Rory looked at Jake. “Mind if I continue the story?”
“Be my guest.”
“I showed up. Jake punched me in the nose. We figured we could hash it all out over a few. Nothing a few pints can’t solve, right?”
“Go tell that to my cousin,” Liam called from farther down the bar.
He spoke his mind, Liam. Rory admired that. He had a sense that if the circumstances were different, and they were back at the Wild Hart in New York, he and Liam could have been great mates. Too bad his own treachery had made that impossible.
“I already have, in a manner of speaking,” Rory told him. “I think it’s great you want to protect her,” he continued as he looked around the bar. “I think it’s great you all want to protect her. But Erin can hold her own. Believe me.” He grabbed the pint glasses, looking to Jake. “Grab a table?”
“Over my dead body,” Bettina declared. “If you two end up rolling around in a good punch-up, I want to see it up close.”
“And this way, you can all listen in on our conversation as well,” Jake pointed out.
“As if we would,” Bettina said indignantly.
Jake and Rory looked at each other and laughed.
“Go to hell, the both of ya,” said Old Jack. He pointed a warning finger at Jake. “Watch your back, son.”
“No worries. I can take care of myself, Jack.” He touched his glass to Rory’s. “To friendship.”
Rory thought he detected a note of sarcasm.
Getting paranoid,
he told himself.
“To friendship,” he echoed.
9
“What, have I got a booger hangin’ from my nose?”
Erin cringed. She and Sandra had no sooner stepped over the Oak’s threshold than their fellow villagers behaved as if they were watching a tennis match, eyes going from Rory and Jake…to Sandra and Erin…back to Rory and Jake…back to Sandra and Erin.
Sandra turned to Erin, exasperated. “Do I have a booger hangin’ out or what?”
“San, you’re carrying a bat,” Erin murmured.
“Oh, Christ.” Sandra lifted the bat, seemingly oblivious as to why people shrank back. “Don’t worry: we’re not here to harm anyone.” She chuckled before flashing Rory one of the most threatening looks Erin had ever seen. “Well, maybe one or two people.”
Sandra lowered the bat, and the bar patrons exhaled a collective sigh of relief. Erin refused to glance at the bar. The sight of Rory with Jake completely stunned her. She couldn’t wrap her mind around it at all. She tugged on Sandra’s sleeve. “C’mon. Let’s see if we can find a seat.”
Together they headed toward the back. The local bandwere to the left of the old stone fireplace, winding down from a well-known traditional reel; Sandra glanced at Erin and put a finger down her throat as if she were going to vomit. “Christ, if I never hear this song again in my life, it won’t be too soon.”
Erin agreed, heart sinking as she scanned the room. Every table appeared to be occupied. She was about to point it out to Sandra when her friend lunged for a tiny table that just that second was being vacated, beating out two middle-aged, mildly drunk women whose puffy faces had clearly seen better days.
“’Scuse me,” one of them said in an unmistakable cockney accent, “but that’s our table, you fat cow.”
Ever so subtly, Sandra began swinging the bat by her side. “Excuse me: what gives you the right to think you can talk to me like that?”
“San,” Erin said quietly.
“This is our local,” Sandra continued.
“Well, la-di-bloody-da,” the drunker of the two said.
“You’re damn right, la-di-bloody-da,” Sandra retorted. A standoff ensued. Sandra made a great show of looking back and forth between the bat and the Brits.
“Fine, take your stinkin’ table,” said the bottle blond who’d called Sandra a cow. “We were thinking of clearing out of this piss hole anyway.”
Noses up in the air, they walked away. The one time they glanced back with matching sneers, Sandra gave them the two-fingered
“Be my guest.”
“I showed up. Jake punched me in the nose. We figured we could hash it all out over a few. Nothing a few pints can’t solve, right?”
“Go tell that to my cousin,” Liam called from farther down the bar.
He spoke his mind, Liam. Rory admired that. He had a sense that if the circumstances were different, and they were back at the Wild Hart in New York, he and Liam could have been great mates. Too bad his own treachery had made that impossible.
“I already have, in a manner of speaking,” Rory told him. “I think it’s great you want to protect her,” he continued as he looked around the bar. “I think it’s great you all want to protect her. But Erin can hold her own. Believe me.” He grabbed the pint glasses, looking to Jake. “Grab a table?”
“Over my dead body,” Bettina declared. “If you two end up rolling around in a good punch-up, I want to see it up close.”
“And this way, you can all listen in on our conversation as well,” Jake pointed out.
“As if we would,” Bettina said indignantly.
Jake and Rory looked at each other and laughed.
“Go to hell, the both of ya,” said Old Jack. He pointed a warning finger at Jake. “Watch your back, son.”
“No worries. I can take care of myself, Jack.” He touched his glass to Rory’s. “To friendship.”
Rory thought he detected a note of sarcasm.
Getting paranoid,
he told himself.
“To friendship,” he echoed.
9
“What, have I got a booger hangin’ from my nose?”
Erin cringed. She and Sandra had no sooner stepped over the Oak’s threshold than their fellow villagers behaved as if they were watching a tennis match, eyes going from Rory and Jake…to Sandra and Erin…back to Rory and Jake…back to Sandra and Erin.
Sandra turned to Erin, exasperated. “Do I have a booger hangin’ out or what?”
“San, you’re carrying a bat,” Erin murmured.
“Oh, Christ.” Sandra lifted the bat, seemingly oblivious as to why people shrank back. “Don’t worry: we’re not here to harm anyone.” She chuckled before flashing Rory one of the most threatening looks Erin had ever seen. “Well, maybe one or two people.”
Sandra lowered the bat, and the bar patrons exhaled a collective sigh of relief. Erin refused to glance at the bar. The sight of Rory with Jake completely stunned her. She couldn’t wrap her mind around it at all. She tugged on Sandra’s sleeve. “C’mon. Let’s see if we can find a seat.”
Together they headed toward the back. The local bandwere to the left of the old stone fireplace, winding down from a well-known traditional reel; Sandra glanced at Erin and put a finger down her throat as if she were going to vomit. “Christ, if I never hear this song again in my life, it won’t be too soon.”
Erin agreed, heart sinking as she scanned the room. Every table appeared to be occupied. She was about to point it out to Sandra when her friend lunged for a tiny table that just that second was being vacated, beating out two middle-aged, mildly drunk women whose puffy faces had clearly seen better days.
“’Scuse me,” one of them said in an unmistakable cockney accent, “but that’s our table, you fat cow.”
Ever so subtly, Sandra began swinging the bat by her side. “Excuse me: what gives you the right to think you can talk to me like that?”
“San,” Erin said quietly.
“This is our local,” Sandra continued.
“Well, la-di-bloody-da,” the drunker of the two said.
“You’re damn right, la-di-bloody-da,” Sandra retorted. A standoff ensued. Sandra made a great show of looking back and forth between the bat and the Brits.
“Fine, take your stinkin’ table,” said the bottle blond who’d called Sandra a cow. “We were thinking of clearing out of this piss hole anyway.”
Noses up in the air, they walked away. The one time they glanced back with matching sneers, Sandra gave them the two-fingered
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