The Pub Across the Pond (9 page)

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Authors: Mary Carter

BOOK: The Pub Across the Pond
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C
HAPTER
9
Make a Wish
Ronan tossed Anchor's idiotic B
ALLYBEOG
R
AFFLE
W
INNER
sign into the nearest rubbish bin. He didn't need a sign; if Carlene Rivers looked like her pictures, he would have no problem spotting her. He'd waited until the last minute to inform Anchor that he was picking her up instead. He didn't want his mam and sisters to get wind of it, especially if they put two and two together and suspected his real reason in coming was to sneak off to the Galway Races. Which was exactly what he planned on doing. His mam had made enough money off the raffle to pay off Uncle Joe and have a nest egg for herself, so Ronan could afford to throw what little bob he had left on the horses. And even though he had a tip, he wasn't going to pay any attention to it.
After all, his last tip, the one guaranteed to send shock waves, hadn't even finished in the top three. It dawned on him that this American girl, lucky enough to win a pub, might just be the human equivalent of a rabbit's foot. He'd charm her, take her to the races, and let her pick the winner. Besides, his ultimate goal was to buy the pub back, and so therefore he had to make sure she liked him. Otherwise, Joe would worm his way in. Even if this girl did plan on running the pub for a while, eventually, the novelty would wear off, and winter would hit, and before she could say Cleveland Coliseum, she'd be on the first plane back to America. And who would she sell the pub to? An old begrudger next door? Or the original, affable, and not-bad-tolook-at Ronan? That was the plan anyway. He was a little late, and scanning the park, when he saw her.
From her picture, he knew she was blond, and beautiful. The lads had been jabbering about nothing else the past month. They were lined up to meet her. He was expecting to find her physically attractive, but so what, he found a lot of women physically attractive—that wasn't going to stop him from getting what he really wanted.
But he didn't expect to find her standing in the middle of the Eyre Square fountain next to the Galway hooker, skirt hiked up with both hands, revealing shapely calves and just a hint of thigh, head thrown back so that his first glimpse was of her long, pale neck, wavy blond hair cascading down her back, and full breasts thrust out. She looked slightly obscene and utterly beautiful in the dredges of light snaking in through the clouds and glimmering off the copper sails. She looked like a figurehead on a flaming ship. Although “wooden” would soon be the word used to describe him if he kept staring at her exposed flesh.
Jaysus. It was impossible to look elsewhere. He should have. She tossed a penny into the air, and as it twirled back down toward the water, she lifted her head. And since Ronan was standing directly across from her and hadn't diverted his eyes, not even for a second, not even to gather his thoughts, or quite frankly attempt to disguise the surge of desire he felt for this girl he didn't even know, before he could do any of that, she lifted her head and her eyes landed directly on him. And then she smiled. Her hand lifted in a little wave. Slightly stunned, Ronan waved back. He was hit with two equal urges: One was to tear across the fountain, take her in his arms, and carry her out. The other was simply to run.
His awkwardness remained, even as she came out of the fountain, sat on the ground, and began putting on little socks and short leather boots. He just kept standing and staring. She'd knocked all thoughts out of his head. He couldn't make sense of anything, couldn't make sense of what he was feeling, couldn't make sense of her. It was as if he'd imagined her in a certain way—uptight, loud, American, cheerleader, greedy, vacuous. Somehow, he couldn't reconcile any of that with the girl standing in the fountain. Now he was thinking beautiful, free, vulnerable, neck, breasts, thighs.
He couldn't go scheming to take the pub off her if he saw her as vulnerable. He wanted to take it off a greedy, loud, vacuous American. Just the thought of how she was already ruining his plan made him irrationally angry with her. He stood, hands on hips, watching her zip up her little boots, and even though she knew he was there, she had yet to look up. He meant to say,
Hello, I'm Ronan, you must be Carlene,
or—
Hey, pub winner,
or
How was your flight?
“What the fuck was that?” he said instead. She took her time looking up at him. In fact, it wasn't until she put on her other boot, zipped it up, and stood that she looked at him again. The effect up close was even more disconcerting. She had fair skin, high cheekbones, and plump lips. But her eyes were the most remarkable thing about her. They were the lightest shade of blue he'd ever seen. So blue he tried to think of other blue things just to compare them to, but he was having a devil of a time formulating anything other than dirty thoughts. Blue, blue, blue. Blue movies. No. The sky. Well, not the Irish sky. Perhaps the skies above the Riviera. He'd like to take her to the Riviera. He'd like to take her anywhere. He'd like to take her right now in the fountain under the hooker. He was breathing heavily, and he felt like a complete eejit.
“What the fuck was what?” she said. Ronan lifted his hands in utter frustration and pointed to the fountain. Why did he even care? Why was he getting all bent out of shape because she waded into a fountain? Who was this girl?
“Nothing,” he said. “It's just not normally done, like.” She laughed, and it wasn't an obnoxious greedy laugh, it was light and airy, and made him feel ridiculously happy, and forced him to smile back. Jaysus, he should have let Anchor fecking pick her up. Then she was startlingly close to him, leaning in, and he could smell her. She was wearing a light perfume—vanilla? Yes. She smelled like a bleeding birthday cake. That wasn't right. That shouldn't be allowed. Fair play to her. Although if she thought she could cajole him into licking her icing, she had another think coming. Speaking of licking . . . Her lips were slightly sticky, as if she'd just rolled gloss on them, and he couldn't look away as she whispered to him.
“You should try it sometime.”
He couldn't even remember what they'd been talking about, and he didn't care. “Maybe I fucking will.”
“Maybe you fucking should.” Now she sounded a little louder, a little tougher, and her shoulders were squared back. Ronan felt a little bit of self-assurance slip back into his frame. This time, he was able to flash his signature controlled smile. It made her frown. That made him smile even more. “Come on,” he said. He picked up her suitcase. “Is this all you have?” She nodded. He was impressed. He'd imagined she'd come with piles and piles of baggage, can't-live-without American crap.
“You're Anchor?” she said. He held out his hand for a shake, mostly because he wanted to touch her. “Where's your sign?” she asked.
“It took a detour into the nearest rubbish bin,” Ronan said.
“Good to know I look like my pictures,” she said. Was she flirting with him? Ronan flirted all the time. It was as natural as breathing. So why was he so flustered, so annoyed?
“You don't,” he said. “You look better.”
 
After tossing her suitcase into the boot of his car, they walked along Quay Street. Littered with shops, pubs, and restaurants, Galway's main drag also teemed with street performers.
Carlene saw a young man riding a unicycle while juggling knives, an older gentleman sculpting a large dog out of a little pile of sand, a young boy playing an Irish tune on the accordion, and a bald Asian man in an orange jumpsuit levitating crystal balls. Ronan saw only her.
“I can take you straight to Ballybeog,” he said. “Or . . .”
“Or?”
“Well, the Galway Races are on—”
“I would love to go.”
“Really?”
“Are you kidding me? I love horse racing. My dad and I always watch the Kentucky Derby.”
“Ah, deadly,” he said. “Let's go.”
 
He felt much more comfortable talking to her in the car. Knowing that she thought he was Anchor also made it easier to settle into conversation. Even though the racetrack was a short distance from the city, traffic getting in was heavy, leaving plenty of time for them to get to know each other. It was probably wrong to get such a kick out of deceiving her, but he'd never again have the chance to be someone other than the man whose pub she'd stole. He'd actually been about to confess when she started quizzing him about the McBrides. What were they like? Why did they raffle off the pub? Were they happy? She sounded genuinely concerned, adding yet another layer of complexity to his mounting ambivalence.
“You didn't hear the story?” Ronan asked. Gossip flew so fast around Ballybeog, he'd just assumed the dirty details had already floated across the pond. Like scum. Maybe they did, and she was just putting on a show. If that was the case, she was a damned good actress. Was it all an act, down to her pretty little eyebrows furrowed in concern?
And then Ronan did something that surprised himself. He told the truth.
“They raffled the pub because the only son, Ronan, is a total fuckup. He almost gambled away the pub in a game of cards. Can you believe that shite?”
“Wow,” Carlene said. She sounded genuinely surprised. She studied Ronan quietly.
“What?” he said.
Don't look at her, look at the road.
“It sounds like you don't like him,” she said.
“Really?” he said.
“Actually, you sound full of hate,” she said. Her voice was quiet, frank. Ronan waited to feel angry or defensive. Instead, he felt almost relief.
“Sometimes I do hate him. He's caused the mother and the half dozen a lot of pain. Not to mention if the oul fella is looking down—”
“The half dozen?”
“His six sisters.”
“Wow,” she said. “One boy and six girls. No wonder he's fucked up.” Her comment took him by surprise. He laughed.
“Yes,” he said. “No wonder, indeed.”
“You think it never would have happened? If Uncle Jimmy had been alive?” she said. It startled him, hearing her call his father Uncle Jimmy. He took his eyes off the road. She must have read his mind. “I've seen pictures of the pub,” she said. “They all say
Uncle Jimmy's.
”
“Ah, right, so,” Ronan said. “Do I think it would've happened? Are you joking me? Uncle Joe wouldn't have dared if my—my friend Ronan's father had still been alive.”
She nodded quietly, then looked out the window. “Families,” she said. “One of God's greatest mysteries.” She was trying to be funny, but there was an edge to her voice. Ah, there was a story there somewhere. He found himself wanting to know everything about her.
“Indeed,” Ronan said. Families were a mystery all right, and so was she. Had he just said “indeed” twice? He was going to have to get a fucking grip. Indeed.
C
HAPTER
10
Cabernet Sauvignon
Carlene couldn't get over it. There was a castle in the middle of the horse racing track. A castle! Not a very big one, but it was the real deal. A rising rectangular mass of limestone walls with a crowned top, smack in the middle of the field. Ronan, who was still pretending to be Anchor, told her the castle was called Ballybrit. They stood just outside the entrance where bouncy children played in bouncy huts and adults paced with race cards. Carlene marveled at the castle while Ronan checked his wallet. Nobody but her seemed to think it was remarkable. If she had her way, she would stop the races so they could all storm the castle. She laughed at herself, and Ronan gave her one of his sideways looks. Only a few hours in his presence and she'd already learned that he seemed to have quite a repertoire of silent communication. Or maybe it just felt that way to her because she found his green eyes with flecks of gold—fool's gold, she warned herself—quite beautiful to look at. Set in a face with a strong jaw and sloppy black hair that curled under at the ends, there was something almost reptilian about his eyes. Or maybe it was just because she felt the slightest bit of danger when looking into them. He looked exactly like his picture. She was teasing when she called him Anchor, and had been waiting ever since for him to correct her. She found it fascinating that he didn't, and she wondered what angle he was trying to play.
Then, watching his jaw set when he called himself a fuckup, she first felt pity for him, and then something akin to anger. Was he trying to play on her sympathies? Catch her saying something bad about him? Was he always this insecure? Whatever else he was, he was definitely a complicated man. In her twenties, she would have fallen head over heels in love with him. Just like Brendan. But she wasn't in her twenties, and neither was he. And obviously, he had a serious gambling problem.
He insisted on paying the entrance fee, which she had been secretly counting on, since she'd yet to exchange her U.S. dollars into euros. Once they got through the line and entered into the main fields surrounding the track, Carlene stopped worrying about Ronan McBride. There were so many people, the excitement was palpable. You could walk right up to the fence and watch the race, or cheer along with the boisterous crowd in the grandstand. Lines and lines of bookmakers, dressed in trousers, blazers, and caps, called out as people passed by, holding leather bags, like country doctors, huge snap purses filled with cash. Next to them electronic boards flashed the horses' names and odds in scrolling neon. Rich or poor, every better's (or punter's as Ronan called them) money was welcome, and everyone was free to try their luck.
There were multiple food stands from fine dining to low-budget burgers. There were exhibitors selling their wares: racing memorabilia, purses, shoes, and jewelry. The women in the crowd were dressed in heels, skirts, and hats. Ronan must have been watching her watch them.
“If you think this is something, you should see them on ladies' night,” he said. “Thursday. They dress to kill.” He handed her a race card.
“Pick two winners,” he said. “From any of the six races.” Carlene refused to take the card.
“I don't know anything about horse racing,” she said. “I just like to watch.”
“It's just for fun,” he said, thrusting the card at her again.
“Really,” she said. “I don't want to.”
“I'll tell you what,” Ronan said. “Pick a horse for the first race. Doncha worry, I won't bet on him. I'm just testing a theory.”
“You're thinking because I won a pub, that I'm some kind of good-luck charm?”
“Mind reader too, I see,” he said. “Come on.”
“Fine.” Carlene took the card and read down the names of the horses. “Billy's Beauty,” she said, handing it back to him.
“Seven to one,” he said. “Sounds like a winner to me.”
 
The horses thundered out of the gate. Ronan lifted out of his seat and shouted encouragement to Billy's Beauty. They were standing in the middle of the stadium, and the sheer volume of shouts and stomps from the crowd blew Carlene away. She was mesmerized by the horses' sleek necks as they flew by, noses lifted to the sky. She was having the time of her life. As they rounded the bend, Billy's Beauty pulled up to fourth place.
“Go on, ye boy ye,” Ronan yelled. “Get on, get on, get on.” Billy's Beauty pulled into third. Suddenly, Ronan's hand was on her waist. He pulled her into him. “Look at him go, Carlena,” he said. “I think you are a good-luck charm.” Nobody had ever called her Carlena. She vowed never to let anyone but him. Billy's Beauty kicked into high gear, and now he was vying nose-to-nose for the finish.
“Go, go, go,” Ronan yelled. The ground thundered.
“Billy's Beauty is the winner,” the announcer shouted. It was truly by a nose. Carlene screamed along with Ronan. He faced her, put both hands on her hips, and pulled her into him. His belt buckle slammed against her navel. She wanted him to do it again.
“Hi,” he said quietly, as if they'd just met. As if they weren't standing in a stadium surrounded by screaming men, and women, and bottles of beer, and little cardboard boats of halfeaten sausages.
“Hi,” she said. His lips moved in on hers, as if they had a mind of their own. She didn't resist. It was a celebratory kiss, slow and soft.
“You placed a bet on Billy's Beauty, didn't you?” she asked when he pulled away.
“You're fecking right I did,” he said.
“How much did you win?”
“Enough to buy you a beer,” he said.
“I'd prefer a glass of wine,” she said.
“Not a bother.” He grabbed her hand and they started down the steps. “How are Irish men like fine wine?” he asked.
“You get better with age?” Carlene guessed.
“No,” Ronan said. “We start out like grapes, and it's your job to stomp on us and keep us in the dark until we mature into something you'd like to have dinner with.” He said it with such a silly grin on his face that she had to laugh. By the time she stopped laughing, she wondered how long they'd been holding hands.
“Right then,” he said. “Let's get you sorted.”
 
His mood plummeted with each race he didn't win, until he was jittery and quiet beside her.
“Just one more,” he said, waving the betting card. “Pick a winner for race number five.”
“Ronan,” she said. She didn't realize what she'd said until she saw the look on his face. It was like watching someone turn to stone. At first she didn't know what she'd done to upset him.
“Well, aren't you full of surprises,” he said. “You knew I wasn't Anchor?”
She nodded. “I'd seen a picture of you too,” she said. She wasn't going to apologize. He was the one who'd lied to her—he should be apologizing. She snatched the race card out of his hand and scanned it again. “Cabernet Sauvignon,” she said. “It's what I just drank.” He nodded, looked at her intently, then shook his head a little.
“Twelve to one,” he said.
“Is that good?”
“It is if he wins.” He smiled. “Why don't you place a bet on this one too,” he said.
“I don't have any euros yet,” she said.
“Why didn't you say so?” He dug in his pocket and handed her a twenty.
“I couldn't,” she said.
“Ah come on,” he said. “You took me pub, you might as well take me money.” He said it lightly, and, if she wasn't mistaken, he'd also just dialed up his Irish accent, but the comment still stung. He immediately softened, palmed the twenty in her hand. “I'm sorry,” he said. “I didn't mean it like that.”
“I'll pay you back,” she said.
“Especially if you win,” he said.
 
She scanned the line of bookmakers. Ronan pointed out the ones who would pay out the most if Cabernet Sauvignon won. From among them, she chose a man in his fifties because he had the biggest smile. “Twenty on Cabernet Sauvignon to win,” she said. He tossed her money into his pack, printed off a ticket, and handed it to her.
“Good luck, pet,” he said.
Ronan took her to the parade ring where they watched the horses being led around for all to see. Cabernet Sauvignon was a tall and gorgeous animal. Deep black muscles rippled through his strong legs as he pranced around the ring like he owned a little piece of the world. He was a lucky horse if there ever was one. Carlene couldn't stop grinning. “He's going to win,” she said. “I can feel it.”
“Come on,” Ronan said. “Let's get a spot by the fence. I want to be up close and personal for this one.”
 
It was race number five, the first jumping race. The starting gate was on the other side of the fence, so they watched the race unfold on the giant television screen suspended above the track. Soon the horses passed the castle. Ronan put his arm around Carlene. They were standing directly in front of the fourth hurdle. The only way they could have a better view was if they were the jockeys themselves. As the horses took the first hurdle, Carlene realized she was holding her breath. The horses were jammed so close together, it was hard to make out the wine-colored hat and jacket of Cabernet's jockey. She didn't really even care who won—it was just so exciting to watch. Before she knew it, the horses were nearing the fourth jump. Ronan squeezed her waist. “He's right there, on the outside, see?” Ronan pointed. “He's doing good,” he whispered. Once she spotted him, Carlene didn't dare take her eyes off her gorgeous, lucky horse.
Such grace, such power, such strength, such beauty. Carlene could see how you could get addicted to this. She shouted when everyone else shouted and jumped when everyone else jumped, mixing her enthusiasm with the frenzied crowd. And when Cabernet Sauvignon leapt over the hurdle, she lifted right off the ground with him. She braced for landing as his magnificent body seemed to defy gravity and hovered midair. The image of him suspended like that would remain with Carlene for the rest of her life.
Even though it was all unfolding in front of her, it took Carlene a long time to realize what was happening. Cabernet's back leg twisted. His body tilted sideways. The jockey, who was airborne, instinctively tucked himself into a ball and landed with a soft, sickening thud near the fence. Horrified, the crowd watched as Cabernet crumpled to the ground. He lay on his side, twitching. Carlene screamed, and Ronan pulled her into him. People cried, moaned, and shouted all around her, and an ambulance screamed into high gear. All the while, the rest of the horses kept running, their hooves pounded on. Despite the sirens, the shouts, and the smell of fear permeating the field, through it all they thundered on toward the finish line.
Paramedics lifted the jockey onto a stretcher. He lifted his head and reached his hand out as if to touch Cabernet, but his view was obscured; vets were already erecting a white tent around the fallen horse. Ronan clasped Carlene's hand and they began to fight their way out as the crowd swarmed in to witness the tragedy up close. Ronan never let go of her hand, and somehow, they made it through the grounds, out into the field, to the safety of the car. Ronan opened the door for her, and even leaned in and put her seat belt on for her. When he got into the driver's seat, a single shot rang out across the field. Carlene winced and hid her face in her hands.
“Are you okay?” Ronan asked after a minute. She took her hands away and nodded. The lump in her throat precluded her from speaking. When they pulled out of the lot, she didn't turn around, not even for a last look at the castle in the middle of the field.

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