reached the pub, yanked open the heavy
door and stepped into what felt like a wall of
sound. The silence of the night was shattered by the rise and fall of
conversations and laughter, the quick, energetic pulse of the traditional music
flowing from the corner and the heavy stomp of booted feet dancing madly to the
tune.
Just what I need, Georgia thought,
and threw herself into the crush.
Seven
G eorgia edged her way to the bar, slipping
out of her jacket as she went. The heat inside was nearly stifling, what with
the crowd of people and the fire burning merrily in the corner. Waitresses moved
through the mob of people with the sort of deft grace ballet dancers would envy,
carrying trays loaded with beer, whiskey, soft drinks and cups of tea.
A few people called hello to her as she made her way to the bar
and Georgia grinned. This was just what she needed, she thought, to remind
herself that she did have a real life; it merely
also included a fake fiancé. She had friends here. She belonged, and that felt
wonderful.
Jack Murphy, the postmaster, a man of about fifty with graying
hair and a spreading girth, leaped nimbly off his stool at the bar and offered
it to her. She knew better than to wave off his chivalry, though she felt a bit
guilty for chasing him out of his seat.
“Thanks, Jack,” she said, loud enough to be heard. “Looks like
a busy night.”
“Ah, well, on a cold night, what’s better than a room full of
friends and a pint?”
“Good point,” she said, and, still smiling, turned to Danny
Muldoon, the proprietor of the Pennywhistle.
A big man with a barrel chest, thinning hair and a mischievous
smile, he had a bar towel slung over one shoulder and a clean white apron strung
around his waist. He was manning the beer taps like a concert pianist as he
built a Guinness with one hand and poured a Harp with another. He glanced up at
her and asked, “Will it be your usual then, love?”
Her usual.
She loved that. “Yes, Danny, thanks. The Chardonnay when you
get a minute.”
He laughed, loud and long. “That’ll be tomorrow morning by the
looks of this crowd, but I’ll see you put right as soon as I’ve finished with
this.”
Georgia nodded and turned on her stool to look over the crowd.
With her jacket draped across her knees, she studied the scene spread out in
front of her. Every table was jammed with glassware, every chair filled, and the
tiny cleared area closest to the musicians was busy with people dancing to the
wild and energetic tunes being pumped out furiously by a fiddle, a flute and a
bodhran drum. Georgia spotted Sinead’s husband, Michael, and watched as he
closed his eyes and tapped his foot to the reel spinning from his fiddle. Sinead
sat close by, her head bent to the baby in her arms as she smiled to the music
her husband and his friends made.
Here was Dunley, Georgia thought. Everyone was welcome in Irish
pubs. From the elderly couple sitting together and holding hands to the tiny
girl trying to step-dance like her mother, they were all here. The village. The
sense of community was staggering. They were part of each other’s lives. They
had a connection, one to the other, and the glorious part of it all, in
Georgia’s mind, was that they had included her in
their family.
When the incredibly fast-paced song ended, the music slid into
a ballad, the notes of which tugged at Georgia’s heart. Then one voice in the
crowd began to sing and was soon joined by another until half the pub was
singing along.
She turned and saw her wine waiting for her and Georgia lifted
it for a sip as she listened to the song and lost herself in the beauty of the
moment.
She was so caught up, she didn’t even notice when Sean appeared
at her side until he bent his head and kissed her cheek.
“You’ve a look of haunted beauty about you,” he whispered, and
Georgia’s head spun briefly.
She turned and looked up at him. “It’s the song.”
“Aye, ‘The Rising of the Moon’ is
door and stepped into what felt like a wall of
sound. The silence of the night was shattered by the rise and fall of
conversations and laughter, the quick, energetic pulse of the traditional music
flowing from the corner and the heavy stomp of booted feet dancing madly to the
tune.
Just what I need, Georgia thought,
and threw herself into the crush.
Seven
G eorgia edged her way to the bar, slipping
out of her jacket as she went. The heat inside was nearly stifling, what with
the crowd of people and the fire burning merrily in the corner. Waitresses moved
through the mob of people with the sort of deft grace ballet dancers would envy,
carrying trays loaded with beer, whiskey, soft drinks and cups of tea.
A few people called hello to her as she made her way to the bar
and Georgia grinned. This was just what she needed, she thought, to remind
herself that she did have a real life; it merely
also included a fake fiancé. She had friends here. She belonged, and that felt
wonderful.
Jack Murphy, the postmaster, a man of about fifty with graying
hair and a spreading girth, leaped nimbly off his stool at the bar and offered
it to her. She knew better than to wave off his chivalry, though she felt a bit
guilty for chasing him out of his seat.
“Thanks, Jack,” she said, loud enough to be heard. “Looks like
a busy night.”
“Ah, well, on a cold night, what’s better than a room full of
friends and a pint?”
“Good point,” she said, and, still smiling, turned to Danny
Muldoon, the proprietor of the Pennywhistle.
A big man with a barrel chest, thinning hair and a mischievous
smile, he had a bar towel slung over one shoulder and a clean white apron strung
around his waist. He was manning the beer taps like a concert pianist as he
built a Guinness with one hand and poured a Harp with another. He glanced up at
her and asked, “Will it be your usual then, love?”
Her usual.
She loved that. “Yes, Danny, thanks. The Chardonnay when you
get a minute.”
He laughed, loud and long. “That’ll be tomorrow morning by the
looks of this crowd, but I’ll see you put right as soon as I’ve finished with
this.”
Georgia nodded and turned on her stool to look over the crowd.
With her jacket draped across her knees, she studied the scene spread out in
front of her. Every table was jammed with glassware, every chair filled, and the
tiny cleared area closest to the musicians was busy with people dancing to the
wild and energetic tunes being pumped out furiously by a fiddle, a flute and a
bodhran drum. Georgia spotted Sinead’s husband, Michael, and watched as he
closed his eyes and tapped his foot to the reel spinning from his fiddle. Sinead
sat close by, her head bent to the baby in her arms as she smiled to the music
her husband and his friends made.
Here was Dunley, Georgia thought. Everyone was welcome in Irish
pubs. From the elderly couple sitting together and holding hands to the tiny
girl trying to step-dance like her mother, they were all here. The village. The
sense of community was staggering. They were part of each other’s lives. They
had a connection, one to the other, and the glorious part of it all, in
Georgia’s mind, was that they had included her in
their family.
When the incredibly fast-paced song ended, the music slid into
a ballad, the notes of which tugged at Georgia’s heart. Then one voice in the
crowd began to sing and was soon joined by another until half the pub was
singing along.
She turned and saw her wine waiting for her and Georgia lifted
it for a sip as she listened to the song and lost herself in the beauty of the
moment.
She was so caught up, she didn’t even notice when Sean appeared
at her side until he bent his head and kissed her cheek.
“You’ve a look of haunted beauty about you,” he whispered, and
Georgia’s head spun briefly.
She turned and looked up at him. “It’s the song.”
“Aye, ‘The Rising of the Moon’ is
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