Half an hour later we arrive at Bunratty Castle and Folk Park where we spend the afternoon wandering around. The medieval castle is magnificent, and as we walk from room to room I try to imagine what it would have been like living in this place centuries ago. I am lost in my own little reverie when Ridlee’s phone rings. She moves out of the room to take the call. I hold my breath, watching. Standing in the door frame to the massive dining hall she holds one finger to her ear so that she can hear better. She nods, once, then twice quickly. She looks up at me, smiling and giving me a thumbs up. I smile back.
So, Micheál has accepted the offer. Great. Ridlee and I can book tickets this evening and head back to Boston as soon as there are seats available. My five-year plan is back on track. I’ll be able to finish the rest of the renovations and within a year buy another property to expand the franchise. I’m happy. I really am. It’s just…
“We did it!” Ridlee high-fives me before continuing in her grand announcement voice. “You are the proud, and more importantly sole owner of Boston’s finest Irish theme bar, The Pot O’Gold!”
“Yay!!” I say, mustering enthusiasm I don’t quite feel.
“Erin!” snaps my lawyer.
“Whaaat?” I ask, all whiney again.
“Don’t! Drop it! It’s over with that guy, you hear me? I swear to God, Erin… Don’t you dare mess with this. This is your future we’re talking about here. Repeat after me: This is my future.”
Obediently, I repeat, “This is my future.”
“Now, let’s go celebrate!” she screams, so that other visitors to the castle turn to stare at us.
I can’t help but laugh. “She’s American,” I say as we leave to an older couple frowning at us as though we’ve just taken a dump on the floor.
Cathal O’Mooney had put the pieces of the jigsaw that was my grandmother’s early life together. Back in the Bambino, racing to Doolin, Ridlee fills me in on Margaret’s and Padraig Flanagan’s backstory.
“It’s kinda sweet, really,” she begins. “Margaret and Padraig Flanagan were a couple when they were both quite young, back in the day, and they planned to emigrate to America together. But then he fell ill with consumption. I don’t even know what that is.” She glances from the road to me, her eyebrows raised in a question.
I stare out at the bleak landscape and wonder about life here all those years ago.
It must have been hard. “So, anyway, he was sent away,” Ridlee adds.
I’m pulled back to the present. “It’s tuberculosis. People called it the consumption because the victim was ‘consumed’ by weight loss and breathlessness. It consumed the lives of thousands in Ireland. My dad still talks about it. It was the AIDS of their time.” Poor Margaret. This is the first time I’ve ever been moved to sympathy for my grandmother. “Go on with the story, Rid.”
“Well, Margaret didn’t know whether he was dead or alive, and his family told her nothing because they had never approved of the relationship. Believing Padraig gone from her life forever, she started seeing another guy from a nearby town. Six months later she left for Boston with him and together they made their fortune. His name was Paddy, naturally.” She gives me a cheeky wink.
“That was my grandfather, Paddy Daly.”
“Right. Well, as far as anyone in Lisdoonvarna knew, Margaret never had anything to do with Padraig Flanagan again. He ended up marrying a local girl who died in childbirth. He brought up his daughter, Maggie, alone and then looked after her son, Michaél too when Maggie and her husband were killed in a car accident when the boy was only two years old.”
“Jesus, it’s like the Kennedy curse or something,” I murmur. Poor Michaél, orphaned at only two years of age.
“Yeah, it’s a sad story. But remember, Erin, that’s his story. We all have stories, but business is business.”
Finally at Mrs. O’Grady’s, we shower and change our clothes, ready to hit the town. While Ridlee is in the shower, I wrap my wet hair in a towel and go to the dresser to apply some make-up. I can’t help but sneak a peek at my phone, which my lawyer and best friend confiscated from me earlier this morning, lest I be tempted to contact Micheál and risk ruining the deal.
There are six missed calls from him and a single text.
I’ve had a windfall. Wanna celebrate?
I put my phone back in the drawer and sigh. Micheál’s half of the bar is probably worth more than I’m paying him, and I have no idea if it will be enough to get him and Siobhán out of debt. But I know Ridlee’s right. I built up the bar. I worked long hours and made it into a viable business when it was hemorrhaging money. It would be crazy to let my grandmother give my hard-won inheritance to some total stranger because she suddenly felt guilty on her deathbed. And besides … he could have negotiated the price. He could have seen the pictures online and said he wanted more. Heck, he could have asked for the accounting, couldn’t he have? But he didn’t. That’s not my fault. I’m not going to feel guilty because he’s a terrible businessman.
I apply my make-up and make an effort to smile at my reflection in the mirror. The girl smiles back but the smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
Ridlee reappears and grins. “We should go somewhere really fancy for dinner and order all the best dishes.”
“In Doolin?”
“Yes. The very best Doolin has to offer!”
I don’t have the will to argue, so out we go, arm in arm to enjoy a slap-up meal and the best that Doolin has to offer.
When we go back to our favourite pub, McMahons, there’s a session on and the musicians are awesome. The atmosphere is great and the craic is ninety. Ridlee and I get a table and order fresh oysters and whatever’s right from the ocean. I can’t help but scan the crowd for Michaél but it’s a different Bodhrán player this evening. He’s probably out celebrating with Siobhán, or some other girl. Forget him.
As though reading my mind, Ridlee looks at me across the table and smiles. The din in the place means that we can’t talk, which suits me. Grabbing my hand she pulls me up to dance our favourite reel, The Walls of Limerick. It doesn’t take long to put that boy from my mind and concentrate on what’s real, what’s possible. Tomorrow we sign the papers. Friday we leave. End of story.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
RIDLEE
ERIN SAYS THE CRAIC WAS ninety last night. I’m pretty sure she’s wrong about that. I think it was at least ninety-eight. Maybe even ninety-nine. I can’t remember anything I did after we danced some kind of Irish jig, except for the one part where I barfed in some bushes outside the pub. My mouth tastes horrible.
“You ready to go down for breakfast?” Erin asks, brushing her hair at the mirror.
“No.” I sound like a frog croaking out my answer.
“Still feeling the Guinness?”
“I think I’m feeling something else. Did we drink whiskey last night or does my memory deceive me?”
“Yes, we had a bit of Jameson, actually. I’ve missed the stuff. I need to make sure the Pot O’ Gold has a nice stock of it when we get back. I’m sick of pushing all those American brands. Nothing beats a dram of Jameson.”
“I’ll take your word on that, since I can’t remember anything that happened after we did that stupid jig.”
“It’s a reel, not a jig.” She’s using a toothbrush to carefully brush out and shape her eyebrows.