as I pick up our pace. It’s really frigging cold out here. I don’t know what happened to our Irish Indian summer, but it appears to have taken a vacation from this place. “Come on, sweetie. Let me get you a cuppa cha.”
“I’d rather have a beer.”
“Not until lunchtime. We’re supposed to get a response back about our offer today, so we’ll drink then. We’ll celebrate Irish-style.”
“Or be miserable Irish-style.”
“Try not to forget what your plans were before we came here,” I say as we round the corner to the B&B’s front door. I push open the small garden gate.
“What?” she says bitterly. “Trick this Irish idiot into selling out his half of his inheritance?”
“No.” I use my Auntie Ridlee voice, as if I’m taking to a young child. “Your plans were to take your inheritance and build it into your empire, using your ingenuity and cash to parlay what used to be a hole in the wall into your legacy.” I pause at Mrs. O’Grady’s front door and take her by the shoulders, staring into her eyes. “Without his buy-out, you won’t even have the power to do anything with that place, right? Not without his say-so. And what if he doesn’t agree with what you want to do? You’ll be stuck with the bar the way it is. And then you won’t be able to expand.”
She shrugs.
“And no bank is going to give you a loan with the economy the way it is and with you having a business partner in Ireland with a failing business of his own to prop up. So you have no choice. You have to do this. You need to own the bar free and clear so you can run it the way you want to.”
She looks down at the ground. “I know. I’m just … sad about it. It doesn’t feel right.”
I push open the door and pat her on the back. “Nothing involving lawyers ever feels right. Trust me, I know. Everyone’s a loser in some way or another when the lawyers get involved. That’s life. Come on. Let’s go eat some toast.”
“I don’t want any toast,” she whines, stomping her feet into the kitchen.
I shove her down into a seat and throw some cold, dry bread on her plate. “Eat or I’m going to force it down your gullet. Mrs. O’Grady’s right. You need breakfast.” I grab my paper and hide behind it once more, praying my sentimental friend won’t get it in her sappy brain to call Michaél and confess everything he might want to know about the Pot O’ Gold. I meant what I said to her. If he has half a brain, he’ll do the research; he’ll ask me for financials and I’ll happily give them to him. He’ll do a little Googling so he can see what he’s selling. And if he doesn’t? Oh well. She doesn’t need an anchor like that idiot holding her back from realizing her hard-won dreams.