Before Ever After (10 page)

Shelley bit her lip and considered reporting a certain wayward member to the Poultry Club of Great Britain.

Max set Miren back on her feet. “Everyone, I’d like you to meet the owner of this fine boat, Ms. Miren O’Loughlin, the finest Irish lass on French waters.” He held Miren’s hand as he walked over to the group.

“Welcome aboard the
Isabelle
, floating pub by night and my humble abode by day,” Miren said.

The group introduced themselves and Max guided Miren’s hand to shake everyone else’s. Shelley realized that Miren was blind.

Miren ushered the group to a hatch leading belowdecks. A bulky, stern-looking man nodded hello from the helm then quickly turned his attention back to steering the barge.

“That’s Paul-Henri, the
Isabelle
’s captain,” Miren said. “He’s fairly new here and still painfully shy, I’m afraid.”

Shelley followed Miren down the steps and through a narrow corridor. Miren opened a red door. If not for the portholes that ran along the length of its dark oak walls, Shelley could have sworn that she had strolled into her neighborhood pub. All that was missing was Charlie, her favorite bartender. She could have used a pint’s worth of his time to rant about
the stunning copper-haired woman whose arm was still linked with Max’s.

The group gathered around the bar. Shelley hopped on a stool. She looked hopefully at the stool next to hers. She clenched her teeth when Max followed Miren behind the counter. Dex took the empty seat.

“So, what can I get everyone?” Miren handed out bowls of peanuts. “Guinness all around?”

“Thank you, but I think it’s too early in the day for me to be drinking,” Jonathan said. A peanut disappeared behind his white beard.

“I’ll have a pint, dear,” Rose chirped.

Jonathan choked on a half-chewed nut. “Oh, all right. I’ll have one, too.”

“That’s the spirit.” Brad grinned.

“How about you, luv?” Max asked Shelley.

“Well, you know what they say—when in Paris do as the Irish do,” Shelley said. “I’d hate to be the only one not sick all over your van tomorrow.” She knew, however, that she would not feel the slightest bit guilty if she contributed her share of bile onto the Volkswagen’s green shag carpet. Seeing Max standing next to Miren did not bring out her considerate side.

Miren smiled and began pouring beer into mugs.

“Ah, yes, the dreaded hangover,” Max said. “Did you know that in Myanmar the phrase for hangover means ‘clapper of the temple bell’?”

“On second thought, I’ll have a Coke,” Shelley said. Jealousy was not worth a pounding migraine.

“Trust me,” Max said, “no one has to worry about hangovers or clanging bells with Miren around. In fact, that’s why we’re here. There’s a little potion she makes that I’d like all of you to try.”

“It’s what this old tub is famous for,” Miren said, beaming, “that and our perfectly poured Guinness and potato pancakes. This is the only place the blokes can drink themselves under the table and not worry about their heads exploding in the morning—thanks to Max and his secret recipe.”

“Well, it’s not my recipe, really,” Max said. “It was Adrien’s.”

The name was familiar, Shelley thought. Where had she heard it before? Then she remembered that she had not. She had seen it. The memory
crept back to an elegant cursive, painting gold letters on an olive leaf. It was one of the names on the mosaic in Isabelle’s tomb.

“Who’s Adrien?” Simon asked.

“Isabelle’s great-grandfather. It is his story we shall entertain ourselves with next,” Max said. “But first we drink.”

Shelley watched Max help Miren prepare their drinks with choreographed ease. She wondered how many times they had done this before. She felt a pain in her throat thinking of what else Max had done—and might still be doing with this woman.

“How about a toast?” Brad asked Miren.

Miren raised her mug and smiled broadly. “To your wives and girlfriends,” she said, “may they never meet.”

The group laughed. Shelley did not.

Miren drained her mug in one swig and licked the froth off her upper lip. “Excuse me for a moment while I whip up Adrien’s little potion.” She left the bar through a door in the back of the room.

Max leaned his elbows on the counter in front of Shelley. “Miren’s an old friend.”

“Of course.” Shelley immediately regretted her clipped tone. “I mean, yes, that’s lovely. Old friends are lovely. I have a lot of old flames, er, friends, myself.”

Brad nudged Simon’s knee under the counter. “Why don’t we finish our drinks outside? I’d like to take some pictures from the deck.”

“Uh, okay.” Simon shrugged and got to his feet.

“Splendid idea,” Jonathan said. “I think we’ll join you.”

“Max, would you be a dear and call us back in when Miren returns?” Rose asked.

Dex sipped his beer.

Rose tapped his shoulder and smiled. “Coming, Dex?”

“Oh. Um, sure.” He stood up. “Shelley?”

Shelley shook her head and dove into her beer. The rest of the group filed out of the room.

“Darts?” Max asked Shelley.

“Sure.” Picturing Miren’s face on the dartboard, she thought, could
be mildly satisfying. She walked over to the corner of the bar where the dartboard was set up. She picked up a dart, got a feel for its weight, and threw it directly at Miren’s nose.

“I used to live on this barge,” Max said.

Shelley flinched. She could have sworn her dart was headed straight for the bull’s-eye, but somehow it had made a U-turn and pierced her chest. Or at least it felt that way. “So … you and Miren used to live together. I suppose this was before you took your vow of celibacy?”

“Lived together? No, no, luv. I didn’t even know her back then,” Max said. He threw a dart. It landed next to Shelley’s. “I sold the barge to Miren and her husband, Rhys, when I got tired of bobbing along canals.”

“Miren’s married?” Shelley tried not to look too happy.

“Was,” Max said. “Rhys died a year ago.”

“Oh.” She took another sip of her beer and winced. Guilt left a fishy aftertaste.

Max pulled their darts off the board. “He had been sick for a while,” he said. “That’s why he and Miren bought this barge from me. They wanted to squeeze in one last adventure doing the most absurd thing they could think of. A floating Irish pub in the heart of the wine-drinking capital of the world fit the bill. I gave them the hangover recipe because I thought they would need it after their business sank to the bottom of the Seine. As you can see, they proved me wrong. Rhys lived long enough to show his doctors that a dream and a pint a day can sometimes be better than what they used to shove up his veins.”

“It must be difficult for Miren, though, with Rhys gone.” She threw another dart. It landed on the wall. Aiming was harder without a compelling target. Her chest felt heavier as she thought about Miren sailing alone down the Seine.

“The pub keeps her busy. She once told me that the love Rhys gave her was enough to last her several lifetimes.” Max threw a dart. He hit the bull’s-eye. “Do you believe that’s possible, luv?”

Shelley was about to disagree when Miren walked into the room. In her experience, love, or what passed for it, was like a good beer buzz. Fizzy and fleeting.

Miren balanced a tray of shot glasses half filled with a dark green liquid. “Have your friends abandoned ship, Max?”

“They’re on the deck,” Max said. “I’ll call them back in.”

Shelley stowed the darts away. “Can I help you with that, Miren?”

Miren smiled. “That’s all right. Just grab a glass for yourself.”

Shelley took a glass from the tray. She gave it a sniff and gagged. The smell, she was certain, would have made vomit vomit.

“Horrid, isn’t it?” Miren said. “Don’t worry, it tastes even worse. But the way my regulars drink it, you’d think it was nectar from the gods.” She set the glasses down on the counter.

“In front of each of you is the beginning of our next tale,” Max said when the group had taken their seats at the bar. “But there is something we need to do first.”

Miren reached under the counter and pulled out a basket of eggs. “Crack an egg into your glass right before you drink it.” She broke an egg on the rim of Dex’s glass and poured the egg in. “Like so.”

“Um … thanks, I think.” Dex took his glass from Miren. He arched a brow at Max. “Does our travel insurance cover voluntary poisoning?”

“I’m afraid not,” Max said.

Dex took a deep breath. “Oh, well. Bottom’s up.”

The group gulped down their shots. Coughs and colorful swearing (mostly by Rose) racked the bar.

Shelley could still feel the liquid making its languorous course down her throat like an oyster clinging to life. “Now I know what all your gold coins are for, Max—lawsuit settlements,” she choked. “You can start with mine.”

Max grinned. “I truly apologize, luv, but I just wanted everyone to get their money’s worth and have the most authentic experience possible.”

“Yes, well done, Max. Very authentic. Do let me know if this story of yours involves guillotines, okay? I’m rather fond of my head,” Brad said.

“I’ll do my best to remember that.” Max turned to face the group. “I’m sure you’d like to know what you have just bravely imbibed. As I
mentioned earlier, the credit for this wonderful elixir goes to Adrien. He and his business partner, Antoine, were wealthy wine merchants in the 1700s who discovered that plying both poison and cure made for a very profitable enterprise.”

“I can believe that,” Simon said. “That’s how Bill Gates did it.”

“Touché,” Max said. “It was also because of this creation and their generously discounted wine that they managed to become fixtures at the French court despite their lack of royal pedigree. They became particular favorites of a cake-loving queen who often requested the pleasure of their company at her frequent gambling and drinking parties. The queen’s impending misfortune, however, proved to be somewhat contagious.”

“Why?” Dex asked. “What happened to them?”

“Well,” Max said, “it was ultimately because of these parties, or rather what happened after them, that the luck of our protagonists was altered considerably.”

T
he bed’s canopy kept out the pale morning rising in the garden. Antoine slid away from an embrace and shivered. The blankets called him back. He pushed the thought of warmth aside and set himself to the task of finding his clothes.

He groped around the parquet floor and knocked over an empty wine bottle. It crunched over broken eggshells as it rolled under the bed. He followed its trail. The bottle came to a halt next to his rumpled breeches and a wig of white-blond hair. The wig’s ornamental birds nested in the crotch of his pants. He shook the uninvited feathered guests off and stood up. His ruffled shirt was hanging from one of the bedposts. He pulled on his clothes and slipped out of the queen’s bedroom.

Antoine strode into the bedchamber of the queen’s favorite lady-in-waiting and marched up to her bed. He grabbed a foot sticking out from under the silk sheets. “Rise and shine, Adrien.”

“Go away.” The young man’s voice was muffled by the large breasts piled over his face.

“We need to go,” Antoine said sternly.

Adrien disentangled himself from a pair of fleshy legs. He yawned
and rolled out from under the covers. “Oh, look.” He glanced at his morning erection. “Shame to waste it. Won’t be a minute.”

Antoine dragged Adrien off the snoring woman. “When will you grow up?”

“You first. It is your birthday, after all.”

“My birthday? Clearly, you’re still drunk. As I recall, it was your birthday we toasted last night.”

“Well, I thought that since you don’t like celebrating your own birthday, I’d share mine with you. Consider it a present.”

The woman mumbled in her sleep.

“How kind.” Antoine threw Adrien’s shirt at him. “But can we continue this conversation when you’re wearing a little bit more than just an idiotic grin?”

The grass was still wet with dew when they emerged from the Petit Trianon. Dawn was Antoine’s favorite time of day, and the sprawling grounds of Versailles did it justice. The dim light veiled the garden’s colors, but Antoine could already smell the flowers, their scents flitting in the air along with the gurgle of distant fountains. Yellow. Pink. Peach. Everything was still so new, he thought. It was easier to be happy.

“So how do you think we should celebrate your birthday?” Adrien plucked a rose from a bush and pressed it to his nose.

“I told you, I don’t like celebrating my birthday.”

“I’ve never understood that.” Adrien threw the rose away. “Birthdays are fun. Don’t tell me you didn’t have a good time last night.”

“Birthdays are better when they’re someone else’s,” Antoine said. “When you get to be my age …”

“Your age? You’re hardly over thirty, my friend, though sometimes I feel that you carry the burden of a much older man. You don’t always have to be so serious.”

“Believe me, I’m trying.”

“Good. It’s settled then.”