“Believe me, I know. It’s like my family’s holy day of obligation.”
“I don’t understand. The parade’s supposed to march down Main Street at noon. It has every year since I was a little girl. They can’t just stop doing stuff without notifying the citizens of this town. Whose decision was this? Why wasn’t there a vote?”
The girls blue eyes went wide and Maggie realized her voice had turned shrill. “Um… I don’t know. Maybe you could take it up with the town council? Did you want to order something? We have green scones.”
Maggie let out a frustrated huff. “Sure. I’ll take a scone.” She thumbed out a few dollars and stuffed an extra one in the tip jar on the counter.
The girl returned with the pastry wrapped in a paper cake bag. As she typed the order into the register, a flyer caught Maggie’s eye.
“What is this?”
The girl smiled. “Pop-a-Lu’s Lemonade Stand. It’s a fundraiser for the Church. We do it every year. My dad’s the youth minister, and the church needs a new stage and some updated instruments and stuff. Each year we set up a lemonade stand outside of O’Malley’s Pub and raise money. Adults can add liquor if they want, since we also own the bar.”
Maggie’s head lifted at the mention of the pub. “You’re a Clooney?”
“No, I’m a McCullough. But the Clooneys are my cousins. We all own the pub. But my Uncle Kelly runs it. Well, sort of. He’s exploring other things right now, so I’m not sure what’s going on with the bar. The grown-ups take shifts when Kelly’s away. But the lemonade stand will be open next week if you want to stop by and make a donation.” She smiled brightly. “If we reach our goal, the church can make a recording studio.”
The girl sure could talk. Maggie lifted her scone to her nose and smiled. “Thanks. It sounds like a noble cause.”
She left the café. The girl was a good salesperson, because Maggie made a mental note to make a donation next week when they had the lemonade stand. The thought of stepping foot on O’Malley’s Pub’s property felt wrong, but Nash would have fully supported the idea of giving a younger generation the means to make, perform, and record music.
She thought about all the silent instruments filling her home and remembered how Nash used to joke that they needed to get played or they would get depressed. She wished she had the strength to let them go, wished she could donate them to a happier home. Maybe someday, but not today.
Without the buzz of the parade, it seemed an underwhelming St. Patrick’s Day. They probably had made an announcement and she missed it. This was another reminder of how withdrawn she’d let herself become.
She used to know all the town gossip and attend all the fairs, dances, and fundraisers. Now, she was the weird town hermit, totally out of the loop.
And damn, this scone was good. What the hell was in this?
She walked the sidewalks, since the parade route was full of moving vehicles. The O’Malley’s lot was now three-quarters full.
She finished the scone, licking the crumbs off the napkin and crumpling it into her pocket. Now what?
What if she just went into the bar? She could use another drink. Scones were delicious but dry. A nice black beer would be great, and at the moment, she wasn’t feeling too emotional—which was strange—so maybe keeping a slight buzz was key to staying that way.
Her logic seemed sound, so she crossed the street and held her breath as she set her booted foot onto the pub property. Astonishingly, lightning didn’t strike her down.
It was silly. She wasn’t even an O’Malley by blood, but the rivalry between the two Irish families had been something her in-laws took very seriously, a betrayal they said they’d never forget.
But did anyone really care anymore? Caleb O’Malley Senior, owner and sole proprietor of the bar before it was lost in a poker game, now resided in an assisted living apartment and suffered severe dementia. Surely if he didn’t remember the grudge, no one else would. However, it had been his son, Caleb, who lost the hand of cards and therefore, lost the bar.
Still debating her loyalties and the significance of vendettas half a century old, she pushed through the pub door and froze. Her in-laws’ grudges vanished as blaring Irish music and half-drunk Irish men and women, painted every color of Ireland’s flag, yelled from one end of the pub to the other. Bodies packed the place from wall-to-wall and the potent scent of sloshing beer assaulted her senses.
This was a mistake.
She quickly pivoted toward the door, but a hoard of patrons pushed in, driving her deeper into the pub like a stampede of thirsty caribou.
“Excuse me,” she shouted against the current of the mob. A wall of green shirts drove her closer to the blaring music. “Pardon me. I’m trying to leave.”