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Authors: Mary Carter

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BOOK: The Pub Across the Pond
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That's pretty good, but you were a little slow, so throw her out there and do another one. No, no, throw her out to one of us, not down the sink. Try it a little faster now. Remember. A pat on the back is only six inches from a boot up the arse. Give it to Riley, he's the oldest and ugliest. Did you know there's a bog in the backyard?
On what felt like her twentieth pour, Carlene got a loud cheer.
“Not bad, not bad,” Anchor said, checking his watch and measuring the head. She smiled and winked.
“You got something in your eye, darling?” Ciaran said. She must not have the winking thing down.
“You're from Ohio, right?” Collin said.
“That's right,” Carlene said.
“Cleveland,” Collin continued. “Home of the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.”
“Metallica!” Anchor said. “Inducted in 2009.”
“Cleveland,” Collin continued. “Home of America's first traffic light, nineteen-fourteen.”
“Really?” Carlene said.
“I swear on me pint,” Collin said. “Ohio. ‘Hang on Sloopy,' official state rock song.”
“If you lived there, it would be ‘Hang on Sloppy,' ” Anchor said.
“Ohio,” Collin said. “Seventeenth state to join the union. Indian name meaning ‘longest river.' Home of John Glenn, oldest man to venture into space.” Collin leaned over and looked at Riley. Riley put his fist up.
“I'll send ye into outer space,” Riley said. Collin laughed.
“Ohio. The Buckeye State. Ohio. Home to Drew Carey. Ohio—”
“Okay, okay,” Ciaran said. “Now we all know you can fucking Google. Now shut the fuck up about Ohio.” He glanced at Carlene. “No offense, darling.”
“None taken,” Carlene said. Ohio was a long way away. Ohio was another world. She had a new life now, a new, glamorous life. She looked at all the pints lining the bar. “How do I wash the dishes?” she said out loud. Eoin joined her behind the bar.
“CmereIwancha,” he said. She moved next to him. He held up a pint glass, then pointed to two small sinks below the bar. They were both already filled with water. He picked up a yellow box next to one of the sinks.
“Just a smidge,” he said, shaking the detergent in the first sink. He flipped a switch and a little built-in brush began to twirl. Eoin tipped the glass over it, swirled it around, then dipped it into the second sink, which he loudly proclaimed was the “sanitizing sink,” before he brought it to rest on a nearby drying rack. When Carlene thanked him, he beamed as if he'd shown her how to mine for gold.
“No bother,” he said. “No bother a't'all.” When he walked back to the stool it was with a definite swagger.
“Did I tell you I'm the reason you won the pub?” Anchor said.
“You drew the name of the winner?” Carlene said.
“No, no, 'twasn't me,” Anchor said. “But it was my idea to have a fallback,” he said. “Otherwise, this would have been Tan Land.”
“So I heard,” Carlene said.
“Pale is the new tan,” Ciaran said. Everyone laughed. He acknowledged them by lifting his pint glass and giving a nod. Carlene looked at the tree branch. She was going to have to figure out what to do about Joe McBride.
“So you owe me,” Anchor said. He had a huge grin.
“What did you have in mind?” Carlene said.
“Take yer top off,” Ciaran said.
“Says the married man in the group,” Eoin said.
“Says the other married man in the group,” Ciaran said.
“Ah, I'm just joking you,” Anchor said. “Free drinks for life ought to do it.”
“So what did you do back home?” Collin asked. “In Ohio?”
“I managed a training gym,” Carlene said.
“What the fuck is that?” Riley said. He sounded offended.
“A gym where boxers train,” Carlene said. She held up her fists and moved her feet in place.
“Fuck me pink,” Riley said.
“So you go from sweaty men lifting weights to sweaty men lifting pints,” Ciaran said.
“So it seems,” Carlene said. Just as Carlene was wondering if she should ask the men if they were going to pay for the drinks, and how to use the cash register, Ronan walked in. She was definitely going to have to get the front door fixed; she didn't like not being able to see who was sneaking up the hall. Ronan started talking to the men about horses, odds, and tips, and within seconds, they were up and leaving the bar. They laid money next to their pints, smiled, and waved, and those wearing hats tipped them to her, and soon they were gone. All except Ronan and Riley. Carlene was starting to wonder if Riley ever left his stool. Carlene picked up the money on the bar, looked at it, and then set it next to the cash register. She removed their pint glasses and set them next to the sink to wash. She looked up when she heard Ronan laugh.
“You don't know how to open the cash register, do you?” he said.
“Declan hasn't trained me yet,” Carlene said.
“Declan's not going to train you,” Ronan said. “He's retired.” Not train her? Declan was the nicest man she'd ever met. He called her chicken, and pet, and petal, and luv. Of course he would train her. Maybe he didn't realize she wanted training. And why did she get the feeling Ronan was slightly annoyed with her this morning? What had she done?
“Head hurting this morning?” he asked her.
“A little,” she admitted.
“You weren't easy to put to bed,” he said. Startled, she looked at him. Then slowly, an image of Ronan walking her up the stairs, or actually near carrying her up the stairs, rose in her bomb shot–foggy brain.
“You put me to bed,” Carlene said, more as a statement to herself than asking a question.
“Don't remember?” Ronan said. There it was again, a sarcastic bite to everything he said.
“It's a bit fuzzy,” Carlene admitted.
“Wish I could say the same thing,” Ronan said. There it was again—a catch in his voice. Annoyance. Anger even.
“Why?” Carlene said. “What did I do?”
“Just pray you're never captured behind enemy lines,” Ronan said. “You get a few pints in ye and you sing like a canary.” Carlene winced. She didn't have a clue what he was talking about. What did she say? What did she do? Obviously nothing funny happened—she was wearing all of her clothes when she woke up. Great. Her and her big, drunken mouth—whatever it said.
“You seem to be enjoying this,” Carlene said. “Why don't you just tell me what I said—or did?”
“Never mind,” Ronan said. “It's for the best.” What was for the best? Why was he suddenly so cool toward her? She couldn't have said anything mean to him, could she? She wasn't a mean person. Ronan walked over and stared down at the tree branch. “Joe is going to walk all over you,” he said. “Among other people.”
“No, he's not,” Carlene said.
“What are you going to do about it?” Ronan said.
“I'm going to return it to him,” Carlene said.
“He's crafty,” Ronan said. “You've got to watch him.”
“I'll certainly never play poker with him,” Carlene said. The second she saw the look on Ronan's face, she regretted the comment. It was as if she'd slapped him across the face. But they all joked with each other around here! How was she to know what was over the line and what wasn't? And why was he acting so weird—and what did she say to him last night when he'd tucked her into bed? She was so tired, and overwhelmed, and hungover, and Ronan should never have let those men into her bar so early in the morning.
“I was wrong about you,” Ronan said. Carlene just looked at him. She had no idea what he was talking about. He looked confused, and disappointed in her.
“You don't know me,” Carlene said. “You don't know me at all.”
“I know enough,” Ronan said. He hoisted Riley out of his seat. Riley tried to protest. “Let's leave the Yank in peace,” Ronan said. Riley grabbed his pint glass and allowed Ronan to escort him down the hall. He never looked back. Carlene stood, hands on hips, staring after them. She listened to the back door open and slam shut. Then silence. She couldn't believe it. He was so cocky, so cold, so sure that he no longer liked her. What the hell could she have said? And why did she care so much?
It was probably for the best. He was probably only being nice to her so he could warm his way into her heart and then get his pub back. She didn't come here to fall in love—
I love you.
Why did she remember saying “I love you”? Did she say “I love you” last night? Oh shit. No. She couldn't have. Stumbling up the stairs. Ronan holding on to her.
 
What a little bed.
It is, isn't it? Sorry it's not the Taj Mahal.
It's perfect. I love you.
You've had a lot to drink.
I do. I know I just met you, but I love you. You have gorgeous reptilian eyes, did you know that? Primal. Like an alligator. Or a snnnnnnnaaaaaaaaaaake. She put her arms around him, nibbled on his neck.
Carlene, stop it. Go to bed.
I don't care if you're a gambler and a fuckup. I'd bet on you. I love you.
No pajamas. Okay. Just lie down. The sooner the better.
Come here, I want to tell you something.
Go to sleep.
Come here.
He did. He walked over and leaned down so that his face was only inches from her face.
What?
You smell nice.
Tank you.
And you're much, much nicer than my Irish husband.
 
Carlene put her head down on the bar. She would have pounded it into the wood, but that would have been redundant. Oh God. Saying “I love you” was humiliating, and she didn't mean it, of course she wasn't in love with Ronan, she was just drunk, and overwhelmed, and he was way too good looking for his own good. But why, why, why did she have to mention Brendan?
C
HAPTER
14
Extending a Branch
Carlene grabbed one end of the branch with both hands and hoisted it off the ground. It was heavier than she thought. She took a few steps down the narrow hallway and headed out the back. The branch was rough and sticky, and it sounded like a dead body dragging along the floor behind her. She liked the smell of bark, but not enough to keep it, hang it in the pub like an air freshener. Every few steps she had to stop and rest.
This is totally crazy,
she thought, as she inched it next door.
Joe is going to walk all over you. They all are.
Ronan had hit a nerve.
He seemed to hit a lot of nerves, too many of them, which was why she'd opened her big mouth and let all that garbage spill out. Now he thought she was married. Maybe it was for the best. What good would come of starting a relationship? Hadn't she learned her lessons with Brendan? Besides, she would attract way more customers as an aloof, single woman. Which was why she was going to have to find a way to make sure Ronan kept his mouth shut. Just thinking of how he'd pushed her away when she made drunken advances on him filled her with shame. Was he the kind who didn't kiss and tell?
They're going to walk all over you.
He was right. Normally, she was a very nice person. Some might even say too nice. Too nice meant you knocked on your father's door four times, then waited four seconds, then knocked on his door another four times, then waited yet another four seconds before performing your last quad-knock.
Too nice meant you wiped your feet fifty times, washed your hands a hundred, ate only macrobiotic food while in his presence, wore fresh blue rubber gloves, and paced the yard with him until three
A.M.
when he needed to go for a walk. It meant you worked long hours at the gym because he could no longer handle more than a four-hour shift; it meant you met men who saw “too nice” coming a mile away, then just as you were falling for them, dumped you with the “you deserve better” line, something that always made her feel a deep sense of shame. After all, shouldn't
she
have been the one to declare she deserved better? Too nice meant even your best friend in the world thought you owed her over a two-dollar loan. Too nice was a thief, robbing bits of your life out from underneath you, one experience at a time.
Funny, Carlene didn't always feel nice on the inside. Sometimes she felt filled with rage, sometimes she criticized innocent bystanders in her head, and sometimes she performed random acts of rudeness, like the summer she waitressed at a popular truck-stop diner and filled all the sugar jars with salt and all the salt shakers with sugar. It was time she yielded more to those feelings when appropriate, like when neighbors saw fit to shove trees through her front door.
There were at least twenty cars parked on Joe's front lawn. Carlene stood at the side of the shop, wondering if she should wait until the crowd died down. No. Let the locals see that she wasn't a pushover. There were plenty of people who'd witnessed Joe's timber tantrum, why shouldn't she have an audience as well?
A little bell sounded a welcoming jingle when she opened the door. The branch made a scraping sound on the floor tiles as she hauled it in. The shop was narrow but surprisingly long. It stretched back so far she couldn't see the end. Tall shelves in multiple rows were packed with canned food, cereals, sweets, chips, household products, gardening tools, patio furniture, decorative vases—and that was just the first few shelves. No space was bare. Carlene would have to be careful not to swipe any products off the shelves. Standing up for herself was one thing, knocking down a hundred cans of Murphy's Mushy Peas would raise the war to a whole new level.
Carlene picked up speed and tried to locate the counter. The shop was set up like a maze. She pulled ahead of the first row of shelves and stopped dead. A group of well-dressed people stood in a circle in the middle of the store. They were singing softly, and all of them held little glasses, raised in a toast. Suddenly, the singing stopped, and everyone turned and looked at her. She took a few steps forward. Here she could see they were all gathered around a young couple who were holding an infant wearing a little white dress. Next to them stood a stocky priest. He held his Bible over his stomach. A christening, they had just come from a christening. Why were they celebrating it in the store? Joe McBride stepped forward.
“Hello,” Carlene said. “Sorry to interrupt.”
“Ah,” said the priest in a booming voice. “You must be Carlene Rivers from America.”
“That's me,” Carlene said. Was she supposed to wave? Shake his hand? Bow? None of them were possible while holding the tree.
“I'm Father Duggan,” he said.
“Hello, Father,” she said. She curtsied slightly, using the tree for support.
“What's this now?” Father Duggan asked, pointing to the tree branch. The baby started to cry. Carlene could relate. Everyone was staring at her, awaiting an explanation.
“Well,” Carlene said. “I'm from Ohio. It's an Indian name meaning ‘longest river.' And the Native Americans had a tradition that whenever a baby was born, they would extend a branch to the parents. You know—as a way of welcoming them into the family tree.” There were murmurs all around. Joe crossed his arms, but said nothing.
“How lovely of you,” Father Duggan said. “Ah, isn't that nice.” He looked around the room for confirmation. Several people nodded and said, “Ah, yes, 'tis, 'tis.”
“I shouldn't have brought one so big,” Carlene said. “I'll take it back.”
“I was going to suggest that m'self,” Joe said.
“No, no,” Father Duggan said. He tapped the baby's father on the elbow and nodded at the branch. The young father and two other men stepped up and took the tree from Carlene, holding it in the middle and on both ends. They stood awkwardly and glanced about the shop, like men with a canoe and no river. The tree shook slightly in their hands and dropped a few leaves.
“Thank you,” the young father said. “Thank you very much.”
“Ah, it's lovely,” the young mother said. “But where are we going to put it?”
“Why, in the wee fella's room,” the father said. Carlene looked at the baby again. It was a boy? He looked like he was wearing a dress. She decided to keep this to herself.
“Why don't you just set it in the back for now,” Joe said. “Until you have it all sorted out.”
“Ah, brilliant,” the father said. He and the men moved out to the back with the branch. The guests all parted to allow them through.
“Well,” Carlene said. “I'd better be on my way.”
“Will you be wanting mass times?” Father Duggan asked.
“Of course she will,” Joe said. “I'll give her all the details. Right after we sort out some neighborly business.” He headed down the nearest aisle and motioned for her to follow.
 
Joe headed for the counter, situated against the back right wall. Behind him was a stool, a cash register, a newspaper, a plant, and a teakettle. Propped up on the counter was a cardboard cutout poster of a tanning bed. Across the poster in huge letters it read: I
'LL
B
RING THE
S
UN TO
Y
OU
. Next to the tanning bed was a picture of a truck. Carlene stood awkwardly on the other side.
“Are you settled?” he asked her while tidying up behind the counter.
“I'm trying,” Carlene said. “I've had a few setbacks. Branches and leaves to clean up, a front door that no longer works.” Joe nodded as if that were all par for the course.
“You've got the Irish gift for blarney, I see,” Joe said. “I'll give ye dat. A new branch for the newest member of the family tree.” He laughed. “Would you like a cuppa?” he asked. Carlene glanced at the kettle, which Joe immediately began fussing with even before she accepted his offer of tea. What she really wanted, what she would kill for, was a nice cup of coffee. Not instant, but freshly brewed, real coffee. She made a mental note to search her pub for a coffee machine. If they didn't have one, surely one of the shops in town would sell coffeemakers? What was the Irish equivalent of Target? She had so much to learn.
“I'd love a cup of tea,” Carlene said. She vowed, no matter what, that she would never refuse a cup of tea in Ireland. It was surely bad luck to do so. While he fussed with the tea, she took in more of the shop. Even back here, shelves were built from floor to ceiling, and once again not a drop of space was wasted. When the tea was ready, Joe poured it into a china cup with red roses painted on the side, topped off with a gold rim. He served it on a tray with all the accoutrements: a tiny silver spoon, a sugar pot, and creamer. It was as if he was having tea with the queen. He pulled a folding chair out for her and opened a package of chocolate biscuits as she doctored her tea with milk and sugar. He waited for her to take the first sip. His gaze was so direct and patient, for a split second she was terrified he'd poisoned it.
“So,” he said. “Why do you want to own a pub in the middle of nowhere for?” The tea burned the top middle of her throat and she fought to swallow it.
“Oh,” she said with forced enthusiasm. “Who wouldn't want to win a pub in Ireland?” She left out the “middle of nowhere” because she didn't like the pub being in the middle of nowhere, when just ten miles or so out was a very nice stretch of somewhere. “It's the opportunity of a lifetime,” she said. What she didn't say was that sometimes she was so sick of Cleveland, Ohio, and the endless, mindless repetition that her life had become, she would have been thrilled even if the raffle had been for a Popsicle stand in Siberia. She kept this to herself; you never knew how the locals were going to take something. Joe nodded, sipped his tea. She nodded, sipped her tea. He nodded, sipped his tea.
“You like being around drunks?” Joe asked.
“I like being around people,” Carlene said.
“Sloshers?” Joe said.
“That's not exactly—”
“ 'Cause that's what you'll be dealing with. If you get any customers at all.”
“Now why would you say that?”
“Ah, no worries,” Joe said. “ 'Tis miserable weather, 'tisn't it?” A light rain had been falling all morning. Carlene barely noticed it.
“I don't mind,” she said.
“Ah,” Joe said. “ 'Tis gonna be lashin' out of the heavens all week.” Carlene turned her attention to the wall behind the counter. It was the only space in the entire shop not filled with shelves. Instead, cuckoo clocks were hanging on the wall, all shapes and sizes. They appeared to be hand painted and made out of bronze. Carlene spotted motorcycles, cars, houses, and tractors.
“Those are great,” Carlene said. “You must really like clocks.”
“I like tinkering with time,” Joe said.
“You made these?”
“Ah, I did indeed,” Joe said. “With me own two hands and one heart.”
“They're great,” Carlene said. “I don't have many talents.”
“Well, you'll soon be a publican. Or so you 'tink.” The parting comment was tagged on in such a soft voice, Carlene decided to ignore it.
“I should get going,” she said. “I just want to know what you're planning on doing about my front door.” Joe gestured to his wall of clocks.
“Pick one,” he said.
“Thank you,” Carlene said. “But I'd rather have my door fixed.”
“Ronan will fix the door,” Joe said. “That was our agreement.” Carlene wasn't sure she heard him right.
“Ronan knew you were going to cut down the branch?” she said. Joe just looked at her. “Was it his idea?” Carlene couldn't think of why this would be, but something in her believed it, knew it to be true. His reptilian eyes flashed in front of her. He blamed her for losing the pub. Joe gestured to the clocks again.
“Ah, now, would ye go on and pick one?” When she didn't make a move, he plucked one off the wall and handed it to her. It was a yellow bulldozer with a clock face.
“Really,” Carlene said. “I couldn't.” Joe took her hands and set the clock in it. “It's very unique,” she said.
“How much did that raffle ticket cost you?” Joe asked.
“I—”
“Twenty American dollars?”
“Yes.” It seemed a lot of folks around here had a habit of asking her questions to which they already knew the answer.
“Well, that clock will be worth ten thousand euros to ye,” he said. Carlene knew she was looking at the bulldozer a little too hard now—it was a nifty piece all right, but hardly worth ten thousand euros.
“You won't find gold in her,” Joe said. “But by the time you give her back to me, I'll give you ten thousand euros.”
“I don't understand,” Carlene said.
“For the property,” Joe said. “When you're ready. They raffled it off just to get my goat. This town doesn't need another pub.” He pulled the advertisement for the tanning bed into his body. In the picture, the sun was shining. “ 'Tis miserable here, 'tis. You'll see for yourself. You'll be wantin' a bit of the sun, ye will. This town doesn't need another pub. They need Tan Land. They were fully expectin' Tan Land. Nobody thinks you won that pub fair and square. They might not be saying it, but you can believe me, they're all thinking it.”
BOOK: The Pub Across the Pond
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