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Authors: Mary Carter

The Pub Across the Pond (35 page)

BOOK: The Pub Across the Pond
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“I woke up, came downstairs to make myself a cup of coffee, and found him standing in the middle of the room. I don't know who is doing this to me—but you have to believe me. Someone is fucking with me big-time.” She wondered if she shouldn't have said “fucking” in front of the guards, but this was Ireland, so she was probably okay.
“All barnyard animals need to be kept outside,” Mike said.
“He's not mine,” Carlene said. “I told you, someone broke in and left him here.”
“Someone broke in?” non-Mike said. “How?” Carlene started to pace. For once she saw the point of it. She wanted to scream. She wanted to throw them out. They were bothering her more than the goat.
“I don't know,” she said. “There's no obvious signs of a break-in, so obviously, whoever is doing this must have a key.” She assumed there were a limited number of people who could have a key. Joe, Ronan, Sally, Declan? Maybe it had been a mistake to let Sally back in. Maybe this had been her plan all along. Drive Carlene insane, drive Carlene out of Ireland.
“We've been informed that you are trying to run a spa out of here,” Mike said. “If that is the case, it violates the terms of your business license,” he said.
“Who?” Carlene said. “Who informed you?”
“That's confidential,” non-Mike said.
“But it could be the very person who is fucking with me,” Carlene said. “It could be the person responsible for the plywood wall, and stealing the kegs, and putting a skeleton in the soutterain, and now dumping this fucking goat on me!” She was losing it, she knew she was losing it, but she was so, so tired, and if she admitted it to herself, she missed home. Even the thought of scrubbing the floor for the fifth time with Lysol sounded better than being here. She looked outside. The windows were smeared with rain. She couldn't see a thing. “Does it ever fucking stop?” she asked. She marched over to her cup of coffee, sat at the bar, and started to drink it.
“Are you running a spa out of here?” Mike asked.
“No,” she said.
“What's that?” he asked. He pointed to the tanning bed.
“That,” Carlene said, “is another man's dream.”
“Beg your pardon?” non-Mike said.
“That is Joe's foolhardy get-rich-quick dream. That is a tanning bed. Personally, I think he should have gone with sunlamps. That I could see a use for. I could use a fucking sunlamp right about now myself.”
“She's certainly got the hang of the word ‘feck,' hasn't she?” non-Mike said. “That looks like a fire hazard,” he added.
“It's not plugged in,” Carlene said. “And I told Joe to get it out of here. If it's not out of here by this afternoon, I'm having the lads take it over and dump it on his front yard.”
“Illegal dumping,” Mike wrote down. “Another violation.”
“Now you're violating me for things I haven't even done yet?” Carlene said. Mike took off his hat and gestured to one of the stools.
“Be my guest,” Carlene said. “Would you like a cup of tea?”
“No thanks.”
“Coffee?”
“We're on duty.”
“A drink?”
“Just a small one.” After she'd fixed their small drinks, Mike rubbed his face and sighed.
“Look,” he said. “I've nothing against Americans. I was really excited when they elected Obama. He's got Irish roots. Did you know that? But he's not very popular anymore, is he?”
“That's the American way,” Carlene said. “We like to build 'em up and tear 'em down.” She stared at the guards. “I'm starting to think it may be the Irish way as well.”
“Ballybeog is a very small town. We were quiet before the raffle. This situation has upset a lot of people,” Mike said. “Personally, I think you're grand. I have no problem with ye being here. But you can't go around breaking all the rules and think we're going to sit back and let you turn this place into a spa,” he said.
“Or a petting zoo,” non-Mike said.
“Or some kind of haunted house what with all your skeletons,” Mike said. “We've got better things to do with our time.”
“I understand,” Carlene said. “The tanning bed and the goat will be out of here today. I am going to get security cameras and I'm going to catch whoever is doing this to me.”
Mike wrote out a ticket.
“In the meantime,” he said. “You're shut for the next thirty days.”
“What?”
“After thirty days we'll come back and inspect. If everything is up to code, you can reopen.”
“But I told you, it's not my fault.”
“We can't look like we're giving you special treatment,” Mike said. “It wouldn't look proper.”
“Thirty days is nothing,” non-Mike said. He pointed to the tanning bed. “You can catch up on your tan.”
C
HAPTER
43
The Visitor
Ronan didn't come into the pub. He still didn't call, didn't text, didn't e-mail. Even though Carlene had finally caved and left him a message that the pub had been shut down for a month, he didn't respond. That was beyond cruel. Unless he was the one who had been doing this to her all along. Don't trust an Irishman, isn't that what she'd always heard? She felt like one of those pathetic, hapless women who didn't know her husband was a serial killer. When Carlene ran into any of the McBrides in town, they were polite, but the conversation was always brief, and they never mentioned Ronan. It was obvious he didn't want anything to do with her anymore. It was maddening how surgically he had disappeared from her life. She reminded herself that she was now a lucky girl, and therefore, there must be a reason for it, she would be better off without him. It was easier to convince herself of this while she was busy working, or taking her walks about town, but it was almost impossible when she was alone with her thoughts, lying upstairs in the bedroom at night, where Ronan himself used to sleep. And there was nothing keeping her from ruminating, no boxercise, no regulars to keep her company, no tanning bed, no goat. Even crawling into the soutterain had lost its magic.
It was at the beginning of the second week of such torture that she decided now would be a good time to see the rest of Ireland. After all, there was nothing she could do here, and once she got the pub up and running again, who knew when she'd have the chance? She'd go to Dublin, and Cork, and Dingle, and Kerry. She could be a visitor, not an intruder. She would also buy and set up security cameras; surely whoever had been tormenting her would definitely take the opportunity while she was away to do something. Then she would have them on camera and it would be dealt with once and for all.
 
She spent two glorious weeks as a tourist. In Dublin, Cork, and Limerick she took the Hop-On Hop-Off buses, and immersed herself in the sights. Dublin was a big city with a lot to see. Besides sightseeing, she went shopping on Grafton Street and at night was thrilled to go to OPP, Other People's Pubs. They were huge pubs, designed to attract tourists, with traditional music nightly. She was fascinated by the Kilmainham Gaol, and she loved wandering through St. Stephen's Green. At the Guinness Brewery she skipped all floors but the top floor where you could get your free pint of Guinness and look out over the city.
Cork and Limerick were smaller, but just as fascinating. She was finally getting used to the fact that everywhere you went in Ireland, no matter how small, there was probably at least one local castle. She loved County Kerry—the scenery was gorgeous with the Ring of Kerry—and she loved Dingle, a quaint, small town with boutiques, and pubs, and Fungi the dolphin, whom she never did get to see. She finished her trip off in Kinsale, a gorgeous beach town with gourmet restaurants and cliffs dropping off into the ocean—only unlike her trip to the Cliffs of Moher, she was doused in sunshine.
She traveled by trains, buses, and taxis, something she was told wasn't the thing to do. She would eventually start driving here, but constantly feeling like she was on the wrong side of the road wasn't her idea of a relaxing vacation. By the time her two weeks were up, she was ready to go back to her pub. She would only have one more week left of her forced closure, and she was planning on starting over. She was the girl with all the luck after all, and surely things would calm down.
 
As her taxi pulled up to her pub, déjà vu washed over her. No one was hanging out of her tree with a chain saw, thank God, but there was a large crowd of people gathered in her yard. They were drinking and having a grand old time. Anger coursed through her. Why were they always partying without her? She flew out of the cab, grabbed her suitcase, and paid the driver as fast as she could. She was going to throttle whoever had done this. No matter how much of a party pooper it made her, they could not do this in her pub while she was away. As she made her way through the crowd, folks patted her on the back, or grabbed her in hugs, all smiles, which made it difficult to glare at them. Carlene burst through the door and spotted him immediately. It was hard not to—he was holding court in the center of the pub. Carlene felt as if she'd been shot with a tranquilizer gun. She was stunned, sluggish, and fighting gravity. There, being treated like royalty, stood Brendan Hayes.
He had yet to spot her. Declan and Sally were behind the bar. Carlene ran up to Declan. Maybe she could get Brendan and everybody else out of here without Brendan ever laying eyes on her. Or maybe she should go away, sneak out until the party was over. She scanned the crowd and didn't know whether she should be relieved that Ronan wasn't there, or heartbroken that Ronan wasn't there.
It dawned on her, as she watched Brendan, the guy who used to consume her every thought—his tall presence, his shaved head, his bulging biceps, huge smile, bright blue eyes, and deep echoing laugh—that as she looked at him now, she felt absolutely nothing. It was Ronan she was thinking about. And she wasn't going to run away from her own pub.
“Declan,” Carlene said. “I'm not allowed to be open for business for another week. We have to get everybody out of here.”
“It's a party, luv,” Declan said. “It doesn't count.”
“Why didn't you tell us you were married to Brendan Hayes?” Sally said.
“Because what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas,” Carlene said. “And because it was never legit.”
“You might want to tell him that, chicken,” Declan said. “He's telling everyone he owns half of the pub.” Carlene marched over to the bell that Declan always rang near closing time. She rang it, and rang it, and rang it, again, and again, and again, until people finally looked up.
“Party's over,” she said. “Everybody out.” Brendan actually lit up when he saw her, which wasn't surprising since he was so lit up. He bounded over to her.
“Carlene,” he said. “Look at you. You look gorgeous.” So did he. On the outside.
“You too,” Carlene said. “Now get out of my pub.” Brendan leaned on the bar and grinned.
“Did you forget?” he said. “We're married. Half of this pub is mine.” Carlene leaned in toward him and tried to imitate his grin.
“Number one,” she said. “The marriage was never consummated because you were always to drunk to get it up, remember? Number two, the minister forgot to renew his license. I got a letter from the state of Nevada saying they would pay our airfare and hotel for us to come back and get legally married. How did you not know that? Oh, right, you disappeared. If you let me know your legal address, I'd be happy to send documentation. And while I'm at it”—Carlene lowered her voice, although he probably didn't deserve it—“I can send the picture I received of you in the mail from your friend Trent in Tampa.” Brendan's grin evaporated.
“I don't know what you're on about,” he said.
“Well, maybe a picture of you in my red thong with little white hearts will refresh your memory. I've been needing a theme for my Christmas card this year. Or I could hang it in the pub. You can keep the thong, by the way. Think of it as an almost-married gift.” Brendan looked stricken. He glanced around the bar. Then he slammed down his pint. One by one, Carlene's regulars stood. They crossed their arms, glared, and formed a semicircle around Brendan.
“What's all the shouting about?” Angus said.
“Is he bothering you, chicken?” Eoin said.
“If he's bothering you, then he's bothering us,” Collin said. Carlene wanted to kiss them and kick them at the same time. If Brendan chose to fight, he could probably stand his own against them all. They probably knew it too, yet there her lads stood.
“I think he was just leaving,” Carlene said. “Am I right?” Brendan looked stunned; it was the first time Carlene had ever stood up for herself with him. He glanced at the men surrounding him.
“I just came to tell ye, we were never married in the first place,” Brendan said. “So stop calling me, and texting me, and Twittering me. I don't want anything to do with you, or this middle-of-fucking-nowhere pub.” He pushed his way through the lads, who bumped him a little harder than necessary, but eventually let him through.
Thank God,
she thought as she watched him leave,
I didn't get his name tattooed on my ass
.
“He is so hot,” Sally said. She looked as if she was going to run after him.
“He's a heartbreak waiting to happen,” Carlene said. “You want to be happy? I already told you. Become the man you want to marry.”
“What kind of shite is that?” Riley said.
“The kind of shite that prevents women from falling all over men because we think, mistakenly, they have something we don't. They look good, or they tell a good story, or they box, or they play guitar—”
Or when they make love to you they find your g-spot and every other letter of the alphabet—
“I play guitar,” Collin said. His T-shirt had two pictures of King Tut on the chest. It read: S
TOP
S
TARING AT
M
Y
T
UTS
. He winked at Sally.
“You don't need to chase after anyone, Sally,” Carlene said. “Look at you. You're perky, smart, funny. Why don't you fall in love with yourself? That's what ‘Become the man you want to marry' means. Do that, and I promise you, they'll be chasing you.”
“Looks to me like you should be taking your own advice,” Sally said.
“That's the great thing about life,” Carlene said. “It's never too late to start.”
 
Her emerald earrings were gone. When she wasn't wearing them, she always left them in a little bowl next to the cash register, and suddenly they'd vanished. It was her father who pointed out she wasn't wearing them. They'd recently started to Skype. On her computer screen, he looked withered, and broken. He begged her to come home before he lost the gym for good. He told her the men at the gym wanted her back. He told her Becca wanted her back. He said he didn't understand how she could turn her back on all of them. Then he asked her why she wasn't wearing the earrings. She pawed at her earlobes, stunned. She told her father she would think about it, and ended the call before she started bawling. Her father wasn't good with emotions, happy or sad. She turned to find Declan staring at the computer screen where the image of her father had just been. His mouth was slightly open. He was probably wondering why they were both wearing blue rubber gloves, but she didn't have time to explain.
“I lost my mother's earrings,” she said.
“Don't worry, pet,” Declan said. “We'll find them.” He helped her look. They examined every inch of the pub. Declan looked downstairs while she looked upstairs. When they didn't find them, Carlene and Declan, bless his heart, even crawled through the soutterain. She'd never looked so hard or so long for anything, not an easy feat with her eyes swollen from crying. At least the pub was thoroughly clean; positively every surface was gleaming. Declan finally made Carlene stop and sit while he fixed her a sandwich and a drink. She didn't realize she was still wearing the gloves until Declan gently pulled them off her and threw them away.
“I wasn't trying to listen in, pet,” Declan said. “But it sounded like your father is trying to convince you to go home?”
“He can't run the gym by himself,” Carlene said. “If I don't go home, he's going to lose it.”
“What are you going to do, petal?”
“I love it here,” Carlene said. “But I worry about my father. I've tried to get him to come visit, but even that's too much for him. I don't think I can take hurting him like this. Even my best friend, Becca, thinks I should come home. Besides, not everyone in Ballybeog loves me being here either.” It was all she could do not to mention Ronan, and how he was gone, gone, gone. She played with her naked ears. “I think maybe losing my mother's earrings is a sign.”
“I've got a sign for ye,” Declan said. “Open.”
“Open?”
“It's the best sign you could ever ask for. You hang it over your heart. Open. Don't you let a few begrudgers get you down. You do what's in your heart. As long as it's flipped to Open, you'll know what to do.”
“Open,” Carlene whispered.
“Open,” Declan repeated with a wink.
 
Declan had given her a lot to think about. On the one hand, she absolutely loved her life in Ballybeog. Her time here had been a gift. For the first time in her life, she felt as if she belonged. As crazy as it sounded, whenever she heard the word “home” she thought of Ronan, and her kitten, and her little pub in the middle of nowhere.
But her father was in pain. Becca still thought she should go home. And if she didn't, what would happen to the gym? Her father only had two things in his life: the gym and Carlene. And it was looking as if he'd never be willing to visit her in Ireland. Could she really be responsible for him losing the only two things he loved in life?
BOOK: The Pub Across the Pond
4.98Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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