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Authors: Mary Carter

The Pub Across the Pond (18 page)

BOOK: The Pub Across the Pond
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“The Yank's Pub,” Sally said.
“No,” Carlene said.
“The Bedazzled,” Sally said, spreading her hands like a jazz dancer.
“Not on your crystallized little life,” Carlene said.
C
HAPTER
21
The Walled Pub
Carlene stepped back and looked at her sign. The Half Tree. Even though, technically, all but a giant branch of the ash tree was still standing, it still made for a perfect name. She liked the idea of taking something negative and turning it into a positive. This would show everyone, especially Uncle Joe, that she had a sense of humor and that they couldn't get to her. She'd painted the sign herself, the words in blue looping, cursive letters that matched the trim on the windows. Anchor and Eoin hung the sign for her. Between giving out free drinks for favors, and paying Sally, money was tight. But there was pride in naming the pub. Sally put a sandwich board outside and wrote: G
RAND
O
PENING
. C
OME
S
EE THE
Y
ANK
!
Nobody but the regulars came, but Sally wouldn't let Carlene bring the sign back in. Despite her antics, Sally wasn't all trouble, and to Carlene's surprise, she was starting to like her. Sally helped Carlene clear out the back porch, which actually consisted of Sally barking orders to the lads to throw the bits that were rubbish into their cars to take away. Carlene fixed the wobbly table herself, then painted it, along with the two chairs, a lovely shade of blue. They swept and mopped the floor of the porch and cleaned the windows. The lads lingered around the porch, smoking in the backyard or standing in the hall and peeking in at them. The kitten was curled up on the cat bed in the corner of the porch.
“Are you doing all this for the cat?” Ciaran said.
“I've seen you do a lot more for pussy,” Eoin said.
Carlene gave them both a look. “No,” she said. “I'm doing it for my customers.”
“I think it's lovely,” Sally said. “And romantic. We should get candles and string lights out here.”
“That's a great idea,” Carlene said.
“That's a shite idea,” Eoin said. “You've ruined the vibe.”
“What vibe?”
“This was a great smoking room,” Eoin said. “Now it looks like a ladies' tea parlor.”
“There's no smoking in here now,” Carlene said. “You'll have to smoke outside.”
“Ah, bollix,” they said.
“That reminds me,” Carlene said. “Just so you're forewarned—I'm going to put up a swear jar.”
“A what now?” Eoin asked. Carlene explained the concept. “What a load of shite,” Eoin said.
“Complete bollix,” Ciaran said.
“Fucking useless,” Anchor said.
“See?” Carlene said. “That would be three euros right there.”
“Never mind that,” Sally said. “A friend of mine is getting married. I'm going to talk her into having her hen party here.”
“Ah, Jaysus,” Eoin said.
“We'll be here with bells on,” Anchor said.
“No, you won't,” Sally said. “Women only.”
“I love that idea,” Carlene said. She did too. As much as she enjoyed being the only female surrounded by these funny, talkative men, she still missed the company of women. And she liked Irish women especially, even if, as Sally said, they didn't like her. They were funny, quirky, smart, confident, and fun. Most of all, they were fun. They didn't seem to overworry, or overthink things like she did. She wanted to be more like them.
“We could make special cocktails,” Carlene said. “I'm also thinking of getting some nice bottles of wine for the pub.” She whispered it, just because she didn't want to hear the men say “bollix” any more today.
“When can they come?” Carlene said.
“Leave it to me,” Sally said. “I'll get it sorted.”
 
The next night, a series of loud bangs woke Carlene from a deep sleep. It wasn't Wednesday. Since the keg incident, she'd never missed a drop-off. The driver, who at first said as little to her as possible, was now quite friendly, and had even taken to helping her roll the full kegs to the shed. There were a series of other deliveries as well: mini-bottles of soda, liquor, ice, napkins, you name it. But none of them came in the middle of the night, and none of them made this kind of racket.
It sounded as if someone was hammering right downstairs. Carlene crept out of bed and inched her way across the floor, afraid to make any noise. It was ironic, how quiet she was trying to be for the very loud person who had broken into her pub and was banging on something.
There was definitely someone down there. She was afraid to open the door. She grabbed her cell phone, opened the little window in her bedroom, and climbed out on the slanted roof. She slid about a foot before getting a grip. Her hands shook as she dialed.
Please answer,
she thought.
Please, please answer.
“Hallo.” He shouted into the phone. Carlene could hear loud noise in the background, voices, music, glasses clinking. He was at a pub. Somebody else's pub. For a second, she was irrationally furious, and almost hung up.
“Ronan,” she said. “It's Carlene.”
“Are you okay?”
“No,” she said. “Somebody's downstairs with a hammer,” she said.
“What?”
“I can hear someone downstairs—it sounds like they're hammering something.”
“Somebody broke in just to hammer something?” Ronan said. “That's gas.”
“Please,” Carlene said. “I'm kind of scared to death.”
“You in your room?”
“I'm on the roof.”
“Jaysus,” he said. “Don't jump. I'll be right there.”
“Be careful,” she said. “Take a taxi.”
“Bye awhile,” he said.
 
She stayed on the roof, hugging her knees, listening. It seemed quiet now, and she thought she heard the sound of a car door opening, then closing, then pulling away. She stayed on the roof anyway and wondered how things had come to this point. She had been joking the other day when she called herself a damsel in distress, but here she was on the roof, shivering, shaking, waiting for Ronan to once again come rescue her. How did someone get into her pub? Did the whole town have keys to the place, or what? She was going to have to think about getting an alarm system, which seemed like a very paranoid, very American thing to do. It was so hard to believe that her attack kitten just wasn't enough to keep people away.
“Jaysus,” Ronan said. “You really are on the roof.” He stood in the yard, just below her.
“Where were you?” she said. She sounded like a hurt wife, but she couldn't help herself. He was swaying slightly and grinning.
“Did you miss me, Miss America?” he said. “Is that what all this is about? Purposefully getting yourself stuck in bogs and up on roofs, making up some shite about hammering, just because you're dying for a piece of this?” Carlene laughed, then started to slip.
“Whoa,” he said. “Steady.” Carlene tried to inch herself back up, but she slid even farther down the short, slanted roof.
“Shit, shit, shit, shit,” she said. Her feet pattered furiously as she slid, her palms scraped against the roof. And then there was the edge, and the grass, and Ronan, all staring up at her. It was a small house, and a short fall. She landed on her side. Instead of soft bog, she managed to slam into a patch of hard ground. Ronan didn't move an inch, didn't even make an attempt to catch her. He was laughing. He was laughing! Carlene was once again furious. A knight in drunken armor—some help he was. Was she hurt? Was anything broken?
“That was fucking brilliant,” Ronan said. He bent over at the waist, laughing, trying to catch his breath. “I wish I had a video of that,” he said. Carlene sat up and patted herself down. She moved her legs, wiggled her toes. She was alive. She stood, brushed herself off.
“Thanks a lot,” she said. She headed for the porch. Ronan grabbed her, pulled her back. His arm slid around her waist, his mouth found her ear.
“Wait,” he said. “There's a madman running around these parts fixing things up while beautiful women are asleep,” he said. Carlene laughed.
“I heard a car pulling away,” she said. “I think they're gone.”
“Maybe they'll be back with a screwdriver,” Ronan said.
“Funny.”
They crept down the dark hallway toward the main room. Carlene wanted to show him how she fixed up the back porch, but Ronan wouldn't let her turn any lights on. Despite his earlier teasing, he was deadly serious now and made sure she stayed a good distance behind him. He stopped midway, and she bumped into him. He put his hand out protectively.
“I smell sawdust,” he whispered.
“I do too.” They crept forward again, stopped where the hallway ended, and listened. Their eyes were already adjusted to the dark, and it didn't take long to spot the new addition to the pub. There was now a gigantic plywood wall where the entrance to the bathrooms used to be.
“What the hell?” Carlene said. She ignored Ronan's arms, trying to keep her back. She marched in and turned on the lights.
“I told you to wait,” Ronan said. “Fuck,” he whispered when the lights came on. The wall covered up the entrance to both bathrooms, and whoever had done it had used about a million nails to hammer it in. It would not be quick or easy to take down. Sawdust gathered on the floor below the handiwork. Splashed across it, in bright red paint, it read: G
O
H
OME
, Y
ANK
.
 
Ronan slipped behind the bar and fixed them both a drink. Carlene didn't argue. She watched him work, easily reaching for glasses and bottles, stumbling only when he reached for something she'd moved to a new spot. Suddenly she felt guilty for changing the sign, and the porch, even though she had every right. He looked so at ease behind the bar, and the familiarity with which he touched everything touched her. He made her a drink with Jameson and ginger ale. She loved it. He leaned across the bar, smiled at her.
“What's a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?”
“In my pajamas,” Carlene added.
“In your fucking pajamas,” Ronan said. Carlene looked at the wall. Ronan kept his eyes on her.
“Joe?” she said. Ronan shook his head.
“Not his style,” he said.
“He climbed my tree and cut off a huge branch,” Carlene said. “Ruined my front door.”
“In broad daylight,” Ronan said. “In front of everyone.”
“True,” she said.
“And I don't think he intended on the branch falling into your door,” Ronan said. “I think his eyesight and aim were a little off.”
“Okay, okay,” Carlene said. “Then who?”
“Hey,” Ronan said. He was still leaning on the counter, his face close to hers. “Hello,” he said when she met his eyes.
“Hello,” she said. He slid his hand across the counter and took her hand in his.
“You have the softest hands,” he said.
I have a mushy heart too,
she thought.
Especially when I look at you
.
“I used to wear a lot of gloves,” she said. He looked at her funny, and she laughed, and then before she could stop them, hot tears filled her eyes.
“It's okay,” Ronan said. “I have that effect on women.”
“I'm sorry,” she said. “I just miss my dad.”
“I miss mine too,” Ronan said. How dumb of her to say such a thing; she hadn't been thinking.
“I'm so sorry,” she said.
“Me too,” he said.
“I feel like I know him,” Carlene said. “From all the pictures, and all the stories, and I don't know, it's just like I can feel him here.” They were still holding hands, and Carlene was holding her breath, hoping he wouldn't pull away.
“What's your oul wan like?” Ronan said. Carlene didn't know how to answer. She didn't want her father to be defined by blue rubber gloves, and pacing, and ritualistic knocking. But she didn't know how to talk about him without that. Did she tell him that in addition to a packed lunch he used to send her to school with industrial-sized bottles of antiseptic?
“He's a character,” Carlene said. Ronan didn't pry any further, and she was grateful.
“What did you want to be when you grew up?” he asked.
“A National Geographic photographer and journalist extraordinaire,” she said.
“What happened?”
“I dropped my Polaroid camera in the Cuyahoga River,” she said.
“You what?”
“I was eating cheese fries, and my fingers got so greasy the camera slipped.”
BOOK: The Pub Across the Pond
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